Chapter 2I was raised in the Roman Catholic church. Sundays meant being at Mass beside my mother, who would kneel and work her rosary beads long after the final prayer was said. I never understood the whole church thing, why hundreds of people would gather and mindlessly chant prayers as the man in the white robe and funny hat led them. I did it for years as a kid—reciting the big, memorized, foreign words along with the singular monotone of the congregation. There were words like redemption and salvation and penance, and it was the kind of thing one did without necessarily understanding what they were saying.
There were a few things to be sure of: we were all born sinners and spent our lives atoning; there were rules to be followed (some easy, some complex); those who were dealt a shitty
