I tiptoed around the decision for days, pausing, waiting, hymning, and hawing about the prospect. I pushed and pondered and finally stopped, crawled into bed, and decided to decide when the morning came. Looking at the glaring numbers that marked the time as 8 am and the words that marked the name of the day, Sunday, I knew it was no longer avoidable.
I had to choose where to go to church.
For months last semester I attended a vibrant community of a church that while technically Baptist is more alike the non-denominational one’s of my childhood. On Sunday’s college students gather together in a room chatting, laughing, hugging, and greeting. Then, a kind college pastor calls out for them to gather and they sit at circular tables. Someone stands and speaks a few words, we study the Bible, they speak again, and we study some more. Eventually we bow our heads to pray and walk over to a service with roughly a thousand other people. This big bright, vibrant community that I have grown to be known by name in has been my church “home” for half a year- coming back broke my heart. And so, to make the decision to in haste abandon that community was heart wrenching. How could I choose?
And so I didn’t. Not really at least. When I woke up Sunday morning, I texted my sorority twin, B, and asked her where and when she going to church. She mentioned a 2 pm campus Mass. Now, if that gave you pause, it is for good reason. I do after all go to a Baptist university. But it just so happened, this specific Sunday, a Mass would be held at school by the Student Catholic Association and FOCUS missionaries would be present.
I texted another friend, one that went to my “home” church and asked if college group was on for the morning. The moment she said yes, I flew out of bed.
40 minutes later I was pulling up to the familiar outline of my church and getting wrapped in warm armed embrace and hearing my name called from squealing lips. My heart was full and my mind at ease. I stayed until the end but mentioned I couldn’t make it to large service. Then, I zipped to my favorite bakery to grab breakfast and a coffee and headed back to campus.
As 2 pm grew nearer, I grew nervous. Could I actually attend Mass? It felt strange and foreign, and I was certain the moment I entered I would be faced with a small group of strangers wondering what this Protestant was doing out of place. I texted two Catholic friends asking what I should wear and what I should bring, and if it really truly was okay I came. They assured me it was.
Standing beside an old oak tree just outside the chapel, I anxiously waited for B. The feeling that I should just flee while I still had the chance lingered but I knew I hadn’t crossed the entirety of campus for no reason. As she emerged and we exchanged smiles and hugs, I whispered the question again, “Is it really okay I came? Will it be weird?”
With intentness and a reassuring hand on my shoulder she told me, “It’s not. I promise. But do this for you. There is no pressure from me for you to come.”
I looked back over my shoulder at the little white chapel and told her we should head in. The group I expected to be 12 turned out to be more like 60. We slid into a pew and some more girls I knew from campus greeted me and I rushedly explained that B had invited me and no, I was not Catholic. I did not explain the “I could possibly maybe be becoming one though,” that lingered in my mind.
Instead I focused on the incredible organ music that emanated from the chapel and the strange sense of calm I felt. As the service began I couldn’t shake the overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit like I’ve never felt Him before. Every movement was a mystical and ancient procession that enshrouded my heart in divine mystery. When the Eucharist was offered I couldn’t stop the feeling in my knees that commanded me to kneel and the way my head fell down in awestruck reverence. And yet my eyes rose enough to meet the host and my mind whispered the mantra, “That is Jesus.” Over and over the words reverberated in my mind and I’m not sure if faith began first or if I simply spoke it in my mind until it was true, but I felt it in my being- a holy presence emanating in that room, something that surpassed human experience and understanding.
By the end my heart was so full of life I couldn’t help but turn and smile at B. “I am so glad I came.”
“I am so glad you came too, truly.”
In a strange way that Sunday, a syncretism of denominational lines and backgrounds was one of the most beautiful and perfect. It encompassed the community I love with the tradition I’m growing to savor. Joy in its purest forms emanating from Father and community, the way it was always meant to be.
Now as I prepare to face another Sunday, I feel stronger and more certain than before that I can take steps forward towards a place the Holy Spirit finds sanctuary in and towards a place the Lord has prepared for me.
I’m glad your heart was moved by the organ music 👀😜
I did not know you were at this Mass!!!