The church I attend is plain, simple, and full of Grace.
Wide windows connect the worshiper to the outdoors as the songs and prayers
are lifted up. The unaffected, plain nature of the pastor and
congregation give a sense of community.
Even in this beautiful setting, though, it is hard not to
see the shadow of the ornate Catholic cathedral peeking out from behind the
simple furnishings of the Lutheran sanctuary. You can see that the two are
related. In fact, the more time goes on, the more I begin to see,
paradoxically, the genius of Catholicism. It really does draw the whole self in
– body, mind and spirit. How it maintains its membership once the whole self
has been drawn in is a much more problematic question, but the initial wooing
of the soul is really quite delightful.
So I am left with fragments of memory – incense, creaking
pews, the shining golden monstrance, Ubi
Caritas and holy water and the high cathedral altar. If there is one
emotion-feeling that I miss, it is the quiet hush of prayer, congregants
kneeling down, light filtering in through a stained glass window. The smell of
old wood and furniture polish and candles, maybe a trace of leftover incense
from the day before, hanging in the air. The hushed, whispering tones of those
who dare to speak because they must. The sense that this place and time are
sacred. What does a post-Catholic do with these bittersweet impressions,
somehow too large and unwieldy for the scrapbook?
An answer begins to show itself as I study the plainness and
lack of ornamentation around me every Sunday morning. When the twisting,
turning mental circles of Catholicism slow down (and stop!), and I can accept
grace on the basis of faith instead of perfect performance of ritual, the
question changes from “Will I be able to end up in heaven?” to “What should I do
now on earth?” Without the ritual requirements there is time -- and energy -- to live a holy
life now.
If the Catholic cathedral succeeds in drawing the attention
of the soul upwards and outwards, the Lutheran sanctuary I see every week succeeds
in drawing it back down to the people, asking questions about how to show the
inclusive nature of God’s love to everyone, not just those who share the same
creed and beliefs. I take comfort in the workaday nature of the new faith I am
learning, because of this focus on the practical, tangible elements of a
spiritual life. Less time is spent defining its legalistic boundaries and
differentiating itself from other denominations, so more time is available for
a vibrant, joyful Christian life.
The real genius of this smaller, simpler way begins to poke
through like a chick pecking its way out of an egg: this faith can sustain me
without the grandeur of cathedrals, without the “smells and bells,” because I
have the spiritual energy to build a cathedral with my own life, and prepare a
tabernacle in my own heart. George Fox, who is credited with being the founder
of the Religious Society of Friends (the Quakers), famously said, “Let your
life speak.” This idea has just as much relevance in 2012 as it did in the
1600s. Without a Cathedral to proclaim the grandeur of God, it is left to me to
do so with my own life and service.
Now, when I think of the old Catholic furniture that I miss,
I can compare it to a visit to a "living history" site like Colonial Williamsburg. I am not ashamed of
having the old places in my history, and I enjoy thinking about them, reading
about them, strolling through the streets and shops and turning the old objects over in my hands, watching the light
reflect off their polished surfaces. But at the end of the day, I do not live there anymore. Instead, the great Cathedral begins to take shape
within me.
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