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REFLECTION 003 (PART TWO)

Atheism and Agnosticism: Exploring the Intersection of Faith and Doubt

I decided to abandon the idea of God and religion. I blamed it for years that it was the reason why I was naive and ignorant of everything because I believed in God, because I had religion. That it was the reason I saw everything with rose-tinted glasses, that I romanticized suffering and misery of humanity because I believed in God’s will. But once I was able to take it off, the horrors of reality dawned upon me and I was speechless. I was seeing everything on a whole lot different perspective and it was so much different from the one I grew up to.

At church, my mother made me enter alone and she sat in the car.

Father was already waiting for me at the confession booth and at that moment, it suddenly all felt jarring. I wonder if this was more about of my faith, rather than my religion. We sat in silence, at first, then I asked him the very question I asked my mother. For a fleeting moment, I had hope in my heart that maybe I’ll get the answer I want but instead he told me to just… Pray. My world came crashing down and I just stood up. Left. I didn’t even bother to join my mother back at the car. I just wanted to be alone.

       After that, and a lot of events that encompassed over the next several weeks and months, I decided to abandon the idea of God and religion. I blamed it for years that it was the reason why I was naive and ignorant of everything because I believed in God, because I had religion. That it was the reason I saw everything with rose-tinted glasses, that I romanticized suffering and misery of humanity because I believed in God’s will. But once I was able to take it off, the horrors of reality dawned upon me and I was speechless. I was seeing everything on a whole lot different perspective and it was so much different from the one I grew up to. I wanted to do something about it but I was just a kid, so I just voiced out my hatred for the church and religion to anyone who would listen. It did not feel liberating, truth to be told, it felt more painful but I had too much hubris to admit that. I liked to believed that I was on the right because I had a different viewpoint. I claim that I wasn’t blinded from the words of the church and the what so’s of religion, but in the end, it wasn’t also the answer from the existential crisis I was experiencing. I just felt lost in this world.

        I did not seek God again, but instead, I sought out the compassion of different people in my life. From theists, to agnostics, to atheists— of everybody. I start to realize that what I needed to erase the anger and hate on my heart was not the words of religious figures, but of people I could empathize with. Of putting myself in their shoes, to let the hateful judgment and thinking of mine to die down, and be replaced with emotions and experiences of everyone I met.

Reading this article, felt like coming home, trudging a once-forgotten path because I can truly, truly relate. I still am an atheist. I still don’t believe in God, but I’m no longer someone who seeks vengeance like a feral dog, instead I became someone who respected and saw everyone equally, regardless if they have religion or not. Faith has always been the answer, in the end, even if you don’t believe in God, all of us have it. Like it said, it was never about theological issues, but psychologically. My heart was not the one that was curious but it was my mind. It was the one who started to question, the one who started to place such thoughts at the crevices of my brain, and the one who started to see everything negatively. But my heart? It just knew and didn’t let go of my faith, even if I abandoned it. See this as an open letter of an atheist. See this as a reflection of who I am now without religion and God. See this as a way to still have faith. Faith is what makes us human. Do not forget about it.

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REFLECTION PAPER 003

Atheism and Agnosticism: Exploring the Intersection of Faith and Doubt

Her first words were to me, “Did God lack of showing His love to you that you started to question him?” and I immediately said, “No, but can’t I just wonder if he is truly real?” and I swear, she wanted to splash the alcohol on my face but she chose not to, only because she’s trying to drown out my said ridiculousness in an attempt to get herself drunk.

The article was something I could relate heavily to— from the very start up until the end. Reading it made me reminisce of the time that I was still a Lion.

I remember vividly when I started questioning if God was real; I was 13, starting high school. I wouldn’t say I was a wide-eyed innocent girl, I was the type of kid who has always been labelled for “knowing too much,” but I was still naive, no matter how much I claim to know. Anyways, it was the summer, my family and I were in another mass when I asked my mother if God is real. She was livid. I remember the scandalous gasp that left her mouth— loud enough for the other churchgoers to hear— despite the loud voice of the priest from the podium. She grabbed my arm and leaned close, whispering, no hissing, asking me, “How dare you question about God?” I was not scared, even if she was glaring holes on me at that moment and her grip tightening on my arm, long nails sinking on my skin, but I was more or less confused. ‘Was that reaction necessary?’ A voice at the back of my head asked, wondering why instead of answering my question in a way I’ll understand, my mother chose to be hostile. She let go of me reluctantly when people started to take notice of us but not before whispering a, “We’ll talk.”

        When we got home, my mother ordered that I go to the dining table and take a seat there. Usually, when we have our talk there, I’ll be anxious but this time around, I was angry. My arms were crossed above my chest, my figure hunched over at my seat and my feet were kicked up the table. My mother came shortly, dressed in her usual besdita and a bottle of beer in her hold. She placed down the beer at the table and gave me a loathful look as she downs the bitter drink. Her first words were to me, “Did God lack of showing His love to you that you started to question him?” and I immediately said, “No, but can’t I just wonder if he is truly real?” and I swear, she wanted to splash the alcohol on my face but she chose not to, only because she’s trying to drown out my said ridiculousness in an attempt to get herself drunk. My mother wiped her lips with the back of her hand and told me, “I can’t answer that because I find it stupid that you’d wonder about Him,” and she just… Walked away. My question was still not answered.

        Days passed after what happened between my mother and I. I thought I was in the clear. Next Sunday rolled in and there was a persistent knock on my door at 6 AM and I wondered, “Who is waking me up this early?” and lo and behold, when I opened the door, my mother was there with a deathly glare on her eyes and a displeased expression on her face. She threw a dress in my direction and said, “Get dressed,” before strutting away. It took a minute or so for me to realize that we were going to church but not to join the mass, but to make me sit in front of the father to make me listen about God and the church and Christianity. As I get dressed, I find the whole thing ridiculous. This would have never happened if my mother just entertained my curiosity and instead, we’re driving down to the nearest church in our city to talk to a priest. Once we were in a car, my mother was running her mouth and I barely paid attention; I just wanted things to get done, if you get what I mean. That maybe if I just pretended to show interest or “excitement” to our visit to the church, she’d leave me alone. But my mother was as smart as ever, she knew I wasn’t keen on the idea or of our trip, because who would be? You were just a girl who started to question about God and you were just angry, you just desperately want answers for your questions and instead got nothing.

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REFLECTION 002 (PART TWO)

Filipino Religiousness: My Story of My Understanding and Appreciation of What Makes Us Religious Filipinos

My grandparents would tell me that he'd mirror the personalities of the Filipino heroes; he was courageous and he was smart, and it got me thinking, that perhaps in another life, he was a Hero that was plastered on the walls of museums, name included in the textbooks and commended for his deeds— but he's just another man shut closed in a coffin. But I found it lovely, as bitter and melancholic as it can because it mirrors the actions of the people in the Bible. Maybe not as kind or as gracious as we expect it to be, but we're only humans and we are imperfect, but that's what makes Filipinos more religious, isn't it? Of being imperfect, of looking up to a God they can rely on.

Hours later, the call ended and I was left silent there, just staring at the telephone. I only snapped out of it when my grandmother called from the kitchen and told us it's time to eat.

Dinner. That was my favorite hour of my every days. It's the only time our family is complete where my mother and my grandfather are finally home from work. I'd help by setting the table and moments later, my mother and grandfather will come down to eat. On the usual, there's only 4 of us at the table. Sometimes, when my cousins and aunts visit, we eat together with them obviously but this was our norm. I remembered what my mother told me before why it was her favorite time, too. Before, when she was a young girl, they were unable to dine together (with my aunt, uncle, and of course, my grandparents) and they only ate whenever. My grandparents were both working and my mother’s schedule never matched her siblings, so she's often alone eating whether it's breakfast, lunch, or dinner. She told me she didn't want me to experience that, the feeling of loneliness when you're eating in an empty table with only yourself. Hence why she insisted on this unspoken rule of our family eating together. Everyone just unconsciously followed it that even in certain events; like of birthdays and such. But that dinner was solemn and I knew why.

It was the death anniversary of my uncle and even if no one wants to bring it up, we all have the same person and thoughts running in our mind. We did not want to be miserable on that day— it has already been years— since he died. 7 years to be precise.

          What I did not expect was for my mother to laugh as she picked up an orange from the basket, peeling it with her rough, calloused hands. She looked at me, “You share the same favorite fruit, you know.” I could have told her that I prefer a strawberry than an orange, that it has never been my favorite, but for the sake of a bitter memory of a person, I just nodded.

And as if automatically, my grandmother would walk to our television and turn it on, popping in a random Filipino historical movie because my uncle was such a geek for this genre. I was never particularly close with him, but my grandparents would tell me that he'd mirror the personalities of the Filipino heroes; he was courageous and he was smart, and it got me thinking, that perhaps in another life, he was a Hero that was plastered on the walls of museums, name included in the textbooks and commended for his deeds— but he's just another man shut closed in a coffin.

But I found it lovely, as bitter and melancholic as it can because it mirrors the actions of the people in the Bible. Maybe not as kind or as gracious as we expect it to be, but we're only humans and we are imperfect, but that's what makes Filipinos more religious, isn't it? Of being imperfect, of looking up to a God they can rely on. I might not be one of them, but with a family that is religious and idolizes our national heroes; I understand. I can sympathize and put myself in their shoes.

        After that day, we'd be at the church. My family is not always at the church and we rarely attend masses, but this was a special day. It was for family, after all. I'd be at the corner and listen during the mass, I'd try to participate even if I'm an atheist because it's the least I can do for my family. Maybe it's not as evident as it was before but I know most of them are still grieving, but they seem to crave that feeling. Maybe, the bitterness and the gnawing claws of misery inside their hearts reminds them of my family more than happiness and euphoria of memories could ever do. As I sat there, gazing at the cross of the Lord in the peaceful noise of the mass and the voice of the priest, I realized that what made Filipinos love God is… not of loyalty, but it's because he felt like family. They could relate to the feeling of Jesus, Mary and Joseph— the Anak, Ina, at Ama— and they see it in their family, too. Mayhaps, that was their biggest mistake but it was also their greatest joy, I'd say. There's not many good examples of an ideal family and of the Bible being there— with its stories and scriptures, was what brings one of the other Filipinos together.

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REFLECTION 002

Filipino Religiousness: My Story of My Understanding and Appreciation of What Makes Us Religious Filipinos

“You share the same favorite fruit, you know.” I could have told her that I prefer a strawberry than an orange, that it has never been my favorite, but for the sake of a bitter memory of a person, I just nodded.

Every afternoon from my childhood to my teen years, my grandma would show up with peeled oranges, my favorite fruit, for me to eat. Every single one.

She sometimes would ask me if I wanted it, and sometimes I’d say no, but she had already peeled them, and asking was a formality. I would always eat them anyway. I was a notorious picky eater, and if we know something about grandmas is that they are usually worried about kids not eating well enough, even if they are. Most of the times, it's just us at our house because my grandfather is at work and so is my mother. She'd tell me how she wonders how my life could be if my father stayed in the picture. I'd shrug and told her, “I wouldn't know, maybe it's for the best he's not here.” Maybe the sour taste that was left on my tongue as I said those words were not from the oranges she peeled, but from the thought of my father and an imaginary family I could've had with him and my mother.

My grandmother tried to understand why I didn't want my father to come back but she couldn't. She grew up with the idea that it was sacred for a man to take responsibility for impregnating a woman in our family and even if they're not ready to get married, they have to be to make their “unholy act” graceful in the eyes of God and church. Of course, this is not the same mindset for all; this is just how my family views it and what I was taught of.

As we sat there in the kitchen, eating peeled oranges, I knew what thoughts were running inside my grandmother's mind. She believed that if there was marriage, the couple will be stable and will be faithful to one another and actually, this is the same for most Filipino families I've met and observed; maybe it's what my grandmother experienced too. I wouldn't truly know as she kept some of what she has seen throughout the years to herself and only shared what she believed I could pick-up lessons from. However, it didn't work out well for my family. Many of them, including my father, regardless of their marriages still cheated with their significant others and started a new family. The marriage, the idea of family becomes tainted already at that point because you have no commitment towards whom you married and to the first children you sired. The feeling of belonging and love was not there anymore. I cannot truly grasp the idea of family because I don't have a good model to look up to.

On that day too, I remembered how loud our home telephone rang and there's only one person who calls our house during the afternoon and it's my best friend. We'd usually talk about our days or our hobbies or the new episode we watched of our favorite show. That time, however, she was crying and it was evident with how our voice shakes that she was afraid.

I asked her what was going on and she told me that her father came home drunk again, angry and throwing things around their house, screaming at her poor mother. I wish I could do more for her, but all I could do is comfort her. I knew how badly it affected her. I also experienced it but that moment, it was not about me but of my best friend who was afraid to get out of her room just because of her father. While we were on the call, I wondered why do Filipinos stay loyalty to the concept of “family” but never made it healthy or loving for their children? It's just that the father or mother is abusive to their spouses, they stay together just because they're married and they have children. It's toxic and I know that perhaps the church might frown upon it, but I believe that couples like these should separate because it'll affect their children. Children should not grow up in a toxic, abusive household, regardless of the situation (of a mother or father leaving, of a parent being abusive to their spouse but still staying together, and so on and so forth), and even if it goes against the self- identity of a Filipino putting the idea of family on a high pedestal; it's more important to prioritize love and belonging than a concept of a family.

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REFLECTION 001 (PART TWO)

Not Everybody Believes In A God: A Reflection Paper on My Experiences Growing Up With God and Religion

I was not afraid of God anymore and of my family. I do not feel that I need Him and in my heart, I said, “God has a lot to answer for and my rebellion will continue until he does so.” I became jaded and pessimistic, doubted His presence in my life because why do I feel paranoia for a being that was supposed to show me how love feels? And why have I never truly felt it, then? Is this payback? Is this His answer? If it is, then He’s a coward for not answering my prayers for years.

I started to rebel. I was 13 and was new at high school when I decided I didn’t want to seek love and appreciation from my family.

If they don’t need me, why would I need them? I abandon my old myself— forgot about God and family, forgot about what it feels to trust and open up to someone, and instead chose to be secretive and be a lone wolf in this harsh, cruel reality. It was eye-opening to break free from my old shell and have a different life from the one you grew up with; my once long hair was cut short like a boy’s, dresses and heels were ditched for pants and sneakers, hobbies that include dolls and pinks now revolved around rebellious themes, like: metal and punk music, unconventional activities such as skateboarding, and others that I know my family would disapprove. I felt free when I started to do this. I was not afraid of God anymore and of my family. I do not feel that I need Him and in my heart, I said, “God has a lot to answer for and my rebellion will continue until he does so.” I became jaded and pessimistic, doubted His presence in my life because why do I feel paranoia for a being that was supposed to show me how love feels? And why have I never truly felt it, then? Is this payback? Is this His answer? If it is, then He’s a coward for not answering my prayers for years.

          Worse comes to worst when my family starts to doubt my identity. I started to care less about my feminine things and instead have taken a liking on things they deem “masculine.” My mother would often say to me, “Ano ka ba!? Tibo!?” and she’d tell me hurtful things just because I refuse to wear a skirt or a dress, and told me that if I decided to act like a man— I’d have no home anymore. And in a desperate attempt, I prayed to God for one last time and asked for help. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to be seen as myself. I wanted to be loved. But again, He never answered my prayers. My family could only look at disgust on me when I wear pants and comb my hair that’s like a boy’s. With tear-streaked face and a broken smile on my face, I told myself, “God does not exist.” And if He does and punish me, then so be it. If I walk into Hell, I want it to be blazing, not lukewarm. I want Him to make me feel something else other than hate and bitterness towards Him. I won’t beg after Him anymore, no, I’d rather die standing up than live kneeling after a being who refuses to let me live a life where I was loved. I looked back to the life that I had to live and I could only laugh because of how pathetic and desperate I was for God. I can respect Him. I can choose not to speak ill of Him, but it does not mean I have to acknowledge and love Him, for only He ever brought pain and hurt to my heart.

          My family started falling apart. If I were God, this was the best time to show Himself up and prove Himself to me that he exists, but no, he only watched like I did. My mother has started getting into fights with my grandparents, have planned to leave me to elope with her boyfriend and before, I would’ve cried and prayed to God, but I lost the care. Loneliness has become my friend and in that moment, I knew it’s the only feeling I can harbour inside my heart. I just watched my mother packed her bags, standing at the shadows of her room with a blank expression on my face and thinking, “When will this nightmare end?,” because for the nth time, I was tired. I was exhausted of fighting and having the will to live. No matter what happens it seems that God's answer to my suffering is more hurt. More pain. It seems like I was being built to be someone who's just numb and with a heart that only beats so I can survive and not live.

But for some miracle, my life suddenly took a turn. It was last year when I finally had a proper talk with my mother. She asked me to come sit with her at the dining table and she grasped my hands with her’s, looking at me straight in the eyes. And for once, I felt seen as myself. Not as the rebellious daughter, or the failure, or the jaded, pessimistic kid, but as Kin. She told me, “I’m sorry,” with a soft whisper and I couldn’t believe the words that I heard as she never apologized for her shortcomings as a mother to me years ago; yet, there she was, holding my hand and finally treating me as her daughter. My mother said that she regretted not loving me enough, that I had to abandon a part of myself so I can feel alive again, that she was just doing what she thought was the best.

I wish I could be angry at her when she justified her actions as a guide from God, but I couldn’t. She was just as weak and vulnerable as I am. We both needed someone, anyone for us, and she chose God while I didn’t. It may have not been the most amazing moment in my life but it did open a new door for me. I may not believe in God but it was obvious that He was needed for people, just like my mother, that even if He was not there, they have hope and faith inside their hearts. And I think that’s beautiful. I may have had anger in me before but sooner or later I realized that this anger in my heart may have warmed me before, however it will leave me cold to my grave. I carry a piece of my family in my heart, even if they never loved me so, especially my mother because she still was my world. I see the fragility of a human’s life on her eyes and on her actions the mistakes that God would foresee.

          God does not exist. I believe that, but I heard words from people who have faith in Him and they are happy to pray and praise for him. His existence and His deeds are miracles for them and they see life as something precious. I can see now that the circumstances of one’s birth are irrelevant; it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are. I chose to be a person of my own and not a child of God, but that does not mean I am turning away the opportunity to learn more about Him; maybe someday, one of my family member’s prayers would be answered and it’ll build the bridges that we once burned to one another. Theology will open up a whole new perspective for me and maybe I'll see God and Christ in a different light.  And life’s too short to stay close-minded. As the saying goes, “Every man’s heart one day beats its final beat. Their lungs breathe their final breath. And if what that man did in his life makes the blood pulse through the body of others and makes them bleed deeper in something that’s larger than life, then their essence, their spirit, will be immortalized by the storytellers.” And if in the end, God does truly exist, then I shall be alive to share His story.

[quiannesblog]

REFLECTION 001

Not Everybody Believes In A God: A Reflection Paper on My Experiences Growing Up With God and Religion

As the saying goes, “Every man’s heart one day beats its final beat. Their lungs breathe their final breath. And if what that man did in his life makes the blood pulse through the body of others and makes them bleed deeper in something that’s larger than life, then their essence, their spirit, will be immortalized by the storytellers.”

Theology was a subject that I have been avoiding to learn about ever since I was a kid.

Do not get me wrong. I love learning but when it comes to God and religious beliefs, it was a topic I refused to acknowledge as much as I could. I know of its impact and how it has affected history, especially the trajectory of human lives and if given a chance, I’d want to be open-minded about it, even if it means abandoning my own atheistic beliefs.

I grew up in a typical, religious Filipino family. Full of hypocrites and empty-hearted worshippers, who only kneel before God in desperate times and never on times they should thank Him. They used His name and the “supposed” teaching at church to scare me and force me in a box of fear and paranoia, without truly knowing God properly and the church itself. I used to be the kid who prays to God and Jesus; before I eat a meal served at our dining table, at school where I was most of the times, and before I go to sleep where I dreamed peacefully.

You could say that it was inflicted on me, because our house used to have this display dedicated to God and Jesus, filled with His and Their framed pictures, along with religious figures— such as angels, the apostles, and so on and so forth. But I’ve never seen any of my family members who actually prays and give an ounce of their attention at the altar built in at the corner of the wall, always going on their way and ignoring it. It was indeed just a display, even the thick-paged bible that was on our house has collected the dust, no mark of fingerprints were left on it to show that someone has opened and read it. My family loves to pretend that they cared about God, but I grew up hearing foul and hateful words coming out of their mouths, and how they cursed other people to damnation.

I was mostly ignored when I was a kid. They fed me, they bought me clothes to wear, I slept in a comfortable bed, and there was a roof over my head, but that doesn’t mean I grew up in a loving, caring home. I do not have vivid memories of the happiest moments of my life, but I do remember hiding behind the curtains and watching my grandparents fight all the time; sometimes, it’s about money, or my grandmother’s constant accusation of my grandfather cheating on her, or how they’re having a hard time raising me while my mother is still finishing her college degree. I was the result of teenage pregnancy and growing up was not pleasant for me, as my family would constantly berate me just for my mere existence and how they’d shamed my mother for getting pregnant early.

They’d tell me that I was a sinner and God could never love me, which resulted to me being scared all the time that I’ll just die because my family told me God eliminates sin and punishes the sinners. And my father? Oh, he left after they got married and started a whole new family; which is funny as I heard my grandparents say that he was a faithful and family-oriented man and yet he can’t take up the responsibility to be a proper husband to my mother and father to me. I was always alone and left at the house. I didn’t have anyone to play with as a kid. I had toys, yes, but I missed the feeling of what it’s like to have a bond and in my mind, I made up different imaginary friends. It was a lonely childhood and I always wondered what ever I did in my past life to deserve this (if ever that exists), because why was I allowed to have a life like mine?

I prayed to God. I prayed to Jesus. I prayed to anybody who would hear my prayers. I was so tired of hearing my family fight all the time and why it became the norm in our lives. None of my prayers were answered. It only got worse over the years and it made me often think to myself up until now, that if God truly exists why was my life like that? Am I not His child to be shun in a life that was miserable and lonely?

At school, I became envious of my classmates because I see their family picking them up after schools with smiles on their faces while the person always waiting for me by the gates was my yaya— strangers that have come and go in my life, who replaced the bond and comfort I seek out badly from my family that they cannot give. I saw how supportive my classmates’ parents were and how they praised them even if they did not well in school, so as long as they’re learning. But for me? It was a nightmare to step foot at our house the moment I have failed a school work.

I remember how I’ll sit at the dining table back at home with my grandparents and mother looking at me with disappointed expressions on their faces, my failed school works sprawled on the table instead of our dinner for the night. My mother would cradle my face gently, but her eyes tell a different story— she was mad and she saw me as a failure. She’d ask me, “Why didn’t you do better?” or “Do you think I’m happy with a score like this?” and I’d shook my head with tears in my eyes, my heart heavy knowing that she can’t be proud of me. My grandparents would stay quiet and compare me to other children, say why am I not like my classmate, or Aling Marie’s son, and so on and so forth. And all of the these things they’d said would fill my mind and I’ll just close my eyes to try and forget about it. During those nights, my sleeps were restless and I don’t pray because I feel like I can’t seek comfort from God. And even on the days I succeed, where I present A+ papers to them, they don’t feel proud of me. They don’t praise me and all I get is a nod and an empty acknowledgment, and at those moments, I feel alone, that not even praying to God can help me feel better.

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