What I Know About God

They say the Lord works in mysterious ways. I know this because I once encountered His presence outside an H&M in Žilina, Slovakia. I watched as a friar, head bowed in serenity, strolled past the mass-produced tees and distressed jeans in Aupark Mall, his brown habit outlined by the red glow of the H&M logo. I don’t know if he was looking for last-minute summer sales or meditating on consumer culture, but I’ll leave that for the One Above to judge.

My early Catholic encounters were similarly mysterious. Although I was the shortest person in my third-grade class, as an altar server, I was entrusted with an overbearing wooden cross that swayed into the pews of the Bible-clutching faithful. Other times, I rang the bell at the wrong moment, earning a dirty look from the deacon. So if you were at my church, I regret that your Eucharist may not have been blessed.

My Catholicism is rooted in my Slovak background. My mother grew up under communism, when religion was suppressed and operated underground. My grandfather was barred from attending a school because he served as an altar boy. Yet religion survived: beyond services, you see it in Christmas traditions with grace said before sauerkraut soup and carp; candles flickering on dark hillsides on All Souls’ Day; and wayside shrines to Mary above villages puffing smoke from chimneys. 

In the United States, the Church gave my mother community as an immigrant, sponsoring her and others working toward citizenship. Supposedly, though, they sometimes helped themselves to the church’s stores of wine, so I guess the Church was generous in more ways than one.

Perhaps my most memorable Catholic experience was when I, sort of, met the Pope. A family friend’s husband worked security at the Vatican for Pope Francis, so we got seats beside the stage. At the end, everyone surged forward like animals out of a cage, shouting “PAPA!” So I stood on my chair, which my brother copied. When the Pope came closer, I gave a tiny wave; we made eye contact, and he waved back. You can call it a profound encounter, but it only happened because I wasn’t about to sacrifice myself to the papal mosh pit.

While the Church has had darker chapters, my early religious anxieties were milder. In religion class, we learned about Marian apparitions, including Fatima, where three children reported seeing Mary before being shown a fiery gorge of Hell. That was scary enough, but I was also afraid of anything ghost-like. I dreaded a pale vision of Mary silently gliding into my bedroom at three in the morning. A vision was not worth canonization.

And I found Mass somewhat dull. Even though a priest said that if you weren’t enjoying church you weren’t participating, in high school I was likelier to make paper planes from the handouts. Occasionally, though, a funny homily would get my attention. 

As I got older, I began questioning whether there was a true religion. My brother, an engineering student and devout Catholic, always fits Mass into his schedule. We get along well, but religion can be our hot spot. I’d ask: “How does the religion you happen to be born into happen to be correct? Even if historical records and archaeology could justify Christianity, why not consider Judaism or Islam, Christianity’s sibling religions? And what about Orthodoxy, with its continuity with the early Church?”

At university, I overheard that two religious leaders had gotten into a public yelling match. Although it was funny to imagine church leaders bickering on the medieval grounds of ancient Scottish academia, their ‘duel’ made me wonder about the limits and responsibilities of religious authority.

A university class, God and the World, multiplied my questions. We studied the Quinque Viae, St. Thomas Aquinas’s five proofs for God’s existence. His proofs, along with the syllabus, made me wonder whether logic can prove religion, whether an institution is necessary to faith, and whether suffering has a purpose.

Yet, I understand the appeal of tradition in sacraments like baptism, Communion, and marriage; the symbolism of incense or a denomination’s architecture; stories like Jesus feeding thousands with a few loaves and a few fish; and generations repeating the same rituals.

My father once pointed out that the crucifix is a strange Christian symbol, as it is an instrument of Roman execution. But I actually like it: the crucifix transforms suffering into an image of love and redemption that can connect humanity.

Russian literature gave me another lens. I became fascinated by sobornost, the Slavic concept of ‘spiritual togetherness.’ Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov explores sobornost through Zosima’s declaration that “Each of us is guilty before all and for all on earth.” Nikolai Berdyaev similarly imagined the Russian soul as a bridge between Eastern and Western spirituality to collectively search for truth.

Walt Whitman found in nature a temple of our interconnectedness, writing in Leaves of Grass: “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,” and “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

My ancestry helps me understand both our genealogical connections and our place in the world. I notice patterns across generations; for example, my grandmother and I share Bernadette as a confirmation saint, even without prior knowledge. I have also had the opportunity to visit my ancestors’ homelands, experiencing the landscapes, cultures, and histories that shaped them. I believe that understanding what shaped your ancestors can help you understand what shapes you.

Having had relatives who passed at young ages, I have early on conceived of death less as something inevitable, and more as something that can happen at any moment. In Doctor Zhivago, Boris Pasternak offers some comfort: “You in others—this is your soul,” suggesting that we survive through memory and the parts of ourselves that enter the future.

I joined the Quakers in university because while I did not want to abandon my Christian roots, I looked to Christianity more as a lifestyle than an institution. My home-state of Pennsylvania also has a history of Quakers, including William Penn, who established the colony as a “Holy Experiment” for liberty. 

The Quakers were some of the nicest people I’ve met. Our meetings included an hour of silence, followed by coffee and conversation. A couple who had lived in Africa invited me to help them garden, then fed me while sharing stories about wild animals and mathematics. I also learned that Quakers sometimes stay with other Quakers around the world, so free hotels were another perk.

I later gave a presentation about Benjamin Lay, an outspoken Quaker dwarf and abolitionist who stabbed a Bible filled with pokeberry juice to protest slaveholders. I sympathized with his anger: while I respect what religious institutions can offer, I remain skeptical of institutional power.

While interviewing fishermen in Scotland, I met Colin of the Fishermen’s Mission. A lifelong Christian, he described the organization's “Christian presence” among fishermen and their families, embodying Christianity as an outline for living through love.

Over time, my spirituality has become defined more in experience and interpretation. Literature, music, and art help me make sense of the world and find wisdom in the ‘ordinary.’ In Tears and Saints, Emil Cioran even considered artists like Shakespeare and El Greco saints, asking, “Is there another criterion for art besides closeness to heaven?”

I still have questions about God and what comes after it is all done, but perhaps the point is that we do not have all the answers. My ways of finding meaning are individual, but they still connect me to something communal: whether through ‘Leaves of Grass,’ my ancestors, a Quaker meeting, an El Greco, or even a friar walking past H&M.