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Authors: Jenny McCarthy
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The first girl I became friends with was Christine Higley. She had a dollface and the hottest older brother, Alexander. Christine was timid, a real quiet one. I quickly learned why. Her family was not only extremely religious; they were ridiculously overprotective. I thought my parents had me on a tight leash. Christine was on house arrest. Her mom used angel cookie cutters to shape sandwiches and included handwritten bizarre “godspirational” quotes in her lunch every day.
I remember sitting at the Higleys’ dinner table and observing how disconnected their family was. Christine would try to have an open dialogue with her mom to talk about things that were more interesting to her than God, but she was quickly dismissed and ignored. Coloring outside of the biblical lines was strictly forbidden.
After several teenage years of isolation and resentment, Christine ended up moving to Las Vegas and becoming a showgirl. But the back pages of a Nevada newspaper clearly illustrated that that wasn’t enough excitement for her since she went a step further and became a full-on dominatrix. Her brother was destined to be gay, and he finally came out of the closet a year later. It was their parents’ worst nightmares come true.
The point is, Christine was a cry for help and Alexander was way too hot to be straight.
It was around that time that I came to understand that it was possible to tip your God scale. Everyone needs balance. What was enough to make God proud? What was too much to live by? I had so many questions.
I constantly looked for guidance and still remember the conversation I had with my new teacher, Sister Nancy, in high school.
“Girls, we will now refer to God as the Creator, not as the Father,” said Sister Nancy.
I nearly lost my uterus when I heard this.
“Yes, Jenny?”
“What do you mean you changed it to Creator instead of Father? I thought God was a He?”
“No, we believe God is not a sex. God is a Creator of all. God is.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” Sister Nancy replied.
“Says who?”
“Says us.”
“Who’s us?”
“Different sectors of Catholicism.”
“Different what? This is ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous?”
“How you guys change everything, your rules.”
“Things change,” said Sister Nancy.
“Yes, I understand that. But when you teach us to follow the Ten Commandments and then switch the meaning behind them, how do we know what to believe?”
“What do you mean we switch the meaning?”
“In grammar school, I was taught the meaning of the First Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not have strange gods before Me.’ When I inquired as to who that God is, so I don’t accidentally worship a strange one, my teacher said, ‘It’s Jesus’s dad, a guy.’ Now God doesn’t have a gender?”
“God is not defined by a gender,” said Sister Nancy.
“Okay, so five years ago if some dude believed what you believe now, a no-gender God, and brought this concept to the Catholic Church saying, ‘Stop worshipping that guy with a beard and a staff and worship the correct God,’ and showed everyone a picture of a light ball, the Church would have said, ‘Stop worshipping that strange god! You are breaking a commandment!’ Right?”
Sister Nancy just stared at me, not knowing how to answer the question.
So I continued. “So this dude and whoever else believed in a no-gender God five years ago are now burning in a pit of flames for all eternity. They will suffer because they were ahead of their time.”
“You are exaggerating the situation,” said Sister Nancy. “If someone was Catholic and believed in God and led a good life, they will not burn in Hell for all eternity.”
“But if you break a commandment and die with a sin on your soul, you are damned to Hell, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so this dude appeared to have a strange god. He didn’t match the Church’s concept and dies without knowing to
The first girl I became friends with was Christine Higley. She had a dollface and the hottest older brother, Alexander. Christine was timid, a real quiet one. I quickly learned why. Her family was not only extremely religious; they were ridiculously overprotective. I thought my parents had me on a tight leash. Christine was on house arrest. Her mom used angel cookie cutters to shape sandwiches and included handwritten bizarre “godspirational” quotes in her lunch every day.
I remember sitting at the Higleys’ dinner table and observing how disconnected their family was. Christine would try to have an open dialogue with her mom to talk about things that were more interesting to her than God, but she was quickly dismissed and ignored. Coloring outside of the biblical lines was strictly forbidden.
After several teenage years of isolation and resentment, Christine ended up moving to Las Vegas and becoming a showgirl. But the back pages of a Nevada newspaper clearly illustrated that that wasn’t enough excitement for her since she went a step further and became a full-on dominatrix. Her brother was destined to be gay, and he finally came out of the closet a year later. It was their parents’ worst nightmares come true.
The point is, Christine was a cry for help and Alexander was way too hot to be straight.
It was around that time that I came to understand that it was possible to tip your God scale. Everyone needs balance. What was enough to make God proud? What was too much to live by? I had so many questions.
I constantly looked for guidance and still remember the conversation I had with my new teacher, Sister Nancy, in high school.
“Girls, we will now refer to God as the Creator, not as the Father,” said Sister Nancy.
I nearly lost my uterus when I heard this.
“Yes, Jenny?”
“What do you mean you changed it to Creator instead of Father? I thought God was a He?”
“No, we believe God is not a sex. God is a Creator of all. God is.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” Sister Nancy replied.
“Says who?”
“Says us.”
“Who’s us?”
“Different sectors of Catholicism.”
“Different what? This is ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous?”
“How you guys change everything, your rules.”
“Things change,” said Sister Nancy.
“Yes, I understand that. But when you teach us to follow the Ten Commandments and then switch the meaning behind them, how do we know what to believe?”
“What do you mean we switch the meaning?”
“In grammar school, I was taught the meaning of the First Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not have strange gods before Me.’ When I inquired as to who that God is, so I don’t accidentally worship a strange one, my teacher said, ‘It’s Jesus’s dad, a guy.’ Now God doesn’t have a gender?”
“God is not defined by a gender,” said Sister Nancy.
“Okay, so five years ago if some dude believed what you believe now, a no-gender God, and brought this concept to the Catholic Church saying, ‘Stop worshipping that guy with a beard and a staff and worship the correct God,’ and showed everyone a picture of a light ball, the Church would have said, ‘Stop worshipping that strange god! You are breaking a commandment!’ Right?”
Sister Nancy just stared at me, not knowing how to answer the question.
So I continued. “So this dude and whoever else believed in a no-gender God five years ago are now burning in a pit of flames for all eternity. They will suffer because they were ahead of their time.”
“You are exaggerating the situation,” said Sister Nancy. “If someone was Catholic and believed in God and led a good life, they will not burn in Hell for all eternity.”
“But if you break a commandment and die with a sin on your soul, you are damned to Hell, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so this dude appeared to have a strange god. He didn’t match the Church’s concept and dies without knowing to
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