When I met the Pope,

In a horrified moment, I realized I'd accidentally knocked over this giant candle as the Pope was approaching the Church exit. Weren't these candles supposed to be practically bolted to the fucking floor? I picked it up, blushing (thankfully the carpet hadn't caught fire), and the Pope literally smiled at me and grabbed my arm and asked me to walk with him. He ignored the whole meet-and-greet-the-flock that deacons and priests and bishops and archbishops and monsignors and cardinals and popes typically do after mass. I'm Spencer, I said. And he said, I'm Pope Francis. I told him that it was nice to meet him and he told me to cut the shit. Was he some sort of Padre Pio? I'm not Catholic anymore. No shit, he said. That moment kind of opened me up and I explained my whole history and why I'd left. I felt a certain sting of a poor-me attitude. But Mr. Pope didn't judge me that way. I even told him that thought, blushing more than at the candle incident and he just smiled and said, being a victim is not playing the victim. I just hate the way I grew up with Catholicism, I told him. I hate how every mortal sin could land you in hell. Even healthy stuff like divorce. Where did Jesus say that divorce could land you in hell? asked the Pope. I grinned. And I feel kinda gay sometimes, I admitted. Yeah, said the Pope, gay people going to hell for enjoying their gayness is bullshit. Gay people are the best. Right? I said in agreement. But there was still a bit of an itch left unscratched. Tell you what, said the Pope, just put aside your doubts and try going back into things. You know what to do after all. So the next Sunday I went back to Church, but not as a security guard. Now I was an attendee. No. More. I was a fucking altar server. And at the moment I thought I was supposed to grab the book to hold in front of the priest so he could read from it, the priest ignored tradition and walked in front of the crowd to say some words. I didn't blush though. I put the book back and just remembered thinking, man things change a lot when you leave for 7 years. And then I went to confession after Mass while thinking, ok really gotta give this a shot to see if it's my thing. I couldn't half ass it. I sulked through the sign of the cross and skipped the intro and jumped right into my sins. I talked about hurting people's feelings (not my childhood "sins" like masturbation and being myself) but the priest stopped me. He tried to get me to do the intro. I'm not going to do the whole Bless me Father for I have sinned bullshit, I said. What even is your blessing good for? You're just standing in place of Jesus anyway and this whole admission of my sins is supposed to be for my benefit. He didn't really like that answer and kicked me out of the confessional. I laughed and realized that some things don't change after 7 years. Priests were still some pompous motherfuckers. I stared at the exposed Eucharist and remembered the words from Mass: Do this in memory of me. And it struck me again but in a more real way this time: This wasn't Jesus in a literal sense. This bread was a way to remember him. The whole magical words I'd believed as a kid, "this is my body", wasn't some literal transubstantiative formula to generate a living, breathing savior we could eat and drink at our leisure. Thankfully, mercifully, it was just some bread and wine and a memorial service. I stared at the Eucharist, and it still felt like Jesus, and I heard a voice in my head: where would it leave you if I'm not real. And I felt a little dizzy. I think, I thought carefully, that it would make me some sort of non believer or maybe a Protestant or Unitarian. Those folks believe in Jesus but that this bread is not the real... you (I was now assuming the voice in my head was some version of Jesus). And then the voice said, Where would it leave you to not believe. It would leave me alone, I said. And, inconveniently, the voice stopped having this far-away sound and the voice started sounding more like my therapist and it felt too grounding and boring and real: let's work with that. And I left the church and opened the door and walked into some nearby forest with rosary-bead-stones looping a path. I hopped the beads remembering that dull, repetitive, prayer but felt a bit nostalgic in a weird way too. I wanted to believe, I realized. I wanted to feel stable and safe in a belief that Jesus was real and there for me and guiding my life. I had no clue where not believing left me. What was guiding my life if not the Star of Bethlehem? I was guiding my life? That simply felt insufficient, or worse, prideful. And I hated that it felt sufficient to others. Like did Dwayne the Rock Johnson wake up that morning feeling like he had to believe in some God to get through the day? Actually maybe the Rock was religious. I could then hear my therapist's voice in my head again: 

Feelings are not facts. 

Maybe feeling insufficient to the task of guiding my own life choices was just part of my life now. And maybe that was okay. Like in the Stutz movie, where Stutz talked about the pearl beads. And how each action strings a pearl bead on life's necklace with a little shit stain (the shit stain being a reminder that each effort is imperfect). I hopped another rosary bead and realized that all these beads were cracked. Even the story of Jesus with its seeming perfection was full of holes if you looked too closely. But it had all developed a religion that helped some people in some ways. And maybe that religion just didn't work for me anymore, even though I wanted it to. Maybe it was kinda like how I missed my exes sometimes, but they were simply no good for me. Feelings are not facts. Feelings are not facts. I hopped the beads gleefully, enjoying what I could, allowing the sting of imperfection and boredom and reality. Because hopping was fun. And why focus on the shit stain so much?