Wednesday, October 28, 2015 // The Statement 
 
7B

Lessons in uncertainty

by Ian Dillingham, Magazine Editor

I 

am going to Hell, they tell me. Jokingly, with a twinge 
of superiority, friends and neighbors chuckle at the 
thought of my eternal demise. But their words never 

bother me. If there be a Hell, I doubt they decide who pass-
es through the fiery gates.

Oh God, if there be a God, save my soul if I have a soul.
 
 
 
***

Growing up, my community was predominantly Roman 

Catholic. My grandparents on my mom’s side, who lived 
with us for most of my early childhood, were devout 
observers of the faith, and that devotion was passed down 
to my mom. My dad, an atheist, lost the popular vote in 
our household, so I attended private Catholic schools from 
kindergarten to the end of high school. Because I feared 
social repercussions for disobeying teachers and parents, I 
partook in the various religious rites of passage prescribed 
to children in this school system: Baptism, First Reconcili-
ation, and First Communion. But religion was never some-
thing I believed in; it was just something I did. I considered 
the practice on a similar level with doing homework — 
annoying, yet unavoidable.

My grade school — kindergarten through eighth grade — 

was small. Each grade level was composed of about twenty 
students who, for the most part, stayed together for the 
first nine years of their education. Religion was promi-
nently featured in the curriculum, with at least one class 
per day devoted to studying the Catholic Church, at least 
one religious ceremony or tradition marking the schedule 
each week, and at least one (torturous) hour spent in Mass 
each Sunday.

Otherwise, religion was a non-factor in my life. My 

friends and I played violent video games like all the other 
kids. We went to the beach and the movies. We played 
sports (albeit only against other Catholic schools) and 
competed in academic competitions. And, other than those 
couple hours per week in class, religion was never part of 
the discussion.

Things changed when I got to high school. I moved from 

a class of twenty to a class of almost 500. (It was, in fact, 
the largest co-ed Catholic high school in the western Unit-
ed States.) And religion changed from something you did 
to something that defined you. My friends were no longer 
shy in discussing religion or the Church — a product of the 
groupthink mentality that emerges in large, homogenous 
populations. More often than not, I found myself on the 
wrong side of arguments about matters of biblical teaching: 
Did God really flood the entire planet and only save Noah? 
Did Abraham really die at the age of 175? Did Jesus literally 
rise from the dead after three days?

But the debate stemmed from something more than 

logical fallacies. I also found myself on the “wrong” side of 
arguments about matters of faith and spirituality. I came to 
realize that many of my friends — the ones who had rarely 
mentioned faith in the years I had known them — were 
much further down their path of spiritual development 
than they had led me to believe. No longer was I one of the 
crowd; rather, I was the one standing against the crowd. 
The pain of being treated like an outsider in my own com-
munity wore on me until it no longer felt like my commu-
nity.

One Sunday afternoon, after a particularly grueling ser-

mon on the importance of all-encompassing devotion to 
the Church and its teachings, I finally told my mom that 
I wasn’t interested in going to Mass anymore. I officially 
removed myself from the Church, unsure if I might ever 
find my way back.

 
 
 
***

My high school, like my grade school, required students 

to attend regular religious classes. The mandated ninth-
grade curriculum was “Catholic Life Choices.” Our teacher 
— a 30-something, unmarried layperson — was tasked with 
teaching a roomful of walking hormones not to have sex 
or think about sex or even say the word “sex.” She stood 5 
feet tall, wore floor-length dresses and black-framed glass-
es, and alternated between quiet murmuring and bouts of 
screaming. On the best days, the class consisted of chitchat 
and busywork; on the worst days, it involved forced procla-
mations of faith and allegiance to the Church.

During a discussion about spirits one day during the 

middle of the semester, a member of our class asks the 
teacher about Ouija boards, mystical playtoys marketed as 
a means to contact the dead. (Despite such ominous claims, 
they are primarily used by preteens to entertain their 
friends at sleepovers.)

“Are they really possessed by the devil?” the young boy 

asks.

His tone suggests he really just intends to rile the teach-

er and to create a classroom ruckus. The teacher, however, 

calmly addresses the class and says that, in fact, the spirit of 
the Devil can possess such toys. As a preventative measure, 
she suggests that anyone who owns one should bring it to a 
priest to have it exorcised, and she insists that students not 
throw such an item away (lest some residual demons be left 
behind in the garbage can, I suppose).

My ninth-grade self feels nauseated that a paid educa-

tor can suggest to a classroom full of students that a $13.16 
piece of cardboard and plastic manufactured by Hasbro is a 
threat to their safety. Can the makers of Jenga really bring 
Satan into my home?

The next day, I visit the room at lunch to probe the issue 

further.

“Do you really believe a toy could be possessed by the 

devil?” I ask, hoping to reveal some major miscommuni-
cation from class the day prior. Despite my disagreement 
with large portions of the Church’s doctrine, I feel com-
pelled to at least attempt to understand how such beliefs 
arise. Typically, I find the resulting conversations illumi-
nating, and, even though they rarely change opinions, such 
open dialogue is helping me establish my personal creed.

“Well, let me put it this way,” she replies. “Do you believe 

in angels?”

“No,” I reply.
I don’t mean for the answer to come out so bluntly, but 

I can immediately tell she is taken aback. I’m momentarily 
embarrassed, but hardly surprised. Teachers at my school 
are rarely prepared to deal with students who openly ques-
tion the Catholic doctrine, which I have now done by elimi-
nating angels from my worldview.

“Oh, you couldn’t possibly understand what I’m talking 

about then,” she says. “It’s a matter of faith.”
 
 
 
***

For many years now, I have considered myself a religious 

agnostic. I acknowledge that humans have a limited capac-
ity to understand certain aspects of their universe and that, 
try as they might, they cannot obtain absolute or ultimate 
knowledge in any given subject.

Back when my mother still dragged my brother and me 

out of bed for Sunday morning Mass, I was told what to 
wear, what to say, and what to do. The process was repeti-
tive and often brainless. Never was I allowed, as I had 
wished on so many occasions, to raise my hand during a 
homily and to ask the priest to explain further. At first, the 
lack of independent thought was a nuisance. But as I grew 
older, unanswered questions burned inside me. Every time 
I got close enough to someone with “sacred” knowledge, 
the questions only became more intense and troubling.

Since coming to college, I have felt more at ease about 

my lack of religious affiliation. Studies have shown that 
about one-third of college students consider themselves 
secular, compared with about 6 percent among the general 
population. Very few of my friends identify with a religion, 
and those who do often discuss questions of faith openly 
with me if asked. I’ve felt that college promotes a certain 
amount of agnosticism in everyone. Classes in biology and 
chemistry don’t just teach students the nature of science 
but, rather, how to ask the right questions.

I may find faith again one day — faith either in the Cath-

olic Church or in one of the other major or minor religions 
practiced. If agnosticism asks individuals to acknowledge 
uncertainty in life, then I must recognize the possibility 
that religion can be the right path for me. But I will never 
give up my ability to question. To question is to learn, to 
grow and to believe.

PHOTO COURTESY OF IAN DILLINGHAM

