More than 70,000 died during El Salvador’s civil war in the 1980s and early 1990s, the majority of whom were civilians killed by the militaristic Salvadoran Government. On Nov. 16, 1989, the assassination of six Jesuit priests and two support laywomen, who were unwavering in their defense of the poor and oppressed, brought international outrage and condemnation upon the Salvadoran Government, ultimately pressuring its leaders to end their country’s civil war. This was 20 years ago; I was only three years old. But these events, these people, that led me to El Salvador this past summer, have managed to completely dismantle all that I have ever believed in.

My faith, my understanding of the world, and my identity all changed during an immersion trip with classmates from the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass. The trip was intended to expose us to a culture deeply tied to the Jesuit mission of our college, but in no way resembled what we were used to in our day-to-day campus lives. I had read up on the country, learned of its colonization, struggle for independence and evolution into its present-day state. I knew of the political and religious friction as well as the poverty. I expected to bear witness to broken people. I ultimately learned that I was the broken one.

This realization hit me during Sunday mass in the crypt of the National Cathedral. During mass, a man entered the crypt and approached the memorial of Archbishop Romero, an advocate for the poor and marginalized in El Salvador who was shot to death during the civil war. The man knelt next to the face of Romero, which lay prostrate on the crypt's floor, and began to whisper in Romero's ear. Then standing solemnly in front of each of the four female statues that made up the corners of the tomb, he held one hand on his heart and his other open toward the statue. He rocked slowly back and forth, praying to himself with eyes closed. This to me was the essence of faith. This man was not in control of his faith, but instead allowed his own faith to control him.

My faith, on the other hand, had always been cookie-cutter. I thought if I was good to those around me and went to church, that God would reward me with eternal life. I was even an altar server. Basically, I saw God as the ultimate Santa Claus, and thanks to my pain-free suburbanite life, nothing ever challenged that belief.

What I witnessed in El Salvador didn’t make sense. These people had next to nothing, survived on meager wages, endured years of a devastating civil war and saw their people and religious leaders massacred. They had no reason to believe in God and every reason to curse Him. Yet, their faith in God was stronger and more genuine than anything I had ever known and it rattled me. For much of my life, I felt that God depended on me to keep him in my life. In that crypt, I realized the truly faithful completely depended on God.

Everything around me came crashing down. I had spent the last twenty-two years showing up to Sunday mass, spacing out through homilies and thinking I was doing God a favor. I was an altar server so that people could see how much “faith” I had. In El Salvador, the people could care less about what I saw; it was about what they felt within themselves and their own personal relationship with God. That made me realize I had no relationship with God and how hollow I actually had become. I knew when I left mass that day that it wasn’t enough for me to just say I believed in God. I have to actively work toward a greater understanding with Him.

God isn’t Santa Claus. He’s the people I witnessed, the man in the crypt, and I’m beginning to realize He’s an integral part of my daily life. As for my relationship with God, I found better understanding when I decided I could never fully understand it. It’s much more important that I realize I have one. It is irrational, but if I’ve learned one thing this summer it is that this irrationality makes the most sense for me.

Matt Partain is a senior economics major and chemistry minor, with a premedical concentration, at the College of the Holy Cross in Massachusetts. A native of Libertyville, Ill., he is planning to attend medical school after graduation.