Church IX- F'Hail Mary'um

I have finally forayed into the land unknown. The Catholic Church (bum, bum, bum). I probably would not have summoned the courage to visit one had my boss and his wife not had a baby being baptized.  I considered not writing about it seeing as the blog is based on me being a first time visitor and not knowing anybody when I visit a church. But as I thought about it last night, it gave me some insight into what it takes for a person to visit a church. Outside of my situation, googling a church and going without knowing anybody and without invitation takes a lot of courage; especially when it is a church outside of your comfort zone.

My Catholic experience is extremely limited: a couple of weddings, a funeral, Sister Act 1 and 2, Superstar, and a few Law & Order episodes, so I had little idea what to expect. Would the nuns be roaming the aisles shushing people, would my heels be too tall, would I accidentally dump the holy water and be damned to hell? Of course these wild imaginations didn’t happen. 

Clearly, I was running late, I live in a small town so I sometimes forget that it takes the first 10 miles to get to a main road, meaning 10 minutes late. The church complex is set up like a small town with an adjoining school, and a lavish gate to hail your entrance, it’s the biggest, not to mention nicest, building for miles (which sadly isn’t saying much.)

 Can you even come in late to a catholic service? Luckily, a small girl who had gone to fetch a siblings’ bottle walked in ahead of me, giving me some reassurance. I stepped into the dimly lit building and stopped in the annex. The air was particularly spicy and I worried I may sneeze. The gentleman usher mistook the girl as my daughter and asked to seat us both.  But she ran ahead in the almost full aisles and he seated me about 3 rows from the back. The room was glorious, and harkened back to my visit to the Vatican, very ornate stained glass, placards of the Stations of the Cross and tall statues at the front of the sanctuary, and pillars. Pillars are great…until they block your view, no wonder my row was empty.

People were following along a very specific “Third Week of Easter” program, more candy anyone? It turns out they have a program for every mass until August. If it were me I may just want to borrow that and skip the formalities.  I didn’t see any nuns….perhaps they were in stealth nun mode with regular clothes.

As the mass progressed I felt like a back up dancer coming in on a 4^th rehearsal. Everybody knew what to do except me so I was always a step behind. There is a lot of backtalk happening with the Father that I missed, but I blame it on the fact that I couldn’t hear him particularly well.  About halfway through he indicated that we should give each other the symbol for peace; I caught on rather quickly that it was a simple handshake, and a “peace be to you.” Whew, dodged a bullet. 

Then the offering! The ushers came forth with awesome baskets attached to long sticks; no “making change” would be going on here. 

Then bam! Kneeling time! Although I didn’t see it coming, I whipped out my little comfort kneeling pad like a pro. Up again, a quick recitation that I read over the shoulder of the kid in front of me and down again; thankfully I wore shorts under my dress, I was ready!  

Then, ut oh, time for the sacrament. The congregants were like a well- oiled machine, first rows of the flanks walked around, with hands clasped and the young ones crossing theirs arms. I sensed  impending doom as each row left and nobody but me in my entire section stayed behind.  But they circled around quickly and I wasn’t alone anymore. It was hilarious to see the small children in the communion line as they got distracted would run right into the behinds of the adults ahead of them, walk, stop, bump, walk, stop, bump.  In the middle one of my boss’ family members spotted me and  waved me over to sit with them (maybe it was because I was sitting alone in 30 rows of chairs for a couple minutes?) 

Finally I had my in and she was able to give me a cue what was next, she didn’t even need to read the program, plus as they were in the middle section I could finally see the priest. She quipped that the Catholic church “up and down, working out during mass” jokes were true. 

Then the priest announced that the mass was officially over and everyone replied: Thanks be to God.  I thought that was a bit funny, “Thank God, it’s over!”  A quick prayer and I accomplished an entire mass! Woot!

The baptismal was to happen directly after mass in a room just off the back of the sanctuary. The priest also had a booklet script for it as well, ask the parents questions, ask the godparents questions, address the crowd of 15 gathered around the “font.” Then the baby was baptized into the church, and given a new white bib with a golden cross, and brought into the light.

I queried my soul about the priest, and how it must be so difficult to perform the specific rights of passage for familial affairs like marriage and birth. During the mass the priest had mentioned 27 men of the parish had taken on the studies of the priesthood.  The priest had a junior priest also presiding and when he blessed the baby I thought for I moment I caught a feeling of loss in his eyes.

Truthfully there is so much to be said for the Catholic Church, of course on one side it is that there is opulence, hypocrisy and debauchery. Others call it home, and faith and fellowship.  All Christians set up bridges that we feel get us closer to God. But if we remember the words of Jesus: “that no man comes to the Father except through Me,” He is our only bridge, we can’t go wrong.

 It reminded me of a debate I watched on PBS with the question “Would the world be better off without religion?” The gentleman on the offensive side talked about the perceived hypocrisy of religion and mentioned that the modern definition of hypocrisy has shifted to condemn the church when in reality it should uplift it. Hypocrisy is saying you are one thing and doing another. He goes on to say that striving for transcendence and failing is not indeed hypocrisy but human progress; and  a stroke of confidence for religion in that they set  the bar so high and yet people fail. He contends that this call to “come up” is the best part of humanity. Religion doesn’t call for the bar to be lowered, but for the people to come up, therefore the call of hypocrisy is void. Jesus condemned the Pharisee’s, not the repentant prostitutes. 

I won’t become catholic anytime soon, but walked away with a better understanding. 

Next week I visit a church in HAWAII!!

Question: Should I wear a hula skirt and coconuts?

Church VIII, Home far, far away from home.

I got to go home this week for Easter service. Nothing like going to your home church on Easter Sunday. No GPS to get there, you know which door to go into, and you can freely enter into worship, and understand the heart of the pastor. Like your favorite pair of sweatpants. It got me thinking about my visiting churches and what it takes to make a first time visitor feel those same things. It reminded me of a church that I had visited in the fall but never had an opportunity to post: 

“You should come and visit the church sometime.” Yes, maybe I will. The meeting planner of a Men’s Retreat at work was pleased to hear that my house in Dallas was minutes away from their house of worship. Their invitation was the perfect opportunity to break into a distinctly different church then what I have been visiting. Well this ought to be interesting.

 

I didn’t go without doing some reconnaissance. Their web-site let me know they started at noon, and that the worship and music would be predominantly in Swahili. Time to put my culture cap on! 

I was coming from my home church’s early service, so I knew I would be running a little early. But I figured I would locate the building, do a drive-by, then grab a coffee at a nearby shop so as not to be the first person there.  When I pulled up there was a multitude of cars, so I decided to peek in.  This can’t be it, there was a white priestly figure with what appeared to be an altar boy, and also an altar girl at the front. A rousing version of “Onward Christian Soldier” was being played on a turn of the last century pipe organ.  Well, not what I expected.  They must share this space. I can wait.

 I decided to visit the restroom.  When I closed the door and my eyes readjusted it became immediately apparent that the one room bathroom shared a common wall with a confessional.  Awkward. I think I will just hold it. By the time I exited and walked around the corner back towards the sanctuary they had dismissed. I caught a pleasant lady and asked if she knew about a Kenyan church that met there. She told me this was the place, then she asked if I was from Kenya….uh, nope. 

Noon rolled around and there was only a couple of church leader stragglers left from the previous service taking down the altar adornments and tucking the holy water bowls into the closet. I set in the back row, wondering if maybe they started somewhere else on the church campus. When they cleared   I sat in the empty sanctuary for about 5 minutes thinking I maybe didn’t get the memo. Finally, at about 12:15 a couple guys I recognized from the retreat came in and started setting up for their service.  One of the leaders came over and welcomed me, and was so happy that I had actually come to visit them. He explained that they waited for the previous service to clear out before they could come in, and that he would tell their pastor to try to put as much English as they could in for me.  I told him that would not be necessary, but he was very kind. 

Then the congregation began to arrive. The ladies wore the most beautiful African clothing and headpieces, while others wore very ornate albeit American dresses. Every man wore a tie, with the church leadership were in suits.  They show up for church! A little girl came up and randomly hugged me after I smiled at her, she kept staring at me, and the lady sitting next to me said that their family had just come from Kenya and probably hadn’t seen many white people in her life.

They were not concerned with the timing of the service, and got started closer to 1pm. They music was absolutely beautiful, rhythmic, and impassioned. Clapping and dancing was spontaneous, and a couple songs included going into the aisles and interacting. I was never without a partner and caught on to the songs after a couple of repeats. The spirit of God apparently doesn’t require a translator! The pastor spoke in both Swahili and in English throughout the sermon, for my sole benefit as the only person who only knew English, and publicly welcomed me.

Afterwards, I was invited into the fellowship hall for tea and fellowship time. Perhaps invited is not the best word, fellowship was not a suggested thing, but literally an extension of the service; just like taking the offering, and singing the songs is for some.

BEST. TEA. EVER!!!  How they so spectacularly made me feel at home is beyond remarkable. Many gave me hugs, and didn’t talk visitor talk like weather and the like, but encouraged me in the message. It was a reminder of the beauty and friendship, family and outreach of a home church.