RELIGION

“So why do you go?” a friend recently asked me after I had ranted about my scandal ridden church. It is an excellent question and one that I have given a great deal of thought to recently. My anger is enormous. I feel betrayed and ashamed and stupid. How could I have believed these people? The same leaders who were admonishing us for our weaknesses and pride were covering up the most horrific of crimes and were arrogant enough to ask victims to never speak of it because it would bring infamy to the church.

“So why do you go” the question rings in my ears and it deserves an answer. To be honest, I don’t go all the time. I was better when my children were at home. You do not ask adolescents to do something if your behavior is not in line. They are seekers of truth and searchers for hypocrisy. So that is a large part of why I went then. But now? Well sometimes I think that I am married to the Pope. My husband keeps his promises. He feels that it is not such a bad idea to sit in a quiet place and be grateful for what he has and those forty-five minutes or so can be contemplative and calming he says. And I think he is right.

Sometimes I put my foot down and refuse to go with him and try to do something spiritual like meditate or walk by the ocean—but then I get lonely and feel badly that I didn’t go to church and wind up going again. But it is more than that.

I go to this Church because it connects me to my past. So much of my history involves being Irish and being Catholic. I understand guilt—the nuns---indulgences---purgatory. I get all the Catholic jokes—I lived a lot of them and going to Church is a little like going home again. I see myself in the shiny paten leather shoes on Easter Sunday morning with my new white lace gloves. I remember my mother’s Sunday hats, laden with flowers and netting and the families who lined the pews whose lives were just like mine—or so I thought at the time.

I go because it doesn’t change. And although this is one of the reasons that I rage against this institution, it is comforting as well. When I go to Mass I know exactly what to expect. I know the words to the prayers, I know the songs, and I know the responses. I know the Nicene Creed in English and in Latin; I know how to use the missal and where to lay the red ribbon that separates the Liturgy of the Word from the Liturgy of the Eucharist. I know when to stand and when to sit—there are no surprises here.

I go because I know all the people in my parish that go. I have watched my neighbors in the congregation change over the last twenty years. I have seen children come to adulthood on those Sunday morning sessions. I know the woman whose son was arrested for marijuana possession who is a Eucharistic Minister and the mother who lost her daughter in an automobile accident and I watch their courage and devotion as they return each week from communion. I watch the people who have “faith” who believe in this ritual despite all the terrible things that have happened. I watch the people in the choir. I love their blue robes and I love their intensity as they sing the chanting responses to the priest.

I go because I want to belong to something. Something larger than me. Something better than me. We are comrades, we Catholics. We are part of the Mystical Body. We are members of the same team, we are on the same road—or so I thought until recently.

The question for me right now is will I continue to go? Now that I know what I know. To be honest I have never been a traditional Catholic. I call myself an American Catholic—one who makes decisions using my conscience as well as my church. But will I continue to be part of this Church now that the worst has happened? I believe that it is possible for some positive change to come from this black hole of evil and deceit and the awful legacy of the arrogance of power.

But until something changes, I am left with the question ringing in my ears. “Why do you go?” And I continue to search my heart for the answer.