1996: Walking Away
In which Teófilo heretofore unacknowledged daddy issues began wrecking his Orthodox faith
Merton Pushes Me to Journal, and Just in Time
The Christmas holiday passed with its usual peace and calm. God has blessed us with peaceful Christmas seasons. Even when I was away for months in the military, our holidays were peaceful.
It was at that time in early 1996 when I gifted myself a Thomas Merton journal. Not the first one in the eventual series of seven, mind you. I got me Volume 4: A Search for Solitude. Not knowing as much about Merton as I know now, the volume impressed me. Here was something very different from his "official," public writing. He was very honest and described his daily life so well that I could picture him clear as day.
I then decided to journal myself, and I've kept journaling ever since. I could've started much earlier, during my childhood years, but Mom screamed at me for it. She told me that was a girly hobby. She was very vigilant about me not acquiring any sissified habits, in her judgment. I didn't know any better, so I desisted.
Now, I wonder if she'd had another agenda, hidden even to herself. She must have been scared of how I would've described her behavior. Narcissists live afraid of having their real selves in full view of others. She was not going to have any of that. I didn't understand that until now.
The frequent cost of introspecting and journaling is intense spiritual pain. The pain is a consequence of the increased understanding of oneself, and of the world around me. In a sense, it was better to start journaling when I was mature enough to come to grips with it.
An Eventful March for Life
On January 22, 1996, I joined our pastor and fellow Orthodox parishioners at the March for Life in Washington, DC. We traveled by bus from our Cathedral parish to Washington. The inbound trip was uneventful. I wore my clerical cassock and carried with me my first icon, gifted to me by Fr. Gurley. The march itself was a powerful, profitable spiritual experience. When we finished, we began boarding our bus for our return trip.
It was then that I had a shocking conversation with our pastor. The details don’t matter but it was obvious to me that I’ve given him offense. As I began apologizing a sudden realization seized me: I saw him as a substitute father figure. My apology cracked midsentence. I didn’t I didn’t linger to see my pastor’s expression at my reaction.
I walked back to my seat, sulked, and cried in silence for the return trip. I couldn’t handle the realization that I had projected my needs for a father onto my pastor. I couldn't believe that trying too hard to please and befriend him had hurt our relationship. Or that the need to please and befriend him derived from an even deeper void in my life.
But not only our relationship had collapsed. I had to ask myself how often I had acted from that unconscious need, which had become clear to me.
Orphaned and Then Homeless
I looked forward to the clergy retreat that year which included us tonsured readers. Time passed and I didn’t receive an invitation. Fearing a miscommunication, I approached my pastor about it. He informed me the retreat was to be that very weekend and that I was welcomed to attend of course. A written notification arrived in the mail soon afterwards, in time for the retreat.
I started to suspect, rightly or wrongly, that I had 'invited myself' to the retreat. Mistakes and miscommunications occur in every organization, and the Church is no exception.
Both my sponsor and spiritual director priests have moved to other parishes. That had created a further void within me.
I’ve had the privilege to witness Fr. T’s ordination to the diaconate and the priesthood. He'd had impressed me both for his dedication and personal pursuit of holiness. But his absence, and that of Fr. G. had left me hobbling for support. They didn’t attend this fateful retreat.
During the retreat I talked to another priest about the road ahead for me. That was the very moment I came to realize I lacked what it took to be a deacon, much less a priest. I had seen in Fr. T. a focus, dedication, and spousal support, which were missing from my own life. The standard was high indeed.
True, no one is worthy of God’s graces and my path to holiness is my own, not a mere imitation of others’ pathways. But I'd come to realize I lacked the very basics needed for successful ministry at that time. Or for all time, who knows.
While ruminating on this realization, Metropolitan Nicholas arrived at the seminary. He would always have lunch with us. He always ministered to us while on table, and then talked to each one of us in aside conference.
When my turn came, he told me he was considering a decision that shocked me. He told me he was thinking about putting me under the guidance of a Central American Orthodox bishop. Wait, what? I was speechless. I only got to mutter “But this is my home.” He kept talking about how it would be for the best. While he spoke, I felt misunderstood and abandoned. The shocked reduced me to silence. I felt he'd pulled away the welcome mat.
Even though we agreed to talk later, all these mishaps destroyed my sense of belonging at Christ the Saviour. I wondered again if I saw Metropolitan Nicholas as a substitute father and had tried too hard to please him.
I did remain an Orthodox Christian. But I started to wonder if my leaving the Catholic Church was more due to my unresolved daddy issues. Or maybe I’d projected my resentment to my mother’s mistreatment onto the Church written large. Or maybe I’d acted out a juvenile rebellion. Maybe I’d was the imaginary, sanctimonious self-important protagonist of a play acted solely in the theater of my mind.
If so, everything faith-related I had done up to that moment had been under false pretenses.
I had much to think about.
My Voice Cracks One Last Time
Not too long afterwards, my turn came up to chant the readings at church during liturgy. I was in the throes of impostor syndrome, I now realize.
As I chanted, I went offkey. I felt embarrassed but I soldiered on. I went back into the altar behind the iconostasis. I ensured I wasn't needed and then left. Had someone asked me why I would've said I felt ill. It wasn't a lie.
I didn't return to Christ the Saviour after that. I moved us to St. John the Baptist OCA Church in the Conemaugh Ward. My exit from Orthodoxy had begun, but I didn't know it yet.
