Forgive Us Our Trespassingby Wendel James PotterFebruary 23, 2008
There's just something about a church. Not about a church filled with people, or a church service. I rarely attend Mass.
There's just something about a church itself.
While growing up Irish-Catholic (which I consider to be somewhat separate from and nobler than Roman Catholic) it was tradition to stop in to a church if you were passing by and weren't pressed for time. It was like dropping by to visit Jesus and Mary.
You would hear the rhythm of your own footsteps pounding in your ears as you stepped quickly up the aisle to the altar. On clear days, you basked in the celestial rays that shone through the stained glass windows and lit your way. On overcast days, shadows fell bleakly and strange sounds were magnified and you hurried to kneel before the tabernacle or beneath the statue of the Virgin Mary, where you sought comfort from her motherly gaze.
You always lit a candle when you stopped by the church. You were also supposed to drop some change in the metal box under the candle stand. I assume that helped pay for the candles since we all knew the Catholic Church was broke.
Or maybe the money went to "the poor". In my mind, I always tried to put a face on "the poor", attempting to conjure up an image of some ragged, starving person that I might be helping out with my dime.
(A dime was customary when I was a kid. It's been pointed out to me that in this day and age, the obligatory contribution is somewhat higher.)
After you lit the votive candle, it flickered like a holy soldier in the blue or red glass cup. The lighting of the candle was accompanied by a prayer for a particular intention. We always wondered how long the candle would burn and if that had anything to do with whether or not our prayer would be answered.
The Irish composer and singer, Enya, was raised in a Catholic family in Ireland. In an interview, she was asked if she still went to church. She intimated that she went to church, but when no one else was there. That's how she enjoys it.
Christopher Hitchens is the British-born journalist and Vanity Fair columnist, who also happens to be a staunchly devout atheist and is the author of a recently published book, "god is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything". Mr. Hitchens has said that when he returns to his homeland, he can often be found sitting by himself in a quiet church.
So it is for me. Raised a Catholic, I've shrugged off much of the dogma and doctrine of Roman Catholicism. I fail to recognize the pope's infallibility and sometimes question his wisdom. But I like his hat.
I don't believe in Original Sin. Nor do I believe the communion wafer is actually the flesh of Christ. I think the Catechism, for the most part, is a book of stultifying and desperately wrought commands meant to capture not souls, but minds.
But I still say my rosary. I have an Irish Shamrock Rosary and I say the "Ave" while fingering the green beads and contemplating the Celtic crucifix.
I don't feel that God watches over each one of us in a personal, individual manner. I doubt God even knows our names unless we've been properly introduced at one time or another.
My belief is that a superior being we happen to call "God" designed the plans for the human species. But he left it up to us to create the race. In my opinion, he does not micromanage the individual births of babies. Instead, he's more like an engineer.
I think that getting in touch with God takes a lot more than saying "Our Father, who art in Heaven". And so on.
God is an enigmatic being who we must strive to reach. It takes time. For some, an entire lifetime.
I don't feel he always hears us. If he does, he must often think we're a pain in the ass.
But God doesn't hear with ears anyway. That's our fault that we've put a human stamp on God. We've made him in our image and likeness.
I've said before in my columns that my favorite Bible verse is Psalms 46:10: "Be still and know that I am God"
That was written by a wise man. It's one of the few things in the Bible that I put much stock in. That and what Jesus purportedly said about prayer:
"And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they
love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on the street corners,
so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you,
they have received their reward.
"But whenever you pray, go into your room
and shut the door and pray to your Father
who is in secret; and your Father who sees
in secret will reward you."
Matthew 6:5-6
That's why I like to go alone into a quiet church. To be alone with God in hopes that he might be listening in the stillness and hear the murmur of my soul in secret.
A few weeks ago, I took a Sunday afternoon drive to Fullerton, a small Nebraska town where my family settled in 1964, when I was twelve.
As I always do when I pass through Fullerton, I stopped off at St. Peters Catholic Church. I served Mass there as an altar boy from sixth grade through my senior year in high school. In my early adult life, I became good friends with the pastor, Father Richard Ciurej. He was a brilliant priest, a good and devout man with a fierce loyalty to God and to our Blessed Mother. I was a devout Catholic under his tutelage.
I parked the car in front of the statue of the Good Sheperd. That's him in the above photo.
After snapping several pictures of the church's exterior, I climbed the steps and pulled on the heavy front doors.
Locked. At one o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Must be some mistake, I thought. I rattled the other doors, even tried a side door.
Sadly, I returned to my car. But I turned back and looked up at the Good Sheperd.
"I know why," I said. "Because it's come to this. They're afraid that someone will walk in and vandalize your house. Or steal from the poor box or make off with anything that might be of any value.
"Even in a town of 1400 pretty decent people. They're afraid of this. Maybe it's already happened once and that's why your house here is locked now.
"It's not like the old days, is it? Back then people, at least in these parts anyway, had an inherent respect for a church whether they believed in you or not. This was sacred ground. No one dared bother a church.
"But these aren't the old days, are they? Back then we just worried about the Devil. Now we have to lock the churches so his converts can't get in.
"By the way, I was going to light a candle. Sorry it didn't work out. I even brought some extra dimes because I heard you raised your prices.
"Listen, before I go, if you happen to talk to Your Father, say one for me, will you?"
There's just something about a church.
Copyright 2008 Wendel James Potter
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