Two priests and a rabbi are standing around comparing methods used in dividing their congregations’ weekly offerings.
The first priest states: ” I draw a circle on the ground, and I stand in the middle. I toss the week’s offerings into the air, and whatever falls outside the circle is for the heavenly father; whatever falls inside the circle is for me.”
The second priest says, “That’s interesting; I also stand in a circle and toss the week’s offerings into the air except whatever falls inside the circle belongs to the heavenly father, and I keep what falls outside the circle for myself.”
The rabbi shrugs and says, ” Meh, I have no need for a circle. I toss the week’s offerings into the air, and whatever God wants, he takes.”
I’ve had a sense of humor about religion since I was old enough to understand it. For most, religion is not a laughing matter.
I was raised Roman Catholic in New Orleans, which isn’t surprising since the Catholic Church has been a long-standing presence there since the City’s founding in the 18th century. I attended Mass every Sunday until I was eighteen. I left church and hometown behind, moving away to college.
Honestly, I never found attending weekly Mass a chore. The entire service, from the Entrance Procession through Dismissal, clocked in at thirty minutes. Father Red, our parish priest, was a huge sports fan. Mass began at 10 a.m.; televised sports coverage began at 11 a.m. You can do the math. Years later, I discovered that Father Red was so named not for his ruddy complexion and auburn hair color but for his well-known habit of substituting his communion wine for Johnny Walker Red. After all, who can say what truly happened with those water jugs, Jesus and that wedding in Galilee? Water? Wine? Scotch? Whatever.
Father Red’s devotion to Christ was rivaled by his dedication to the New Orleans Saints. I doubt many readers will remember, but there was a season in pro football history when the Big Easy’s NFL team was performing so poorly they became affectionately known as the ‘Aints. Shame over the Saints’ amateur capabilities increased weekly, as did the team’s losing streak. Eventually, Saints fans feared being identified, both in public and on TV, as supporters of such a pathetic organization. As a result, during home games, the Superdome was littered with hundreds of Saints fans wearing paper bags on their heads. Although a man of the cloth, Father Red was still just a man among men. And I distinctly remember one Sunday morning, upon concluding mass, he too donned a paper bag over his head, embossed with a hand-drawn fleur de lis, as he left the altar and joined the exiting processional.
Today, I identify as Spiritual, and I don’t know precisely what that means. I try to live by one commandment–Don’t be an asshole–and that pretty much covers it.
Much to my mother’s dismay, I do not identify as a Catholic or a member of any other organized religion. But I have recently reconnected with the idea of faith.
Six weeks into the recovery from what was supposed to be a routine outpatient surgical procedure, my body erupted internally with a nasty MRSA infection. It was so vicious that a simple trip to the emergency room resulted in having two emergency surgeries back to back.
My journey from ER to hospital to O.R. happened so quickly that I had enough time to make arrangements for my dog’s care, and then it was lights out.
I had been sedated between surgeries. Unbeknownst to me, two complete days had passed before the fog of anesthesia gave way to a surreal experience. From the recovery room, I could hear the muffled sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade making its way down Fifth Avenue as the live broadcast on the hospital televisions gradually became focused. What the fuck was happening??
The hospital called my Mom/emergency contact, curious about the contents and whereabouts of my end-of-life paperwork, power of attorney, etc. I didn’t have any paperwork, and there was nothing my mother could do thousands of miles away – except panic.
When it came to pain meds, I got the good stuff: A Vancomycin cocktail with top-shelf oxycodone and morphine garnish every 4 hours or as needed. According to the nurse’s station, the high dosages had me verbalizing my stream of consciousness with topics ranging from Propofol and Michael Jackson to subjects and details not suited for most audiences.
In New York hospitals, a surgical date with Ms. MRSA grants you a mandatory five-day stay in isolation. I don’t have family in New York, and I’m one of those people who don’t ask for help, so virtually no one knew where I was during the Thanksgiving holidays.
Five days. No calls. No visitors. This was the bed I had made for myself in an isolated room, tethered to various cords, machines, and IV tubes. Never has a city of eight million people felt so lonely.
As the drug cocktail diminished, I gradually descended back to reality and had plenty of time to consider the situation. I went through enormous mood swings that covered the emotional spectrum: tears, joy, anger, guilt, hate, and everything in between. I was exhausted by my futile efforts to control, telepathically heal, deny, or change anything. This was happening, and I could do nothing to make everything better, to go away. As my optimism drained, desperation seeped in.
Like a rookie cop who has learned to trust his training, I instinctively drew upon the lessons of my childhood and began to pray… kind of.
I wanted to pray. I felt I needed to pray, but I wasn’t sure how. What do I say? How do I say it? It had been so many years. I muttered some mash-up of the Our Father, Hail Mary, the Pledge of Allegiance, and a little Star Spangled Banner until I decided to fuck the prayers and surrender to faith.
Faith is a concept central to many religious, philosophical, and psychological systems. However, it does not bind me to a specific ideology or list of do’s and don’ts.
That is the power of faith; it offers us a way to cope with, handle, and overcome what seems impossible. Faith is believing you are not alone, providing comfort in uncertainty. In the hospital, in that moment, faith granted me the resilience to face my struggles; faith allowed me to let go of a situation I had no control over. I became comfortable realizing that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. Faith provided trust that there was a greater plan in play.
I don’t know if there is a God. No one knows for sure, not really. But I know that it feels better to think that there is one and to believe that there is a presence that looks over me, performing miracles, and guiding me through life’s challenges and successes.
By definition, faith is a deeply held belief or trust in something or someone without empirical evidence. Beyond a religious context, faith can also extend to confidence in people, the future, or oneself.
Medically, I’m not out of the woods, having my fifth surgery scheduled a few weeks from now. But if I find myself approaching that day with a new sense of being. I’ve gained a better understanding of myself and where faith fits within my life. The weight of the world I’m so accustomed to shouldering is a bit lighter. In applying faith toward people, I feel better believing/hoping/trusting that people are intrinsically good until proven otherwise.
Life is a monstrous experience. I’m learning that the belief in having a spiritual ally or loving friend to share experiences with is better than not.
In conclusion, I will leave you with the gospel according to St. Prince, patron saint of The Revolution:
To get through this thing called “life.”
Electric word, life
It means forever, and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you there’s something else:
The Afterworld
A world of never-ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night
So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one, Dr. Everything’ll-Be-All-Right
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, babe
Things are much harder than in the Afterworld
In this life, You’re on your own
And if de-elevator tries to bring you down
Go crazy (Punch a higher floor)
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to comment on this piece, suggest topics for future articles, or just share your experiences by contacting me at RyanRockfordNYC@gmail.com
