280/365 Being Catholic Means Knowing What to Expect

On Sunday night at the mission, there was an opportunity to file up to the front of church and demonstrate publicly our own adoration of the bible, of God's word.

A mission, like a retreat, is out of the usual Catholic practices. Things tend to be a little different. Prayer services, too. This one at least had a purpose, and was connected to other things we do, like adoration of the cross on Good Friday. Out of the ordinary and just outside my comfort level, but not cheesy or forced symbolism or anything tiresome. I went up and did this with everyone else, returning to my pew and thinking about a women's prayer service I was invited to a few years back by Lynn. Back before I knew to just say no.

A circle of folding chairs. Hand-poured candles in a variety of jars situated, but not lit, in a odd centerpiece on the floor inside the circle. Fabric folds, seashells, a bit of driftwood, a fern leaf. These objects would have made sense if the participants had placed them there after a walk in the woods to find a symbol of what life meant to them right now or something like that. But there, just placed already, it just looked forced and hokey. Little flattened marbles like the ones you put in the bottom of vases, scattered about probably to catch the light or look like water or tears or who knows what.

There was forced movement. The tiredest little dance in a circle with these middle-aged women in broomstick skirts or polyester pants earnestly making these moves, their hands in the air, making a wide circle above them--again, if they'd been, say, Native American interpretive dancers out in the prairie, this would have been good. In a church vestibule with the AC noise and the unlit candles: not good.

There was bad poetry. The bad poetry was read with Wiccan voices. Forceful "I Am Woman" voices.

There was bad music, on a portable CD player. We were supposed to sing along, but no music was included on our pamphlet.

Oreos and lemonade were on the back table for after it was over. I didn't stay. Lynn forced a handmade candle into my hand and asked how I liked it.

"Well," I tried. "Not really my kind of thing."

"Bridgett!" she said, mocking me with her tone. "You should make it your kind of thing!"

But I can't.

I like ritual. It's why I stay Catholic--other churches' rituals always look like reflections of ours and I judge them too much to seriously consider joining them. The Quakers are the only ones who drew me in further than the front door, and that's because they don't have ritual like we do. And I admit I'm too ingrained as a trinitarian Christian to consider moving beyond that concept to other religious traditions. While I appreciate them, their creeds don't course through my veins the way Christianity does. I cannot help being who I am.

And while retreats draw me out of my usual routine, they are filled with faith sharing and reflections as well as different takes on ritual. I feel like I know those folks before I take part in things that are out of the ordinary. But otherwise, give me a well sung compline. Have the things that keep me here. Ritual, reflection, and silence. I don't need anything else. And I certainly don't want it.