I slept in until 1:00PM on Easter Sunday. It marks the first year ever I have not attended mass on Christmas, New Years, and Easter Sunday, which I think means I am officially not Catholic anymore.

I have been trying trying trying to hide the truth of that from my dearest family and friends, for a long time out of shame over becoming a sheep lost in wilderness. Having fully embraced my spiritual alternative, I now hide for fear of being judged by those who wish to pray for my soul, or others who simply might disown me.

Somewhere between losing my mother (and myself), I lost my faith. At a certain point, I regained it more strongly then ever before, then was given pause to consider whether that which I clung to most strongly (my bible, my church, my religion) was simply a fear of change, of growth, of shedding the outdated notions of spirituality that I had long outgrown.

And I had become so tired of trying to explain my divergences from the Vatican, from a Pope who was a former Hitler youth, from a church that covered up and thereby condoned sexual abuse, from a faith that was still being used as a means of extending imperialism and Western hegemony. I realized that it was not I who did not fit in to Catholicism, it was the latter that did not fit in me.

I still pass, though. Make sure to bow my head at all the right times before meals, to go to church on certain occasions to appease my family -- although this year has certainly been different.

So strange to find myself sleeping through Easter Sunday, having stayed out past 2:00AM two nights in a row (first for Haile Gerima's Teza premiere at Lincoln Plaza Cinema on Friday, dinner at Africa Kine and dancing at The Shrine; and then for Egyptian art and music at Brooklyn Museum First Saturday's). I suppose it is only the life of a non-Catholic I am now leading.

It wasn't until 3:00AM Sunday morning that I realized I had forgotten my favorite mass of the year -- Easter Vigil. I found myself missing the candles and the frankincense and our priest, Father Kofi, leading the congregation in chants of Lumen Christi/Deo Gratias (Light of Christ/Thanks Be to God). And my amazement at the mass ending in total silence, the only time each year when our families did not spend at least an hour afterward talking and laughing and sometimes eating together.

I suppose that even though my mind has outgrown it, my heart never will leave Catholicism. Some of my best memories center around a sea green, dilapidated building in which a collection of far-flung, homesick, mostly African souls found sanctuary.

I suppose with the loss of that building and my mother and the home I grew up in, it has just become easier to travel light, shedding excess spiritual baggage.