Religious Inquiry

I get so nervous, sitting through mass, that my stomach sends up continual mewls of distress and my hands lose circulation. Each time I go, careful to sit next to someone who knows what they're doing (and usually, also, someone who knows that I don't know what I'm doing), I know the whole time that I'm going to be lost and out of control the entire time. Though the routine as a whole is slowly beginning to become familiar I find that the particulars are always tripping me up. Little things, like being on the aisle instead of safely inside the row, eat at me, and I'm not sure why.

Churches are havens of safety. I'm not really talking about the southern baptist worship halls that I grew up with. The sanctuary there was just as chaotic as the fellowship hall, and there was no feeling of sacredness there, no sense of community and purpose behind the fire and brimstone I was raised with. But every catholic church I've walked in, even the ones filled with thousands of tourists, has had a hush of faith over it. Every ritual I've ever participated in has been filled with the ring of truth.
The first time I crossed myself with holy water, I'd been going for the just seeing how things felt curiosity. I saw all of the monks do it, as they passed the font of the refectory, and one night as I was leaving their dining room, I did it myself. It felt like a million tiny shocks, like the afterglow of intense pleasure, like I'd been dipped in solid gold for a second. And I started doing it every time I walked past a font- but only where no one could see me. I didn't want a monk to tell me that I was doing it wrong, or worse- that I wasn't good enough.

And then, Italy.
The sacredness of the faith was impossible to avoid. The monk who traveled with us was forgiving and kind, and the people who were with me supported me and taught me, and I felt like I belonged, for the first time in my life, wholeheartedly and without reserve. Enough for me to try coming to mass back at home, where people can see me falter and stumble my way through a ritual that most of them have been raised with. Enough for me to ask endless questions, exposing my ignorance.

Tonight, at mass with my stomach roiling at the spiritual journey that I've been insisting it continue on, I walked up during the Eucharist to receive a blessing. The father laid his hand on my head, and said- quite simply- "God Bless You".

But I felt it, felt the love that washed over me in a physical and emotional wave.


Tomorrow I'll probably worry about whether I was supposed to kneel or stand after that blessing, and think about what all of the other people are thinking when I don't genuflect or make the right hand gestures at the right time. I'll worry about what the rest of the family will think when I decide to convert. I'll try to figure out how to be a better person, one day and one prayer at a time.

Tonight, I feel alive and whole in the glow of faith.