Ecclesiophobia

July 31, 2016

I was 10 on the verge of 11. On this birthday, I spent more hours in my basement than with my family. A friend had been sleeping over for the past week, and on that day he practically dragged me to my own basement. For the next five hours we pranced around like fools. We flipped my family’s old couches on their backs and shot Nerf darts across the open floor plan. We learned how to throw cards, and practiced until the unfinished walls were left with thin cuts all around. We sat and talked. By hour four it seemed like we were both ready to emerge from the musty basement air. Yet, to my surprise, he insisted we stay for an hour more.

When we finally surfaced, two dozen family members and friends were waiting for us. Surprise! 

That friend left the next day and I never saw him again; we were separated into different middle schools and didn’t stay in touch. Still, to this day I remember him for two things: helping my family set up an elaborate birthday “kidnapping”, and for something he said to me back in our basement talks: “You’re not Christian, so when you die you can’t go to heaven. You’re going to hell.”

June 15, 2019

I grew up void of any real religious ties but it had always surrounded me. Many of my friends were Christian. Both my mother and father grew up Catholic; Macau, China, became Christocentric after its time as a Portuguese colony. Soon after I was born, I was given a Buddha necklace, which I still wear to this day. 

Faith is not an irregular concept to most people, but the way it manifests varies per individual. I wasn’t sure how it would appear for me yet; after all, I was just an 8th grader. Mere months later faith would become a focal point for my future. Unlike most public school students, I had the option to choose my high school between three unique options, one of which was a private Jesuit institute. 

On June 15, 2019, in an attempt to better explore my high school options (and, unknowingly, my faith) I shadowed a local Jesuit student for a day. In the morning, he guided me across the split-sex campus, taught me some tricks at the ping-pong table outside his homeroom, and we “friended” each other on Clash Royale. In the second half of the day, the real shadowing began. I remember stepping into his math class, blown away by the sophisticated writable electronic screen beside the teacher’s desk. We found our seats in the back. 5 minutes later, after the class had filled, the PA system kicked in and all students instinctually rose. As the whole school prayed, I suddenly felt uneasy and distraught. I remained sitting; it wasn’t required for shadowers to join sessions. Instead, my eyes darted around the room, to the teacher chanting alongside her students, the cross next to the clock, the bleak walls void of posters, and to the door. I shut both my eyes and ears for the rest of the prayer, and only snapped back to reality after hearing the teacher mumble “linear regression”.

I skipped my shadow guide’s next class (theology, hahaha). I passed a prayer circle as I left. 

September 17, 2019

The fanfares of Star Wars were originally composed by John Williams and the London Symphony Orchestra, a fact that occupied my head as I chose my middle school classes. I stumbled into the orchestra room clueless and chose the violin because it was the only instrument I recognized. Years of practice later and I had actually gotten quite decent. My mother must’ve seen my dedication; she had suggested that I continue expanding my musicality with a private lesson teacher. 

We did hourly lessons once per week at the Lamont School of Music at the University of Denver, each time “borrowing” a practice room. As my instrumentation grew, so did my bond for music. It wasn’t uncommon for me to “disappear” when in my mom’s car; my mind, in the presence of music, abandoned all other senses to focus on my listening. As music played, I began picturing the different notes in my head, hearing the echoes of pitches in my ears, and feeling the beat in my tapping feet. It calmed me.When university started up, the Lamont School kicked us out, and my teacher began the search for a new place for lessons. He settled upon, go figure, a church.

Each week, my mother and I would make the 40 minute trek to the church. We would enter the front entrance before veering right, bypassing the nave and going into the basement. Interestingly, whatever discomfort I had before at the Jesuit high school was strangely muted, and any discomfort I did have quickly left when we began pulling our violin bows. My music lessons taught me that my ecclesiophobia didn’t extend to the church building itself, and that my fears could be fought with music.

June 22, 2020

In 2019 my mother rediscovered Catholicism. The next year, endorned in masks and distanced a minimum of one church pew from all other attendees, my family watched my mother’s baptism. I entered the church and in an instant, I was overflood with sensation as if every nerve in my body was on overtime. I fell down. Back at the pew, I felt my head spin. Nausea. My heart began racing. I looked up to the altar briefly before my vision grew blurry. I felt judged. Tears began streaming down my face. 

I excused myself to the bathroom, threw up twice, and spent another 20 minutes trying to calm down. It was only then that I recognized my ecclesiophobia.

December 25, 2024

I still go to church once every year on Christmas Eve in support of my mom. And every visit leaves me with a new array of symptoms caused by my fear. Last year my ears began to close off, and for an hour I was left mostly deaf to the sounds around me. I avoided making a fool of myself by copying the people sitting in front of me. This year I felt my throat close as my breath drew thin. The only way I’ve managed to cope so far has been through music. Whenever I feel myself spiraling, I flip open the hymns book and begin reading the lyrics to the tune of the notes. 

Ecclesiophobia has served as my greatest aberration in many ways, and it likely will continue to do so. It has left me with more questions than answers, and has greatly complicated how I express my faith. Still, I find solace in the fact that holiday spirit triumphs my ecclesiophobia when most needed. And so, while religion has remained a sensitive subject between myself, my friends, and my family, it’s never once become the reason for disconnection or disrespect. 

The holidays tend to have that effect, where all else disappears and for a short few days the world is smaller and quieter. At Christmas mass, even my ecclesiophobia eventually disappears, replaced by the simple beauty of people joined together celebrating their blessings. 

Let’s celebrate while we can, and leave our fears for another day.