The worst thing about being a fake convert is that this stuff, it follows you home.

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I mentioned this to a friend of mine yesterday because I found it hilarious and unexpected. I was then politely informed that I should rename my blog “Oblivious Pagan Stating the Obvious.” That name is much too long and stupid. I’m going to tell you about it anyway. Continue Reading

I can’t remember when I decided to become Catholic. I think it was that night I had too much Jameson during a Boondocks Saints movie night. Or it could be that time I was really drunk and started a word-fight with a Christian cookie-peddler outside of a campus bar. I still insist that she had it coming, being outside campus pubs peddling Jesus cookies, shukum it was!

Somehow, I had a plan. I would wander into the Catholic bookstore downtown and shly look at rosaries. The proprietor, about whom I had solid word was a friendly soul, would offer assistance. I would bat my big blue eyes and meekly explain that I’d like to know how to pray with it. A conversation would blossom, I would sell my aforementioned back story, and begin attending services. I would get baptized on April 1st and many lols would be had.

The first part of that worked like a charm. I even asked if Jesus would still be my friend if I had tattoos and divorces. I swear, I asked it just like that. This well-meaning woman earnestly answered all my questions with great sincerity that I privately, stoically brushed away, just like Momma taught me. She sure hated emotions, my Momma.

The second part was way off and much less fun, so much harder. I was actually just in time to start attending classes. Yes, convert classes. The program is called RCIA and involves three hours of my week be sacrificed to biting my tongue. I also try to make an appearance at Mass a few times a week.

There are so many rules and drills that go along with being a Catholic that lately it seems over whelming. It isn’t really though, I just ran out of coffee and enthusiasm for a little bit. I just have to show up, memorize a few things, and pretend to believe. They did give us this pop quiz the other week, though.

My name is Cera Blake. I grew up in a non-religious, anti-Christian household. However, my mother grew up Catholic. She left the faith before I was born, but her devout mother always hoped that I would be different. I didn’t know how much she had hoped for that until my youngest cousin handed me a letter she had written for me shortly before she died. It was scrawled on the hospital’s paper, and was barely legible. In this letter, she told me that she’d been praying for me to find the touch of God. Her letter appealed to me to give Catholicism a chance — to honor her by attending at least one Mass. I was so touched, of course I had to do it. I went to a Tuesday afternoon Mass, where I felt the power of faith and the wonder of the cathedral. It’s been two months, and I am now taking mandatory classes before I can be baptized and call myself a Catholic. I look forward to this journey of learning and discovery, and I’ll be blogging about what I learn and how it changes me.

My name is Cera Blake, and none of that is true. That’s just my cover story. In truth, I am a Pagan and strongly against organized religion. I do, however, have some free time. So I’m really going to blog about the mysterious inner workings of the church. I’m a philosophy major in a state university, single, tattoed, pierced, and opinionated. If I can keep my mouth shut and not mess up my back story until Easter, I will be baptized, and then I win at religion.