This is not a story about religion.
I was and am still religious. I never doubt His existence. I never miss a mass service. I laugh at Jesus jokes, but when things go wrong, I find my hands making the sign of the cross.
I hardly acted like I was religious when I was younger. I dreaded youth groups. I avoided priests or nuns that might suggest that I volunteer. I made up excuses to miss retreats.
I always did just enough to feel Catholic. So it was a mystery how, in the summer of 2011, I ended up going on a 10-day mission trip to Guatemala with my priest and a group of church members. I was hoping to be enlightened and changed by this humbling experience, but I guess I was most infatuated by the idea of going to a foreign country. In the end, I was most certainly enlightened in a way, but just not in the way.
Our mission group volunteered to paint the bland walls of the rooms in La Casa de Angels, a Catholic boarding school and house for orphans and children from poor backgrounds, where we were staying. I painted sunflowers and with each stroke, I fell deeper into a sort of meditation. I would have been able to enjoy this physical form of prayer if it weren’t for the constant interruption of the trips I had to make to acquire more yellow paint.
During what was probably our seventh trip back from getting paint, my friend and I each held a handle of the cumbersome paint bucket, trudging it up the flight of stairs. In the midst of our struggling to hold the bucket up, we bumped into our main priest.
He stopped us, and asked us why we weren’t painting at the moment. We logically replied that we needed more paint to continue painting. He nodded, and out of nowhere demanded, “Hurry up. We don’t have time. We need to finish this project by noon.”
We were both offended, but we responded very differently. My friend simply nodded, biting her lips to hide her frustration. I shamelessly blurted out, “We are working. Why don’t you help us instead of telling us to hurry up?”
I saw the shock in his eyes. I think it’s safe to assume that he had never been challenged, especially not from a teenager. He didn’t say anything to me then, but he decided to tattletale the whole situation to the head priest of La Casa de Angels later that day. I admit my retort was sassy, but I also was not lying – I believe that this is why the priest was so offended.
A faculty spy later told me that the priest gossiped about me to other authorities and faculty. The head priest of La Casa de Angels apparently spoke highly of me to my priest because I had volunteered to finish up the painting work while the other volunteers played with the children.
My priest said, “I don’t know. She’s not as angelic as she might seem. I, too, thought she was a nice, quiet girl until recently.”
Upon hearing this, I lost the little respect I had left for him. That same day, he came up to me and said, “You should tell your sister to come next year,” and after a pause he bitterly added, “Instead of you.”
The lack of maturity demonstrated by this middle-aged priest disgusted me, even though I understand that neither side showed any maturity. As infuriated as I was, I wanted to forget about what happened because I was embarrassed to be a part of this drama. However, my priest’s constant polemic attacks constantly reminded me of the past quarrels, causing me to blush in shame and anger.
I am not proud of my actions. I am not saying they were wrong, because I knew in light of the situation, a little expression of disapproval was necessary, though I am not certain whether my methods were the best. Adults, who obstinately have the mentality that people deserve respect based on age, might consider my actions to be wrong. To clarify, my actions were rude, but not wrong. It was wrong for me to be rude, but not wrong that I defended myself.
Unexpectedly, I have a lot to thank him for. Through him, I learned that holy authorities, as cliché as it sounds, are humans too. They make mistakes – for a person entitled to direct others in a spiritual path where sins do not exist, it would be impossible to stray away from the maxim of “Do as I say, not as I do.”
I no longer sing the same praises for priests that I had before; I no longer revere them as holy people, but instead I respect them for devoting their entire lives to become more and more holy. Enlightenment comes in two very different forms: holy and everyday.
Everyday enlightenment comes from being human, regardless of religion. And I am thankful for now knowing what it means to be human: to misjudge and err.