Blessed Be...

this is sort of a response to Pancake's review of his recent church experience. i'm wordy today.

i haven't been to church in many years (i exclude the baptisms and funerals in the past couple years...life and death). so many years that i can't even guess at a number. in true catholic tradition, once you reach the ripe age of 17 you are no longer obligated to wake up early on Sunday morning to sit next to your mom on an uncomfortable wooden pew and pretend you're listening. i didn't turn my back on God, i just decided to keep walking.

i was raised with religion. i attended Sunday school, which even 'back in the day' wasn't held on Sunday. i don't remember one piece of information i was taught in Sunday school. i'm not sure if it's because i wasn't paying attention, i just didn't get it, or i have since forgotten. my mother read books about angels and saints. she joined a group/club of St. Francis of Assisi. she would bring me with her during their meetings and social events. i remember those. i remember those because it seemed to have nothing to do with honoring or 'doing the work' of St. Francis. at the meetings women would belittle the women that weren't able to show up, or anyone out of earshot. rumors spread like wildfire. if you couldn't pay your dues you were banned from meetings, unpolitely. they would have bake sales and yard sales raising money for whatever cause they felt strongly about. half of the profits would go right back to the church to pay for the use of their meeting room. it all just seemed silly and fake. the fact that i was 12 and realized that must mean something.

i had never felt any desire to attend church after my fathers death. i was probably still holding onto the anger. and really, i felt that if i were to step foot in a church, the guilt would be unbearable. so i avoided it altogether. i went to visit a once good friend in Milwaukee one winter, some years ago. when he asked me to come visit he had promised me a relaxing night of Charles Mingus, Coltrane, vodka and conversation. and at the end of that promise he informed me that he would like to attend a service at his local Episcopalian church. it was a special service with a boy's choir and he was told that the church would be lit by candlelight only. i agreed to the music, drink and talk, but told him that 'we'd see how the night went' in regards to church. after much debate and vodka he convinced me to walk down the block to the church. i remember being worried about my attire. i thought i was dressed too casual. he assured me it was fine. and as we were walking, suddenly, i knew that i'd end up sitting in a pew...crying. i told my friend that i'd like to turn back, he could go, but let me go back. i didn't want to cry in church. he assured me it would fine, and that he would be crying with me.

the church was beautiful even on the outside. made of heavy stone, colorful stained glass, iron and heavy wooden doors. the pews were a dark cherry wood, lit by towers of candles. to the left of the pews behind a black iron gate stood the boys choir, robed in white. we sat down and within the first note those boys released from their lips, i wept. i couldn't stop it. i didn't want to. it was a quite sob. tears just streaming. my friend held my hand and we continued to sit there in silence and tears.

the service ended and i practically bolted out the door. i didn't want the other church-goers to see my red and tear stained face. with my friend behind me i walked briskly back to his apartment. we didn't say a word to eachother. we both walked in silence as i cried even more.

to this day i am unsure as to what was causing me to cry. the guilt of being raised Catholic, the beauty of the church and the sound of the choir, the anger and abandonment i still felt from my father's funeral...i don't know. a combination perhaps. and since then, i haven't been to church. but i have thought about it.

i did think about attending these new 'hip' services. filled with music that sounds nothing like a boy's choir accompanied by an old organ. Pastors or Ministers that speak more from the mind and heart rather than straight from an ancient book. but, the more i thought about it, the more it pushed me away. to me, it just isn't supposed to be that way. i'd rather be surrounded in deep set history. old stone, wooden pews, white robes, stinky incense, latin, unhip Priests and the ancient book. i'm a sucker for history. i'm drawn to it. i crave it. it's why i like buying used clothes and furniture. it's why i fell in love with Massachusetts. it's why church was bearable. i don't want something new or the same with a shiny new cover. i want it to be old, used, weathered, set in it's place, full of tradition. i want to be able to feel it's history.

i'd love to go to church again. but considering my views, i'd enter that church a hypocrite. and being Catholic, i imagine myself instantly turning into dust once the holy water touched my fingers. guilty guilty guilty.