Hallowed be thy name: Lansing's lapsed Catholics speak out on faith

I hadn’t spoken those words in years, but they came back to me immediately. It’s the Lord’s prayer, the way Jesus told people to pray.

Growing up Catholic instilled this prayer in me, but the fact that I can still recall it without having been to Mass in years speaks volumes. While growing up, I said the prayer routinely, but there was no meaning behind it. I did it because I was taught to do it.

I stopped saying it when I left the Roman Catholic Church in 2001, right after high school.

That isn’t uncommon; a lot of Catholics in college forget their upbringing and begin questioning their faith.

But what struck me as I began researching this story is an estimate provided by the Diocese of Lansing: While there are 55 million people who consider themselves practicing Catholics in America, some 18 million Americans consider themselves lapsed Catholics.

And Lansing has its share of them. In my interviews for this story, I heard a lot of reasons people leave the venerable faith. What surprised me is that there is no common bond. We were all Catholics, and many of us are still Christian, but for whatever reason we cannot return to a church that we feel has forgotten us — a church that seems to have forgotten spirituality itself in favor of routine and politics.

As his father was beating him, Dave Macak wondered why God wouldn’t answer his prayers. Why would a supposedly loving God allow a child to suffer so?

Macak, now 50, was the second out of 15 children. He was born into a Catholic family that did not believe in any sort of birth control.

Money was tight for the southwest Chicago family, and stress and tempers were often in the red.

Macak said his parents verbally, emotionally and physically abused him. And he said they continued to have kids even knowing six of them would be born with muscular dystrophy.

Macak — a Lansing resident who provides home heath care and studies nursing at Lansing Community College — became bitter against his Catholic faith for believing in a God that wouldn’t answer his childhood calls for help. Because of that bitterness, he himself does not believe.

“It seem(s) like just a game somehow, or some fiction people tell themselves to feel better,” he said.

There is a belief among some lapsed Catholics that those who practice the faith are expected to attend church, go through all the rituals and never ask questions. The priest knows all, the pope is infallible and confession is mandatory.

Macak doesn’t agree. He began questioning his faith in high school and again in college, especially when he started feeling sexually attracted to other men. Therapy helped, but the pull to attend a Catholic church never returned because the church never answered his questions.

Catholic guilt is often a punch line except to those who live through it. Being gay and an atheist has not freed Macak from his religious upbringing and the thought that he will never be good enough.

“I never feel quite that freedom, like I’m out from under the thundercloud,” he said. “But I really think that there being a God — and (his having) anything to do with how we live — is something we can’t really know.”

Nor could John Kelly, a retired state worker who lives in Lansing and comes from a West Virginia Irish Catholic family. Kelly, 63, went to Catholic school for all but one year and never really questioned it until seventh grade.

It was then that he noticed the cruelty among Catholic students and began questioning the nuns’ teaching that non-Catholics were going to hell.

“I wondered, in spite of all my prayers, why this was continuing,” he said. “I wasn’t doing anything that warranted this.”

To escape, Kelly joined the Air Force after high school and began exploring other faiths. He attempted to be a Catholic off and on until around age 23, when a priest told him that you shouldn’t be a Catholic if your heart isn’t in it.

“I began to see religion as a manmade creation,” Kelly said. “I still love the Mass for the beauty. Sometimes I’ll go to the midnight Mass at St. Mary’s. But I’m weaned of religion.”

Like Macak, Kelly has lost the belief in one Supreme Being. Unlike Macak, Kelly says he has shed his past — although it took nine years of therapy, a divorce and a bout with alcoholism.

I took a different route. I was fortunate enough to make friends in college who were evangelical Christians — bible thumpers — those who said God spoke directly to them. My Catholic church had never emphasized spirituality, free prayer or even Bible reading, so it was quite a shock to realize I could have salvation without going through a chain of priests and bishops or forced confession. I had come to resent mandatory Sunday Mass.

Looking for other lapsed Catholics who had become Protestants or evangelicals led me to Nancy Totzke. An evangelical Christian, Totzke, 70, has lived in Lansing since 1956. She quit being a Catholic as soon as she married. Around that time, in the late 1950s, much of the Mass was spoken in Latin, and services were far less inclusive. Because Totzke’s husband had been married before, the two were banished from attending a Catholic church.

The sweeping changes ushered in by the Vatican Council in the 1960s were too late for Totzke.

She had already begun attending Baptist churches and growing her faith there. She learned to accept Christ as her own personal savior, and she gained a new understanding of what it meant to be saved — something her Catholic upbringing never talked about.

Ironically Totzke still considers herself Catholic, even though she attends Mass only once every few years.

“I don’t feel any less a Catholic, but I’m much more a Christian,” she said. “I could go to church if I wanted to, but I don’t feel church is the answer. I figure God is everywhere … and I don’t like being told what to do.”

Because she still has a love for the church, Totzke offered suggestions for how it could reclaim some of its lapsed members: Ordain women and let priests get married. That would be a good start, she said. Send ministers into the community to work with young people, explaining the Catholic faith. Not preaching about social issues and then asking for money also would help.

If something isn’t done soon, Totzke lamented, “Churches may become a thing of the past.” Somewhere in the middle ground is Patrick St. George. St. George lives in Lansing and attends Grace Lutheran. He dislikes labels such as “lapsed” or “ex-Catholic.” He considers himself simply non-practicing. It’s an odd position for a former monk who spent nine years in the seminary. He quit to marry and to work with the poor and the mentally ill. He is non-practicing, he says, simply because he hasn’t found a church in Lansing that combines a good Mass with a good sense of community.

St. George says it’s not important if someone is Catholic or Lutheran or Baptist, as long as his faith is fulfilled wherever he worships.

“It’s not as simple as going to church on Sunday. It’s how you live your life,” he said.

The search for why people lapse took me next to Monica Zuchowski, who works in the Legislature and is a community activist. She grew up in Big Rapids in a Catholic family with three sisters, none of whom practices that faith anymore.

Their father told them to do three things, Zuchowski, 50, recalls: Vote Democrat, give blood and attend Mass. She only does the first one now.

“I believe in the human spirit and (in) people,” she said. “I’ve never felt a need to go back. I don’t feel a loss or a gap or a missing link.”

The breaking point happened in 1972 when she was at church. The priest was speaking against providing Medicaid funding for abortions. That set Zuchowki’s pro-choice blood boiling: “I got up and walked out. I don’t regret it.”

Other lapsed Catholics feel like Samantha Sparks, who lives in town and who has tried several different Christian denominations hoping to find a comfortable fit. For the sake of her daughter, she even tried to make Catholicism work. But she hasn’t been to Mass in two years because it felt too much like a spectator sport — and because she doesn’t believe in God, although she does believe in a higher being.

“You don’t need a $40 million building to pray in. You can pray anywhere,” Sparks, 63, declared.

Nor does Steve Kwart, an investor and Lansing resident who grew up in St. Gerard Church in Delta Township. Like Zuchowski, he isn’t angry with the Catholic Church. He just decided it’s not for him.

Kwart, 38, never had a lone breaking point. Rather, his beliefs evolved out of questioning what he’d been taught. He wound up believing that it’s impossible for humans to know if there is a God: “I thought asking about my faith would make me a better Catholic, but the more I studied, the more I concluded it seemed it was not for me.”

Kwart said that, like myself and many other lapsed Catholics, he doesn’t ever see himself going back.

“I’ve kind of moved on, and going back would be like an intellectual retreat,” he said.

LCC theater student Jennifer Schwartz is a lesbian. While she has come to terms with her sexual orientation, she will not go back to the church, although she feels a little less torn about her faith.

Born in Grand Ledge, Schwartz’s mother’s family is Catholic and her father’s family is Jewish.

She was raised Catholic. At an early age she learned she connected better with women and came out in her teens.

Instead of being upset, her Catholic mother understood and remained open-minded. That’s part of the reason Schwartz isn’t bitter about Catholicism. Her realization came during her after-school Catholic classes, where she saw kids being cruel to each other.

“I couldn’t understand why people with the ‘right’ upbringing would be like this,” she said.

Schwartz began looking at other religions. She still goes to Mass on Christmas and Easter, out of respect for her family. But because of her sexual orientation and because of the church hierarchy, she’s not interested in returning to the faith. She feels others would judge her for being a lesbian.

“It’s scary when people believe they’re more right or more justified in spirituality than someone else,” Schwartz said. “It seems pretty pompous.”

She offered a different viewpoint on how the church could recover stray Catholics — especially homosexuals. She said hearing the pope announce a move toward inclusion might catalyze them into returning. If they do, they’d be a good resource, she said: “We can be great at helping others find their spirituality, since we do so much of our own path finding.”

Next I paid a visit to Peter Ries, director of the Office of Evangelization, RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) and Adult Faith Formation for the Diocese of Lansing.

Ries is well aware of why people leave the church. Some are angry or alienated. Some disagree theologically on points such as the worship of Mary and confession. Some leave because of a bad experience with a priest or staff member.

It doesn’t matter what the reason is, Ries said, Catholics should realize why members are leaving and do their best to bring them back.

“To characterize this as a young adult phenomenon just isn’t true,” he said. “I don’t want to reduce God to marketing, but he works through humans. There’s value in that interaction.”

Ries understands that much of the Mass is routine, but he believes routine in itself can be beautiful. Routine, including the sacraments, offers the sense of tradition that helps Catholics grow closer to God.

Still, Ries acknowledges that rote alone isn’t going to work in today’s society. Adult Catholics especially need the chance to explore their faith.

Lansing’s Catholic diocese — which covers 10 counties and includes some 250,000 practicing Catholics — has lost members, Ries said. But the good news is that it hasn’t lost as many as other dioceses in the country. Nevertheless, to staunch the flow of lapsed members, the Lansing diocese sends out the Faith magazine to some 80,000 households and sponsors Welcome Home Sundays in its various churches.

St. Mary’s Cathedral in downtown Lansing also takes up a special Friday collection during Lent which it donates to Lansing charities. That should say a lot to people about where the church’s priorities are, Ries said. The key, he believes, is to show them why being Catholic matters and to invite them back into the fold without badgering them.

“(Macak) began questioning his faith in high school and again in college, especially when he began feeling attracted to men.”

Well, at least he got that right. The guys who put the two together harmoniously turn out to be the bigger problem for the faith, and to be the least likely to amend their lives.

What a comical article. Aligned on the Protestant raging against the Catholic Church side of the aisle:

The faggot - “he started feeling sexually attracted to other men”

The alcoholic divorcee who hated getting spanked - “Kelly says he was subjected to abuse by his father ... Kelly says he has shed his past — although it took nine years of therapy, a divorce and a bout with alcoholism.”

The adulterer who likes faggots and abortions - “Because Totzke’s husband had been married before ... Not preaching about social issues and then asking for money also would help.”

The stuck-up - “He is non-practicing, he says, simply because he hasn’t found a church in Lansing that combines a good Mass with a good sense of community.”

The rabid pro-abortionist - “The breaking point happened in 1972 when she was at church. The priest was speaking against providing Medicaid funding for abortions. That set Zuchowki’s pro-choice blood boiling”

The idiot - “You don’t need a $40 million building to pray in. You can pray anywhere”

The fool - “He wound up believing that it’s impossible for humans to know if there is a God”

The dyke - “LCC theater student Jennifer Schwartz is a lesbian”

Are you proud of this company?

When one joins the Faith, it’s invariably because of the theology. When one leaves, it’s either because of anger at some clergy or simply because it’s easier.

It’s easier to conduct church ‘services’ whilst sitting with one’s feet up on one’s couch. It’s easier not fasting. It’s easier not tithing. It’s easier to formulate one’s own doctrine, or even easier to forgo one.

There are many homosexuals in the Church. It’s the practice of homosexuality that’s a sin. Just like it’s the practice of adultery that’s the sin.

But here, it seems more about the ease than anything else. It’s simply easier to live life as you choose in this instant, rather than stick to a rigid morality.

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