I had plans to write my own weekly commentary on the readings at Sunday mass. It would be a way to be accountable for returning to church more regularly, and a way to engage that just isn’t possible in the pews. But fast forward a few weeks, and the habit is gone.
I’m going to go out on a limb and do something I haven’t ever really done and blame God. I am tired of dull masses, of parishes unconcerned with the wider world, with the absolute evil of sexual abuse that we can’t seem to confront honestly and meaningfully. I am so tired of the homophobia, the hypocrisy, and the self-congratulatory attitudes I’m surrounded by at mass. The certainty and false authority with which so many of the faithful speak and act turns me off.
And I’m late to this, I know. Scores of others have already left, either jumping to more open denominations and abandoning church-going altogether. For a long time I resisted because to me is to be Catholic. True, genuine, faithful Catholicism is joyful and abundant and countercultural. It’s my family’s history, their hospitality and ability to feed whoever came their way. It’s my heroes – Merton and St. Therese and Dorothy Day and their radical love. It’s my grandmother’s prayer cards and my parents’ rituals of post-church donuts.
I am mourning my church. This place that has brought me joy and taught me the beauty of life feels only stagnant and sad. I cannot sit quietly and think of Jesus during meaningless homilies and half-hearted community. I cannot kneel to ignorant priests who don’t look beyond their parish borders. I know that I, too, am part of the community and so bear some of the blame. But I’m going to pass the buck to God because I think God can handle it.
“Our hearts are restless until they rest in you,” said Saint Augustine. My heart doesn’t rest at mass anymore, only breaks. I once spent a few weeks attending services at a different denomination and the priest made some comments about Catholic-transplants that only enraged me. “This isn’t easy!” I wanted to yell. “There is only room for mourning here!” I’ve attended adoration, rosary groups, Scripture-study, reflection services, Taize, music services – you name it, I prayed it. But now in those pews I only notice the sadness on Christ’s face as he hangs heavy on the crucifix, and am driven mad by his empathy.
I can’t do it. I can’t pray in these tombs they call churches. I know it doesn’t matter to God – who puts prayers in mint chocolate chip ice cream, and cucumbers, and small blue flowers – but it hurts nonetheless. I can only hope for a resurrection. I know it’s there – small children playing in dirt, poems written and shared, gardens planted.
In this week’s Gospel, Jesus tells some would-be followers to “let the dead bury their dead” and not to look to what was left behind. The kingdom of God is urgent. Painfully so. There is no time to look back, only forward to the beloved community. So forward I go; I just wish it weren’t so painful.
Becoming 