An Arrangement with God

Shawn Galligan, ‘26

When I was not quite one year old, I received a baptism in a Catholic church. My parents

 believed it would guarantee my immortal soul passage through the gates of heaven. Six years

later, shortly before I was set to receive First Communion and complete my initiation, my parents

divorced. In their shame and fear of judgment by a powerful religious body, my soul’s education

was suspended. I never did commune with Christ, or even attend a Sunday service. The sum of

my Catholic childhood is a moment in holy water lost to my infant memory, and scattered

fragments of my short few months in Confraternity of Christian Doctrine classes.

        My mother always liked to talk about God in the car. She grew contemplative on long

drives, her time behind the wheel inspiring her to impart wisdom. Sometimes, these impromptu

lessons would relate to God. A light rain ran down the windows of her Honda, branching into

tiny tributaries, drops that raced each other to the bottom. My mother tried to impart on me the

significance of a prayer she learned in childhood:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my Soul to keep[;]

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my Soul to take.

        “I pray for different people,” she said. “I pray for you, and that God will protect you.

Then I pray for anyone else who needs it, if they’re going through a hard time. And then I say

that prayer every night. It’s the last thing I say before I go to sleep.” She repeated: “If I should

die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take. I say it for myself, and for you.”

        I got the sense that, to her, this prayer was a sort of compulsion. I imagined her,

genuflecting against her bed each night, asking God to spare me. In that moment I didn’t reply, at

least not in a way that revealed some hidden faith. However, I got the sense that wasn’t

necessary. I had been released from my religious obligation by the divorce; the protection of my

soul was no longer my own concern. That burden, as so many are, was now shouldered by my

parents.

        I always saw Catholicism as if through a tinted window: simultaneously near and yet

inscrutable to my young eyes. My parents possessed an entire inner world, full of doctrine and

ritual - but they largely left me out of it. Unlike other lapsed Catholics, I possess no ingrained

understanding of the tradition, no nostalgia-laden memories of church interiors. Catholicism, to

me, is a stray memory of green and beige crayons, a coloring page depicting the genesis of

creation.

        When my grandfather passed, his funeral service was held at a Catholic church simply

called ‘Christ the King’. I was accompanied by Erin, a more authentic lapsed Catholic friend.

The church’s interior was framed by six enormous stained-glass windows, which distorted the

light from without until the floor was a mosaic of Biblical color. The smell of fresh incense filled

the nave, drifting between dozens of rows of wooden pews. An enormous gold crown hung from

the ceiling like a chandelier, and portraits of the saints stared longingly outward from around the

altar. As a macabre sort of centerpiece, at the apex of the saints’ portraits, a life-size bronze

statue of an emaciated Christ hung crucified against that wooden wall.

        Erin stared up at the crucified King. Fucking Catholics, was all she said.

        The priest led the congregation in a dance entirely unfamiliar to me. Stand up, sit down,

recite a passage, sing a song, stand up again, speak a secret phrase, perform a strange gesture. I

felt clumsy, like I had missed a day of school. During the songs, I would sneak glances at Erin,

and watch as her mouth moved with practiced accuracy. Peace be with you, said the priest. And

also with you, Erin replied. I stared at her bewildered.

        At the altar, the priest praised my grandfather, a man he had never met, for his lifelong

loyalty to the Catholic faith. For his baptism, and for his long devotion to Christ, he is rewarded

with an eternal place beside our Lord in heaven. The congregation seemed to rejoice.

        During one of the rehearsed prayers, Erin misspoke a line. I heard the catch in her voice

before she fell silent. An irritated scrunch came over her face as she leaned close to me. I guess I

missed a Catholicism update or something. I whispered back: Have I told you my grandfather

was an atheist?

        Once, I made an offhand remark about my own afterlife to my father. Something like,

Well, I don’t go to church, so I wouldn’t get in. My father looked at me very seriously, and then

spoke in an evaluative sort of tone, as if he were analyzing one of his insurance cases. Well, you

were baptized. You should be fine. If you get baptized, they let you into heaven.

        This notion of religion thrilled me. I was reminded of those old Catholics, who purchased

their indulgences, a simple trade of coin for sin. The unknowable divine, reduced to transaction.

The almost wondrous idea that it was possible to make a formal business arrangement with God.

I took a profound comfort in that thought.

        I recently met a man named John Buxton for the first time since infancy. He was an old

college buddy of my father’s, and at my birth, he was named my Godfather. While he was selling

me a car last summer, he shook my hand and somewhat sheepishly reminded me of our

relationship.

        What is a Godfather supposed to do? I asked him.

        Well, I’m supposed to oversee your spiritual development and protect your soul. He

laughed, and so did I.

        God, I said. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened to my soul without you.