I’ve always had kind of a hard time talking about religion with others. I suppose that is because I have some very strong feelings about it, and I should sometimes stick my foot in my mouth instead of depositing every last thought that runs through my head. Even around those of my own faith, I have a hard time expressing exactly how I feel about my own religion, which is an evolution of its own. Regardless of whatever difficulties I may have, I have always enjoyed Sunday Mass…until recently.
As a child, I didn’t have many friends. Elementary school was kind of a nightmare, and that carried on through the rest of my schooling a bit. I will say, however, that I did have friends that saved me from myself as I got older. Anyway, when things were really horrible, I loved going to church. I think that, more than anything, it felt safe. And, as I got older, it became the community with which I identified.
In my last year of high school and through college, my parents started going to a different parish, and all of the people I knew from church kind of moved on, or the families got smaller as people my age started going to school out of state, getting married, etc. Somewhere along the line that sense of community started to melt away.
This last weekend, Nick and I went to Mass for the first time since moving to Connecticut. The past few weeks have been so hectic that there hasn’t really been much time for it, for obvious reasons. Now that we’re kind of settled, we figured it would be good to go — if, for nothing else, as an opportunity to establish ourselves in a new community.
Everything about it was truly wonderful. I’ve always loved Mass music, and the 14-year-old cantor and 13-year-old cellist (both young men) were cherries on the top of the sundae. Then, we got around to the Our Father. If you’ve ever been to a Catholic Mass, you know that there’s a point where the entire congregation stands and recites the Our Father. You hold the hand of your neighbor and pray together as a community. In this parish, however, nobody extended their hands. I remember seeing some segregation between families as a child, where the family members would hold hands, but not the hands of those directly adjacent to them. That was such a rarity, though. And, in this church, there wasn’t even hand-holding between family members.
Don’t ask me why it bothers me so much. I couldn’t tell you exactly why it makes me so angry, and I know that it really shouldn’t. It may just be some kind of a metaphor for whatever I think a parish “community” should be. Either way, I had so hoped that I would feel more welcome as a new member.
Next weekend is Easter Sunday, so whatever we experience with any parish where we attend Mass will be somewhat exaggerated. There’s always such joy during the holidays, so it’s a little difficult to read what a parish will be like every other Sunday during the Easter season, through Ordinary Time, etc. Either way, I kind of see this as our first opportunity to find a niche in our new home. It would be nice to meet new people and maybe get involved. Some new friends might be nice. I don’t know how Nick feels about getting involved with a new parish, but, for as long as I am unemployed, I feel as though I should be doing something to be helpful for someone.
Sweet Insanity 