Church vs Dirty Laundry

Written for Chico Enterprise Record: North State Voices

Is eavesdropping a sin, maybe akin to gossipping or lying? Does it make it worse if the person you listen in on is a priest? At least it was a benign conversation that I overheard at the farmer’s market Saturday. A man near me at the flower stall was discussing his sermon for Sunday, and I perked up because priests are interesting. When he said he was subbing at St. John’s Episcopal, I fully committed to the aforementioned possibly-a-sin.

St. John’s Episcopal is my church. Now, before you get the wrong impression, I can’t claim much religion. My relationship with faith is ambiguous; I used to teach at a Catholic school where my best teacher friend was Jewish and my paraprofessional partner Hindu; it all seemed equally plausible, and equally hard to hang my hat on. But I do love church as I know it.

I love the language of scriptures and hymns. I suspect my early understanding of the complexities of history, and my decently developed childhood vocabulary, came in good part from my weekly Sunday exposure to those words and lessons.

I love the tradition and ritual, the opportunity to show up on any given Sunday and have some idea, based on the liturgical calendar, as to what’s on the menu that morning. The repetition of the service allows me to go anywhere in the world and know what is happening in the mass.

I love the pomp and circumstance–how the priest slings incense on high holy days, and the candles play off the gold plate, and the choir promenades up the aisle with their voices raised in big spirit juxtaposed against sacred hush. 

I love the building: its high ceilings and wood with a wall of windows, the remembrance plaques on the backs of the pews, the organ in the choir loft,  the embroidered kneelers at the altar.

I love the fellowship. There isn’t another place I can think of where someone can belong without a single qualifying factor. No money? No problem. Casual or fancy, come on in. All identities in every iteration are respected. A person doesn’t even have to believe to be welcomed. 

I love it, but I hardly go there anymore. I can’t seem to figure out how to teach full-time, do the kid’s sports, keep the house clean, garden tended, family fed, (get the article written!) and get to church on Sunday too. 

I’ve friends who make it happen, but not many. Studies showing that church attendance is declining come as no surprise to those of us who have stopped going. It’s maybe less about a loss of religious affiliation than that church has become a casualty of our overbooked lifestyles. 

It’s too bad since churches like Saint John’s have long woven together people of different ilk through worship under the same roof. The loss of that common thread is more damning for the mundane elements of our experience than for the sacred. God will figure it out, but the fraying fabric of our community needs some mending.

At the market on Saturday I confessed to eavesdropping by introducing myself to the itinerant priest, bought my bouquet, and headed out with my arms full. As I approached the street, an unfortunate soul on a bicycle, clearly not living her best life, swerved around me. As she hit the curb in front of me, she fell over and lay prostrate in the street, bicycle and belongings scattered about her. Did I remember that I’d just spoken to a man of God? Did I put aside my things to help the poor and downtrodden as Jesus instructed? No I did not. Instead I took the Lord’s name in vain, turned my back, and walked away– every bit the Pharisee. 

I went to church the next day, where the priest from the market said it’s not humans who are good, it’s God who is good, and that’s what we’re supposed to trust in. Given my recent uncharitable behavior, it made me feel better. And although I’m too busy a sinner to have attended since, I’ll get there again. My faith may be somewhat doubtful, but I’ve no doubt that my church is good for me.