Chapel

Someone hung their hat on the sign giving direction to First Calvary Chapel today. I did not see this on the way in but noticed as I left, after spending about 20 minutes sitting alone in the gloomy, somewhat dumpy cemetery church. The All Souls Day Mass was held earlier in the day, a fact which I assume explained the atypical presence of several well-dressed visitors exploring the cemetery grounds. I don’t know if I could handle being at a mass at this little church, which I think of only as empty save for the sound of my breathing and the dust and dirt of my body. I feel like dirt when I enter a church, but by that I do not mean that I feel like a bad or worthless person. Church reminds me of one of Christianity’s most powerful claims: that this flesh and blood is nothing more the dust and dirt from which I came, and to which I will return.

I don’t know if I am genuinely attracted to religion again or if I am simply losing my mind. I attended a church vigil a couple of weeks ago for the first time in what must be 20+ years. My attendance was not intentional or planned. I was wandering around feeling morose and depressed when I happened to see people filing in to a church as I passed it. The church is on the same street I live on, and I remembered making a mental note long ago that there was a 5pm Saturday service that I could sneak into some time.

I say “sneak” in in reference to a somewhat traumatic incident way back in college. As a freshman I went to a church service for the first time, nervous and wanting to mind my own business while I evaluated the scene and whether or not I should make it a regular part of my life.

Instead of quietly hiding in a corner pew I was spotted by the priest who looked at me, curiously, happily, and pointed at me from across the chapel. He said something like “ARE YOU NEW HERE?” and walked across the space to give me a huge, welcoming bear hug as the congregation gave me a timid but welcoming round of applause. It was everything I did not want to have happen but that’s what it was.

I went to church a fair amount that freshman year of college, talking at times for long hours with that bear hugging priest. It was he who famously encouraged me to have sex as much as possible with whoever I wanted, “…just so long as it isn’t sport fucking!” (his exact words). I never knew what to make of that but I never let myself fall into the sensibility some people have of assuming that every individual priest speaks for the Pope, or speaks for God. I knew foul-mouthed priests in high school who spewed contemptible piss and bile into the world, and that pretty well drove me away from the church for as much as I could avoid it while attending a Catholic high school.

That college freshman year foray was an attempt to start over with understanding God and the place of religion, and I don’t think it is wrong to say that I saw it as an opportunity to meet people. This, in fact, has informed my current thoughts of going to church, which I guess makes it seem ironic that I went so far out of my way today to sit alone in an empty chapel. As I left I noticed three well-dressed women exploring the cemetery, heading toward the chapel as I made my way to the exit. I was glad I left when I did, as it might have been strange for all involved had they discovered me in there by myself.

The church I went to a couple of weeks ago is way older than I realized (I must have walked past it hundreds of times). It was built in 1869, and it shows its age with paint peeling all around and stained glass panels which, while beautiful, really need a cleaning.

The priest was quite good, too, which was encouraging. He had a sweeping but deeply informed manner of summarizing the pressures put on the faithful in historical context of 600 A.D., when Babylon was the premiere city and many people living there did not want to leave it to establish Christianity in Jerusalem. I got a little lost at times in his narrative but was genuinely impressed with his intellect.

I left after the homily. The sermon was always the only thing I looked forward to at a Catholic mass. Even if that was not the case I had a Catholically guilt-driven feeling that one who has been away so long as I was not worthy of communion.

I noticed the confessionals as I left, reliving some memorable exchanges I had in such booths during high school and college.

Calvary Chapel’s kneelers are solid wood, and were too hard on my knees for me to kneel on more than several seconds. I remembered the possibly apocryphal story of a nun who went on to be canonized as saint.. She prayed while kneeling on wooden kneelers until her skin tore. Her blood stains on the kneeler were left in place as a reminder to those who came after her that some people’s faith is infinite. I heard that story in grade school and did not believe it then any more than I believe it now. I remembered the etiquette of the kneeler, how none would go so far as to call it sinful but placing one’s feet on them was considered disrespectful. It was to be used only for kneeling, not as a way to make yourself more comfortable.

Now I am wondering if the All Souls Day Mass earlier was terribly crowded. A stack of folding chairs in the foyer suggests plans for overflow seating. It would be strange to be in that space among a huge turnout of people at a service. I can only think of this place as one of solitude, a place for my dust and dirt.