I didn’t know people were actually taught to believe in God until my senior year of high school, when during a discussion of Crime and Punishment my teacher surveyed the class to see how many of us were raised religiously. I was stunned when almost all the hands went up. Until that point, I’d assumed most families were like mine: spiritually negligent urbanites who congregated for the holidays, and nothing else. My mother had flirted with Christianity, though certainly not because of her parents, who’d emigrated to America from godless China. The one time I’d asked my nominally Jewish father about the point of life, if we were all destined to become dust, he did not distract me by invoking the promise of the afterlife, but instead delivered what in retrospect was fairly blunt advice for an eight-year old: Well, you don’t think about it.
I had known Jesus freaks. Literally, there was a kid in my class whose email was jesusfreakeric@yahoo.com. But I had thought him an exception, and the suggestion that so many of my peers were casually religious was legitimately mind blowing, as we moved onto a discussion of the guilt Raskolnikov feels over murdering an elderly pawnbroker. We were the smartest people we knew, because we were in AP English. How could any of us believe in a sky wizard? More importantly — if you did believe in him, how could you ever curse, or cheat on a test, or nudge your high school beau into heavy petting before fourth period, without feeling the gaze of God on your indiscretions? Was everybody I knew wracked with constant shame, or were they just sociopathic enough not to care?
It was a dilemma that I still don’t have the answers to. Nonetheless, I kept my feelings to myself. Religion is a thorny concept — too many people have too much of it, and pretty much always it gives me hives to think that future of the country is dictated by people who believe a little too hard in a book that insists they can’t be horny. But over time, my brash atheism did soften to an easy-going agnosticism, as happens when you start smoking weed. Now, organized religion basically seems like any other belief system, like veganism or Crossfit — it’s fine until you start telling me about it.
That said, I did have one encounter with the explicit presence of God. It was Christmas Eve ten years ago, several months after my father had suffered a heart attack on the train to work, and died immediately. My mother and I were in that post-traumatic state where you’re basically fine, except not really, but absent the freedom to scream endlessly every time you feel the void pressing onto your soul, you just get up and go with it. I coped by getting a Netflix subscription. My mother, meanwhile, put up post-it notes around our house bearing little spiritual slogans, which I noticed whenever I’d come home for a meal.
Anyways, that year, my mother decided she wanted us to attend midnight mass together. Now, I had never been to church before in my life. I had gone to temple once, because my father had a side gig playing music at the synagogue, but I had found it so boring I just went outside and walked around the block until it was over. I didn’t even know what midnight mass was. You … sat in a church on Christmas Eve? You listened to some hymns, and some ramble tamble about Jesus and the flock and so forth? You had to go outside in the subzero Chicago weather to accomplish this, instead of staying at home playing Final Fantasy with your door shut like a sane person?
It seemed wild as hell. I complained, in the way that teens do, oblivious to the fact that this meant something real to my mother. But her mind would not be swayed — we would be going to midnight mass, grumbling and all. Accompanying us were my aunt and her boyfriend, who were there to provide moral support. Late in the evening, the night black and starless, we bundled in our winter coats and loaded into the car. “This is ridiculous,” I complained. “I’d rather be doing literally anything else.”
The Chicago streets were mostly empty. The church was across town, near a Toys R Us and a Dunkin Donuts. We drove, and we drove, and we parked, and we made the short walk to the church doors. I prepared for the hours of clear boredom that awaited. But then, something incredible happened: As we tugged them, the doors did not open. We tried, and we tried again, and then we noticed that the lights inside were out — that for whatever reason, midnight mass was not happening.
My mom was in disbelief. What else was a church supposed to be doing on this night? How could we have been abandoned in our time of spiritual need? But I did not feel confused, or disappointed. Confronted with this good fortune, this convenient abdication of responsibility I had protested the entire time like a total shit, I pumped my fists in the air and exclaimed with all the joy in my heart: “It’s a Christmas miracle!”
My mother was not amused. Regardless, there was nothing she could do — we didn’t have smartphones yet, and she wasn’t about to drive across town looking for a place to pray. Instead, we went to Dunkin’ Donuts, and ate stale crullers. My mom and aunt kept discussing the improbability of what had happened, but I knew better. Call it God, or Krishna or Buddha or whatever you want, but something in the universe was paying attention, and responded accordingly. At Christmas, I regaled my cousins with the story of what had happened — this holiday miracle, and how it had meant everything in my moment of need. It was the most magical Christmas I’ve ever had.
