"Maybe You're Catholic?" Part II of III

I'd started crossing myself long before the "Clean and Green" service. I don't know why. It wasn't something I'd discussed with anyone, anything I'd been inspired to do after an inspirational reading or something to which I'd ever before subscribed. I just decided to do it one day.

St. Paul wrote that the Holy Spirit understands what we mean when we pray, even through groans and unintelligible utterances. I had a lot on my mind. And I was too tired to pray it all out before I sat down for lunch one day. It was too heavy and it would take too long. And God knew about it anyway. I'd shot more than one thought His way about the intricacies of it all. So instead of formally praying, which to my mind is sort of silly sometimes (in the way that asking my husband "how he's doing" as if he's a stranger on the street might be), I crossed myself. The action said it all without saying anything. I liked that. And it wasn't a frivolous action. Even before I learned the "stations" of crossing myself (Father, Son and Holy Spirit), I felt them. It was almost like kissing my husband first thing in the morning; hugging a loved one I'd not seen recently; or caressing a sleepy child. It was a meaningful action that language couldn't bind.

So I started doing it more and more. Before I ate, I crossed myself. Whenever I was worried, anxious, fearful, excited, brimming with joy, sad, tired, blank, exhausted or irritated, I crossed myself. It helped. It was like a little kiss on God's cheek. I love You. I need You. Help me. Hold me. Make me understand. Give me strength. Pick me up. Carry me.

The light was slowly coming on.

But back at headquarters we were at a crossroads, wondering which path to take. We looked at the church schedule and saw how many services were available for "Mass" -- a term I was simultaneously fascinated and repelled by. There was one for every day of the week. It seemed the Catholic church was never closed. And the foot traffic was steady and strong.

But I had very much the same apprehension about attending Mass as I did about the first time I set foot in a Christian bookstore. Y'know... as if some alarm would sound and trip the strobe lights. Then a lockdown and drawn guns would ensue while a smocked cashier stood mid-purchase, wild-eyed and pointing, screaming a la "Invasion of the Body Snatchers".

I saw on their website that "those preparing to enter the Catholic Church" took their rites at the Sunday noon Mass. We're early risers. (I'd not yet heard of the RCIA or the term "catechumens".) I felt a wary tug. So I emailed the name on the Inquiring about the Church? link. No answer. For a week. We thought about going on our own, but other things popped up. And we hadn't really reached a consensus on whether we were ready. So we skipped a Sunday and slept in.

Then I got an email. From the Deacon. He'd been out of the country the previous week. So much for my fatalistic pessimism and thinking him a slacker. And I'd wanted so much to be able to find something to dislike... so I could put down a little black mark on our first attempt. *harumph*

He wanted to meet us a few days before Sunday Mass. *gulp* But I thought clergy were overly inflated bureaucrats! I thought they'd send us to a secretary or an orientation cheerleader! Somebody! Not an actual authority! Now we gotta' meet this guy face to face? Awww... man...

But he was incredibly sweet. Like somebody's grandpa. He ended every conversation with a heartfelt, "God bless you," and was prompt and courteous. Deacon is I think one of the nicest, warmest, most passionate men of God I've ever met. He makes you feel like you are the only person in the room. He never fails to introduce you (in a not uncomfortable way) to everyone. As we sat in the church office, he made respectful eye contact with us, asked us questions, listened patiently to our answers, and gave us at least 10 booklets of information as well as a "Catholic" Bible.

But one of the the best parts about the meeting was also the weirdest. It smelled right. I don't know how to explain that properly other than to say that it wasn't brand new. It smelled comfortably musty, like the stacks in the library. And there were no flat screen TVs on the wall, no high-tech Power-Point presentations -- nothing fancy at all, just three people sitting at a slightly battered meeting table talking about God.

And then, the belle of the ball marched in... carrying a tennis ball in her mouth. Through the snorts and snuffles and playful growls we heard Deacon say, "And this is Chiquita..." with the most imperceptable eye roll. All of one-and-a-half feet of precocious black bulldog dared us to take her ball. And not to adore her. One of the Priests trailed behind her absently, a cup of coffee in his hand, on his way to the adjoining kitchen. We were fast friends. Chiquita knows two suckers when she sees 'em.

For the next three days we pored over the avalanche of information we'd been given. Most of the tracts were obvioulsly produced in the late 1970's. But after our former church had taken great pains -- and heaps of our money -- to make handouts for their fundraisers on the highest quality card stock available, we liked the idea that this Church seemed to have its priorities in line. We read until the following Sunday, only hours before our first Mass.

Meanwhile, I was emailing The Anchoress, begging for help. (If you haven't trotted down to her house for a cuppa', take the opportunity NOW. Great resource for all kinds of things. And the company ain't bad either.) She pointed me towards Scott Hahn, a former Presbyterian Minister turned Catholic apologist, and "Rome Sweet Home," the book he and his wife wrote together chronicling their journey into the Church. I noted it and filed it away for future reference.

I started reading informational sites on the net, GK Chesterton (Tef had gotten me "Orthodoxy" and "The Everlasting Man" for Christmas, ironically enough) and anything else I could get my toe in. But I wasn't dying of thirst yet. I only wanted a little sip. Still... Mass approached, whether I was thirsty or not.

The first thing that struck me about the Cathedral was its beauty. It wasn't overly ornamented or imposing -- just quietly fair. There was a statue of the patron Saint over the front door and an inscription in Latin on the lintel. The doors had a wise and friendly heft. We stepped in. A white marble font bubbled in the outer doorway. I just gaped at it. Stain glassed windows and warm silence met us. Worshippers were already kneeling in prayer. The candles were lit on the altar. A statue of Mary stood sentinel at the left front, a drape of purple on her shoulders. I did a self-check. It was alien, and somehow familiar. I wanted to know what to do, what was going on. I knew I looked a little star-struck and amateurish. But still, no alarms... No screeching... Yet.

Mass began.

I looked around at everyone; rich, poor, black, white, Asian, Latino, jeans, skirts, sweatshirts -- they were all there. Everyone had their own little altar to kneel at, everyone had their own little space for worship. In Protestamt churches, you're asked to "come down" to the front to kneel. It's a very public thing. I've gone before, but not without a stiff shot of the willies. It's a little unnerving, having all those eyeballs on the back of your head. But here, I could pray at the kneeler all the way through Mass and I wasn't going to distract much of anyone, nor was I going to feel ostracized.

Everyone sat together. And there were children everywhere. In all the Protestant churches I'd ever been to, the children were sent away. Here there were babies, some as young as a few months; dandling, singing, crying, laughing, peeking at parishioners, and just being kids; watching and learning from their parents how to worship -- watching their parents commune with God.

My Protestant expectation of a 45-minute sermon was replaced by three readings from the Bible, more frequent prayers, a short and meaningful message from the Priest -- on the BIBLE, I might add -- and lots of kneeling and crossing. Everone held hands during the "Our Father". And I found that the Eucharist was offered every Sunday -- every day in fact for those who wished to partake.

Most Protestants only take Communion 4 times a year. I've seen some exceptions, but not many. And if it's truly only a symbol of Christ's sacrifice... Why not? Even so, I was one of those firmly in the camp of wishing for more frequent Euscharistic meals. Though I had a harder time articulating why.

At Mass, nearly everyone genuflected in respect for God before taking their seat or leaving the building. Everyone was respectful. And then... it was over. It was the most expedient service I'd ever witnessed. But while we were there, we were steeped in the thickness of God's word. We couldn't escape it. It was everywhere. Every prayer, every bow, every reading, every song, every gesture. I was stunned. A church where God was lifted up instead of His church leaders? Instead of the money they pry from their members? Instead of the special programs and the approved "book of the week"? You mean God has reign here?

I think I'm in love...