Parish Shopping

(New post, as promised. This, however, was not the topic I thought I would be blogging about, but it was what came together in a coherent fashion. I'm hoping to be better about posting on a regular basis, but we'll see. :))


I am parish shopping. Since moving, I’ve been attending Mass at the University on the weekends I’m home (which has been about… two.) I love Mass on campus, but realize I need to be a grown up Catholic and find a parish home. (Actually, it’s far more complicated than that, but that’s for another post.)This past Sunday, I took the opportunity to scope out a parish that I had heard was great. And I was taking Boyfriend with me.

As a result of sleeping late, and then spending twenty minutes trying to figure out the Mass times for said parish, I found myself waiting in the gathering space for the entrance procession to… enter… before getting a quick splash of holy water from the baptismal font and slipping into the row of seats that is the second from the back. The phrase from last week’s Gospel that had been lingering with me all week echoed in my mind– “Do not be afraid; just have faith.”

The pastor dove right into the greeting and the opening prayer sequence, and, being fond of church architecture, I found myself checking the aesthetics rather than calling to mind my sins during the penitential rite. Confiteor? Lord Have Mercy? Have no idea. I was mesmerized by the crucifix. The brick. The high wooden, curving beams. The glints of color from the stained glass – no images, just colored shapes. Something about this place. It beckoned something deep inside me. It was familiar, but not quite comfortable…

It was during the Gospel that it hit me.
“He left that place and came to his hometown…”
Hometown?
Home?
Left.

“And they took offense at him.”
Offense.

“Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown…”
Hometown?

“…and among their own kin…”
Kin?

“and in their own house.”
House.
House? Home. Then I realized --this parish looks remarkably like the church where I grew up. The brick. The high, wooden curving beams. The stained glass windows – no images, just colored shapes. I closed my eyes to fight back the startled tears that threatened to silently overflow down my cheeks, like the water in the baptismal font, just a few feet away.

With my eyes closed, I could see it all perfectly. Instead of a crucifix, there was plain wooden cross against the background of what I have come to call Virgin Mary blue. I remember thinking as a kid that it looked like the flannel board in my Sunday School class. The wooden ceiling flashed in my mind; I could see the place where the two knots in the wood looked like eyes, just over the grand piano – the same piano I played at my recital in fifth grade. Windmills. The song was called Windmills. The pulpit where I sang on Easter morning with Jayme and Nicole. The pews where we gathered, too many in one pew, for Danny’s funeral. The rail where I knelt at Altar Call, Yvonne on one side, Susie on the other. It all flashed by at a dizzyingly fast pace, bringing with it the barrage of hurt and loneliness, joy and awe that came from leaving that place.

“And he was amazed at their unbelief.”

I opened my eyes. The new, but oddly familiar place was filled with people. Children. Seniors. Teens. Adults. Young Adults.

As the pastor came forward for his homily, he paused and looked out over the people gathered. He said that it wasn’t part of his homily, but it had been weighing on him, so he needed to say it. He had heard people say that they didn’t like going to church. It was just a bunch of people there, because they had to be, going through the motions. But, he said. BUT. It was so cool to look out and see a young adult home from college, another just out of the hospital. A family, trying to deal with the challenges of the economy and busy schedules. It was so cool to look out and see everyone there, bringing their stories, gathered as a community of believers, trying to figure out a life in Christ. (Okay, so he didn’t say it exactly like that… but that’s the essence of it.) A community of believers.

I don’t really remember the homily (though I remember thinking it was good), and the only part of the Liturgy of the Eucharist I remember is when everyone stood up after the “Mystery of Faith,” apparently mistaking it for the Great Amen, and thinking the Our Father was next… and then slowly dropping hands with the people next to them as they realized everyone stood at the wrong time, while the pastor continued the Eucharistic Prayer.

And I remember the moment when the woman in front of me warned her daughter in the “Straighten-Up-Right-Now-Or-Else” strained whisper. “Grace.”

Grace? Grace.

As I was leaving, I stopped to shake the pastor’s hand. I knew who he was; I might have even seen him before, but I didn’t think he knew me. As I stretched out my hand, he gathered me in a hug, and said, “How are you? I’m so glad to see you.”

The next day, I reported my parish shopping trip to my co-workers. “Do you think you’ll go back?” one asked. In the same moment, I opened an e-mail message containing the Gospel for next week.

“He said to them, ‘Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave.’”

House.

Yes, I think I’ll go back.
Thanks, Grace.