My parents used to fight about going to Church. My dad had become born-again in his teens and went to college at Notre Dame; my mom called herself a "refugee" from Catholicism, which she abandoned at 7 years old. They somehow settled, before I was born, on Presbyterianism. The Presbyterian Church in our Detroit suburb was sparse and sparsely attended, filled with marginal characters like my music teacher and the former Town Supervisor who lost reelection in what passed for a corruption scandal in a community of 12,000.
Most years, the only times my parents both agreed to go to Church on a Sunday were Christmas and Easter. One year, Easter was in March and it had snowed; we trudged through the snow in spring colors just to hear the Minister speak derisively about "twice a year Christians," trying to guilt those like us into attending services more frequently. That marked the beginning of the end of our Presbyterian charade. My dad became an "Hour of Power" Christian, and the rest of us became "egg hunt and Chinese takeout on Christmas Eve" Christians.
I was in high school when my dad became an atheist. I had unintentionally converted him. For his birthday, I got him a Christopher Hitchens audiobook for his hour-long morning commute. It must have been Hitchens' credentials as a George W. Bush cheerleader that made him palatable to my Republican father. But after a week of car rides with God is Not Great, my dad was questioning his beliefs and eventually arrived at a rejection of them.
My mom went the other way. She had started listening to Joel Osteen as a source of motivation. Gradually, she started to buy into the theology behind his sermons. It was sometimes surreal to take a step back and observe that my parents' beliefs had reversed in such a short time. My mom, long aware that I was a professed agnostic, tried to initiate conversations with me about religion. I would usually deflect by saying it wasn't a good time for that kind of discussion. "When will it be a good time?" she asked me at one point. "Never," I replied, truthfully.
Last year, on Palm Sunday, my mom committed suicide. She suffered from the same depression that afflicted her mother, her brothers, and her children. No one had realized how bad it had gotten; she had recently received her master's degree and had just launched a private psychology practice. A few days after her death, we received a package of Christian jewelry that she had purchased online. She had turned to religion to fill an emotional void and allowed it to overpower her.
I do not hold the religion or its followers responsible for an individual's actions. I have, however, come to a materialist understanding of faith. In my eulogy for my mother, I wrote:
"Some will find comfort in the notion that my mom is in a better place. Inspired by her legacy, I am instead committing myself to improving this world so that it one day resembles that better place."
I have been trying to figure out how to mark Easter this year. What I'm deciding to do is celebrate the beauty of life on this planet that spring represents, however it got here.