311/365 Win My Soul for Jesus

So I got really drunk last night playing mah jongg, which means to me that I need to play mah jongg more often so I don't feel like I have to push myself over the edge when I get to. The girls who play mj with me live on my block; except for Jackie (who had left before we started the conversation below) we are all in our mid-thirties and have kids between the ages of 22 months and 14 years. And while on paper our character sheets (roleplaying game reference) look pretty similar, we are obviously not the same. Among other differences, three of us are Catholic and two of us aren't. There's another girl who plays with us pretty often, also Catholic, but wasn't able to make it last night.

The two who aren't are Zelda, a non-denominational Christian of the best sort and Gretchen, a recovering Baptist who is now a Presbyterian (USA). She's Leo's godmother and attends the church that houses my girls' school for the moment (until we don't fit in their building anymore!). The pastor of the church is the one who had me make advent banners. His kids go to our school, too. So all of this is kinda intertwined as you can see.

And we were drunk. And Gretchen, who perceives things sometimes that surprise me at first and then make me say, oh, yeah, said in the height of this conversation (after several times telling me to be quiet so that she could ask the other two Catholics a question without my interfering), "You are going to wind up at my church."

I laughed, because I'm so dyed in the wool about ritual and the jarring cracked reflections of ritual at mainstream protestant churches. There's no way I could go be a Presbyterian, any more than I could go be a Lutheran or Methodist or Hindu. The only one that draws me is the Friends, and that's really only an affectation if I admit it to myself.

I turned to Zelda, who was the only one not drunk by that point and said loud enough for all to hear, "Gretchen's going to win my soul for Jesus."

Zelda smiled wisely at me, and later, after the hangover, after the nap, I reflected on this. I want to be Catholic. I want to be a part of where I am. I'm not a Presbyterian. But sitting in RCIA some Sundays I wonder why I'm doing this. Sitting in Worship Commission Wednesday night, I looked at those changes in the language of the mass and thought about the nit picking and the hierarchy and just wanted to chuck it all.

What keeps me here? My parish keeps me here. If I moved, I'd have a hard time integrating into a new parish, starting over. Since that's unlikely to happen, a more solid question is "if our pastor leaves and we get some shit-for-brains pompous dickweed for a pastor" or, with more trepidation, "if our parish closes"....then where am I? Where do I go? I think about that line from John 6: Do you also want to leave? Master, to whom shall we go?

I'll probably always be Catholic. Stability really calls for it, frankly. This is who I am and where I am.

But I don't think that precludes finding other streams to draw water from if this well runs dry for a season or two.

Gretchen will probably not win my soul for Jesus. I love her pastor and I think he'd probably be good to listen to. He is a good person and adores me (which is always a plus). But the energy required to make that change for good is just not in my soul: I am not a convert. I would not be surprised to have a summer home, but my mailing address will always be at my parish.

313/365 Bread of Life at Starbucks

Sounds like an advertisement.

I had to go to the girl scout shop this morning to keep ahead of things for a change. On the way home, I stopped for, probably, the last iced coffee until April. We went inside for a change and Leo and I split a cookie. We were sitting in a corner, and at the next table over sat two 40-something men, both with mild southern accents. I'd guess probably Tennessee.

The first word I overheard was "stewardship" and I knew they were somehow affiliated with church. Considering the short-sleeved plaid shirt on one and the more corporate look to the other, I went further and guessed protestant. And I tuned my ears more carefully. Mostly because I'm nosy.

Something about a wedding...and then about a music director who is disappointing. "Transitions are terrible. They're just terrible," said the man in plaid. I started to make him into the preacher or pastor, the other man some sort of adviser or elder in the community. I got involved with Leo picking food off the ground (his food, but still) and the next thing I heard were plans for the new year. How he was going to tie manna in the desert to Jesus as the Bread of Life.

I know bible-based Christians who have converted to Catholicism simple because they read John 6 to themselves one night and had a revelation about Eucharist. So I fine tuned those ears one more time to hear what they were talking about.

"The wonderful thing about Jesus as the bread of life," the corporate looking guy started, obviously interested in this topic, leaning forward over his coffee and notes, "is that every culture has bread. Everywhere, all over the world, everyone has some kind of bread. Tortillas, rice paper wontons, yogurt bread, yeast white bread, all kinds. And none of them are exactly alike. Everyone has different experiences of bread, but we all have it."

I looked over at them, pointedly, in a "I hear you talking" glance, and the plaid shirt guy looked at me. I smiled, just a bit. Knowing I'd heard, he smiled back. And then they went back to talking.

After we left, getting Leo into the car and heading back to the city, I ruminated on this. Everyone has different experiences of bread. I like it.

365/365 Didn't Think I'd Do It

Didja?

What this has taught me is that parish life is the same thing over and over. Could I have written another blog post about Lynn and her special brand of crazy? Could I have posted another recap of a worship commission meeting? Another review of a holy day and how nice the church looked? I could have done it again and again and it would have all blended into an amalgam of sleepy memory familiarity for years and years.

Sometimes I'm at a meeting now and I realize I've been in the parish longer than anyone else. This really freaks me out.

I worry about the future: not about the parish, but about me. Besides attending where I am, there's very little about me that feels attached the greater Church. I'm not angry, I'm just...disconnected. I've tried to leave before and have failed. Becoming an oblate I hope is a step to remain and not a last ditch effort before I give up. I think my faith is strong, but my earthly connections are weaker all the time. I think in the end, my problem with RCIA isn't the teaching or presenting faith or fussy old law professor or any of that. My problem is that I'm not really sure this is the place for me--rather, the denomination for me--and so I feel like I'm being false to present it to those seeking a place. Every time I'm with someone converting from another denomination (as opposed to someone coming to us from no faith background) I think of Sr. Jean's comment that most folks don't need to leave, they just need to go deeper and set down roots. She was talking about me, of course, but I wonder. It's easier with children's liturgy because these kids come from families who are already Catholic. And I know how to do it right...

But I remain here. In my mind I whisper the words "for now" but I will probably remain here. It's too hard to leave. I could spend my life searching and never find a place to call home. Or I could realize that where I am? It already is home. It's good to have certain things certain. I don't have to think about what to do on Sunday morning, I don't have to look up service times or check out directions or tips on how to be a good guest. I just go to my parish and that's what I do. I'm kind of entrenched. Who knows what will happen when my kids leave, but it's almost like I have to say that because of the indefiniteness of my own life and history. Of course I'll stay. But what if I can't? There's always going to be an asterisk because I can't fully say that this is where I am, forever.

But maybe it is. My roots are spread everywhere--baptized at Mary, Mother; first communion at St. Bernadette's; married at St. Cecelia's; confirmed at St. Pius. My children, though, have one taproot, more like Mike that way. Everything on his character sheet is at St. Patrick's in Cairo. And all of Sophia and Maeve and Leo, most likely, all their religious history, will be at our parish. I wonder where that will lead them. I wonder how it will be different for them.

A continual conversion of heart, that's the less than perfect translation of the other benedictine vow: obedience, stability, and conversatio. I may be here, I may stay here, but I will always be saying yes. That won't end. It shouldn't. And so I do.