I became born again while still wrapped in swaddling clothes of innocence. The waters of baptism were necessary to cleanse me from original sin. The thrill of the cleansing ceremony enveloped my parents. The map of my head was drawn for me.
I don’t remember going to church often as a kid. My dad was not a religious man. Mom used to take us to mass when it was convenient. We had new neighbors who worshiped at the same parish at some point, which was a turning moment for me. Church attendance became more frequent. From Bessam to the church at Ladipo, we would all walk through the dusty alleyways of Mafoluku. Going to church became an escape from my father’s draconian ways. The house was an enclosure of stress and expectations when he was around. He no dey let the person drink water leave cup. I started attending Catechism classes and devotions to build on the seed that was planted in me at baptism. I was often lost during mass as a kid. The size of the church swallowed my interaction with the liturgy of the mass. Crowds filled in and spilled out into the compound. We were usually part of the spilled congregation. An opportunity to run around and hang out with friends from school. Catechism classes provided avenues for children to be immersed in the faith.
Catechism classes were often a rote sparring session with the teacher.
“Who made you?”
“God made me!”
“Why did God make you?”
“To know him and serve him in this life and to be forever with Him in the life to come”
Our companion was the pink or orange covered Penny Catechism book. It fitted nicely in the back pocket of my trousers. There was also the Simple Prayer book. I would gloss over the tiny print and then close my eyes and recite the words of the Acts of Faith, Hope and Love. Committing the prayers to memory was key to avoiding an encounter with the teacher’s cane. It was also part of your assessment before receiving the sacraments. A year before, some older kids wept intensely when they were dropped on the last day of receiving the first Holy Communion because they didn’t pour the content of the Catechism into their heads.
The first Holy Communion is the pride of every Catholic parent. Their children become initiated into the group of people with palms clasped, slowly marching to the altar to share in the body and blood of Christ. It is a pivotal moment for young Catholics. It also opens doors for scrutiny and judgment.
“You didn’t go for Communion today, what have you done?”
This was a common question among parents. The church forbids those who commit mortal sins from receiving communion. In the Nigerian setting, the greatest mortal sin is sex. It was a chore to sell the fact that your fight with Chinedu last night is the reason you are not going for communion.
The Holy Communion or Eucharist is central to Catholic life. It is revered. There were stories of blood coming out of the pores of people who were irreverent to it. A popular story was told of a woman who held the Eucharist in her mouth and took it home. Her room was filled with blood the next morning. We were told of a girl who munched on the communion bread so roughly her mouth frothed blood. These stories held my mind captive for a long time.
My first holy communication was without fanfare. My Dad did not give a damn. My Mom had become born again. I was the only practicing Catholic in my family at the time. There was a bit of a scare a few days before my first Holy Communion. When the names of qualified candidates were called out, the teacher omitted my name. I let loose a burst of sobs as my cheeks were doused in painful tears. I had made up my mind to stop coming to church after that. I couldn’t imagine repeating the Catechism classes for another year. I was later informed of the error and asked to join up for the initiation into the Eucharist.
I remember I was the only one not wearing white on the day. I was hassled by the Catechist and other church gatekeepers for my disregard for the tradition of wearing white on the first Holy Communion day. White was a symbol of holiness. If only they knew my parents were not keen on the faith. If only they had eyes to see me sneaking to attend the Catechism classes. How I did not tell Dad about my new status in the church.
I was allowed to receive my first Holy Communion wearing a pink shirt and brown trousers.
Time rolled into years. My faith became burdened. My mom had begun a new life in Christ outside the Catholic Church. On issues of faith, your parents are always right. I had to be reborn in faith. Jesus had to be rediscovered. I had to unlearn the faith of my childhood. The new experience was one of quick action. Jesus was always on hand to solve any problem. I once came back from boarding school sick and was taken to the pastor for laying of hands. I was dragged into a world where miracles ruled. Every Sunday we had testimonies ranging from problematic bosses to exam success to miraculous healing.
The doors to many other churches let me in. I soaked in powerful sermons and heard about the goodness of the Lord in several forms. I wanted God’s life. An existence without pains and sorrows. As a student I wanted good grades to impress my father. I prayed daily for a breakthrough. My father, the focal point.
All my life I lived to impress my father. I carried a weighty cross of expectations from him. No matter what I did I never did enough in his eyes. He was always a step ahead of me. He criticized my academic, social and personal lifestyles. I took him to Jesus in prayer. I expected his heart of stone to be melted like that of Pharaoh. Every prayer request had his name on it. My mom prayed and pushed me to do the same for a miracle in our relationship.
I was reborn into the Catholic faith when I went to university. I lived with an Uncle who was a practicing Catholic and was reunited. I discovered extra-biblical materials on Church life that opened my mind. There was a priest whose homilies were apologetic. I was seduced by an intellectual approach to faith. The story of a woman who cried to him about a witchcraft attack on her son. The boy had woken up with rat bites on his finger. The priest investigated and discovered that the boy had slept without washing his hands after eating fish. That was a turning point in my life of faith. A gulf was created in my faith that coincided with my newfound love for philosophy.
I immersed myself in Church life. I was at the fore of Rosary Processions. I wore all the Latin Benediction chants on my sleeves. On my shoulders plopped plans for retreats, fellowships and liturgical functions. My passion drove me to the fringes of the Catholic priesthood. I admired the celibate and candor lifestyle. There was an aura around priests that sucked me in. The white cassock, their gait, and intelligence were a charming allure. I was chummy with all my parish priests from Calabar to Katsina to Kaduna. I drank from their chalice of knowledge and became inebriated with a priestly desire. Those on the outside often think becoming a priest is a walk in the Churchyard. There is a lot of politics and discernment that goes into accepting a candidate into the priestly formation. Most of my applications were turned down due to a lack of discernment. There was also the Diocesan politics of ethnicity. This did not deter my commitment to the activities of the Church. I immersed myself in readings of the Church documents and theological reflections. In the absence of a priestly vocation, I became a semi-Catechist.
As I progressed in my philosophical and theological self-enlightenment, an era of illumination descended upon me. I started questioning everything I’d been taught my whole life. I began to question God and the purpose of life. I cast my net into the troubled waters of Religion. Does God exist? What is the purpose of life? Who created religion? Can there be a moral life without religion? The whole doctrine of salvation started presenting loopholes. The afterlife became a fuzzy concept.
God has given us free will that is why we sin. Is this free will only binding on Earth? If not, wouldn’t man still rebel against God in heaven? If yes, why allow us to go through the misery of life on earth when we can just enjoy heaven from the beginning? Why didn’t God just deal with sin from the beginning and save us from the drama of a cycle of repentance?
My time spent drifting among churches made me reconsider the purpose of prayer. I couldn’t stand how some individuals had turned themselves into prayer Gatekeepers. How I needed to suspend my logical faculties to the postulation of a few men. Why do I pray over something that is in my hands to do? If I read, I will pass my exams; why pray about it?
If we are all created in the image and likeness of God why does God select some people to be bearers of his revelation? Whose account of the revelation of God should be on a higher pedestal? Who decides the authentic voice of God? If one revelation is superior to another, is God creating confusion? Why does God have to be worshiped in a particular way? Is God interested in the liturgy? Isn’t Liturgy the recreation of God in the image and likeness of man?
I began to walk away. I found God. I found God in myself. I transformed into God and loved without regard for boundaries. I began to enjoy a new life away from boxes of obligation.
About The Author
Namse Udosen is a teacher and educational development expert. He is the author of Fundamental Etiquette for Young Nigerians, Silly Sally and Amang Goes to the Village. He has his essays and non-fiction works appearing in Ake Review, Quenu and Writers Space Africa Magazine. He loves hanging out with children and reading aloud to them. He believes books are essential to literacy development in children.
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