Sit down, folks. I have news.
I've been religious lately.
Well, not really. But, with two events of organized religion in less than a week, what else do I call it?
The recent election of Pope Benedict XVI left me, a poor, nearly-agnostic, Protestant-raised heathen, with a lot of general "Catholic" questions for Zach.
Zach, it turns out, isn't a very good Catholic. Most of my entirely reasonable questions ("Why do you cross yourself? Why are there so many saints? How do you know when to cross yourself? Why do you go left-to-right? Why do you go to confession?") were met with, "I don't know."
So, Zach, tiring of my interrogations, thought that a trip to a sure-fire Catholic church would answer some of my questions. We chose a small chapel, St. Ignatius on the Seattle University campus. First off, the architecture itself was stunning. This building is gorgeous.
But, right in the door, the questions began:
What are those candles for?
Why do you have to kneel to pray?
Did they always put a soft pad for you to kneel on?
Why do you pray to saints, and not to God?
Why do you have to use holy water as you make the sign of the cross when you enter?
Do you know how many germs are probably in that big bowl of water?
What makes it holy?
Why does blessing it make it holy?
Why aren't there any bibles in the pews?
Who's on that shrine/in that painting?
Why must you light a candle before praying?
Why do you have to pray for so much specifically? Why can't God just look into your soul and see what you're asking for?
Of course, like a good brought-up-Protestant, I've this nagging feeling that I can't very well ask an actual priest (or other Roman Catholic official) any of this because:
1. I'm gay and am therefore hellbound.
2. I'm still officially a part of a Protestant denomination and am therefore hellbound.
Whether or not a priest would actually attempt to either expel me from the church or perform an exorcism right then and there remains to be seen. Quite frankly, I've obviously avoided any such confrontation as much as possible.
But, standing in St. Ignatius on Saturday, I somehow let Zach convince me to go to Mass with him at sunset. He doesn't go regularly, but was interested in hearing what the priest at St. James Cathedral on First Hill had to say about the recent selection of Pope Benedict XVI. And, I'm sure Zach figured actual participation in a Roman Catholic Mass would shut me up.
Oh, here's the part where I have to direct you my Spiel on James-Spirituality. There'll be a quiz on it later. Plus, I don't want anyone here thinking I've gone off my rocker. Or Zach, for that matter.
Anyway, if St. Ignatius was gorgeous for its small scale, St. James was breathtaking for its large scale. We got there about a half hour early for Mass, entering an innocent-looking side door. As soon as we entered, we were facing the altar, with a small candle-lit shrine to Mary off to one side. My internal "Organized Religion" alarm went off, and I had to resist the urge to hide, fetal position and all, in the candle-lit Virgin Mary room (which was, I should note, filled with the devout praying). Instead, I ran clear out of the building.
Zach, obliging and patient, followed and said, "Let's try the main entrance. We'll take it slow." He tried to hold my hand, but I'd already gotten into the this-is-Church-so-we-can't-touch-'cause-we're-gay-and-will-be-beaten-or-otherwise-harmed mindset (which Evangelical Protestantism is so good at hammering into young folks).
I calmed down when we reached the intricately-carved front doors, and I took a few minutes to gawk at them. We went in, step-by-step, though I took three gigantic steps back when Zach approached the holy water and crossed himself, grinning at my best-actress wtf? face. I swear, every insecure fiber of my insecure being was cringing and crying out. Seeing folks kneeling at shrines, kneeling in pews, crossing themselves, rocking back-and-forth in prayer, clutching rosaries... it all just made me tense up even more. I wanted to run up to the altar (which I later learned was a no-no), stand on a rather comfortable-looking chair (which is especially a no-no since it's the Archbishop of Seattle's chair), and yell, with my best Presbyterian voice, "Shouldn't we just vote, recite the Lord's prayer, and go have punch and cookies in the anteroom?"
I calmed down, though, before the service started. As my singing voice doesn't exist, I believe the folks around me suffered permanent hearing damage. I also made about 1,001 procedural mistakes, especially in the fine art of crossing oneself. I declined communion, obviously, and tried to avoid shaking anyone's hand ("They'll know I'm not Catholic! I'll be chased out!"), though one lady was persistent and cheerfully declared, "Peace, young man!" I chose the wrong week, apparently, since much of the homily dealt with "What it means to be Catholic." Zach squeezed my hand reassuringly.
I spent much of the Mass just looking around. At people, what they did, how they bowed at the altar. I tried to figure out the rules: when to bow, when to cross oneself, when to sing instead of chant, when to chant instead of sing, how they say the Lord's Prayer. I took plenty of time to drool over the cathedral's gorgeous windows, alterpieces, statues, and carvings.
At the service's conclusion, feeling a bit more brave, I asked Zach if we could stay and look around the vast interior. Again, the questions:
Which saint is this?
Which saint is that?
Is one of these Jesus?
Why is there an Archbishop buried under the floor?
Why do they say "trespasses" instead of "debts"?
What's that big pool of water for over there?
Do you guys ever get to vote on anything?
"I don't know."
Zach's solution, thus far, has been to encourage me to become Catholic. He reasons that, first off, it will relieve him of the constant burden of saying, "I don't know." I can get my many questions answered, and I can tell him as well. It will also, he says, appeal to my love/desire/craving-above-all-cravings/second calling of history, particularly European history. Finally, he'd want to become my sponsor. I can see it now:
"Father, my gay lover wants to sponsor me to become a Roman Catholic. What saint is that up there?"
On an entirely different note, Zach and I attended a Seder last night for Passover. Granted, Passover was this past weekend, but our hosts (Connie and Jake) do several each year for friends and co-workers. We were on the Monday night shift. We made charoset, and I learned that it is NOT pronounced "Chah-row-sett." My Old-Testament-loving self resisted the urge to have a field day when we went around the table discussing the story of Passover, and its origins. Especially since I'd embarrassed myself last year by doing just that.
I love matzah ball soup, by the way.
I also can't speak Hebrew to save my life.
But, at least I did better than Zach.
It was very relaxing, and a lot of fun. I'm not sure how "traditional" this Seder was compared to others, as it was only my second. Both years that we've been invited, Connie and Jake have used a feminist Haggadah as a guide. I wouldn't trade these experiences for the world, though. The atmosphere was so warm and accepting, the people friendly and active through the entire meal, our hosts kind and generous (and their infant son adorable beyond belief), and... again... the matzah ball soup was to die for.
So, perhaps I should consider Judaism instead. Choices, choices, choices.
Posted by James at April 26, 2005 07:34 PM