When it comes to churchgoing, I've been better at concept than practice. During my childhood as a member of a Mass-going family of Catholics, I experienced four emotions every Sunday.
1. Excruciating boredom.
2. Lucy-and-the-football despair each time a priest failed to deliver the juicy homilies I allowed myself to long for — the ones that might illuminate the magical God mysteries and their relevance to my life.
3. Anger about all the kneeling, for crying. Out. Loud.
4. Deep certainty that I was surrounded by people who grasped things I couldn't. I did not know what to do during silent prayer. I didn't know how to not feel like a faker reciting the Apostle's Creed. In fact, the more I said any of the refrains or prayers out loud, or sang the pious songs, the more I felt like a liar. Not because I didn't want to believe, but because I needed to work things out first organically. I had to get there honestly.
Today I am a VERY sporadic visitor at Protestant services, but on my rare visits, I now know why I'm there: to connect with others stumbling in a spiritual direction, to hear about Jesus, who gave us a pretty good blueprint for living, and — this is key — to wake up my better side: the kinder, more reverent, more outward-focused, patient person; the radically non-judgmental friend, the generous stranger, and a lady who tries really hard to be better about returning messages.
I do not dress up for church, but I definitely bring a Sunday Best attitude of reverence, gratitude, softness and integrity. That's the same spirit I wear for a walk in the woods, by the way. Walks in the woods happen far oftener than visits to church, but they have almost everything in common, except that the birds and bullfrogs do the singing. That works out better for everyone.
Walks in the woods are church on Sunday. Absolutely they are. But what about church on Tuesday?
I had a moment of discomfort recently during a small conflict with some loved ones that really arose out of communication failure. To be clear, I had failed to communicate in a timely way about something of consequence. Naturally, the aforementioned loved ones were unhappy about this, and they let me know that. Not by yelling, just by ... saying so in a disappointed tone of voice. Which I interpreted as scolding.
I spent the immediate hours and days afterward wallowing in my persecution complex and assembling arguments for why I had not been technically WRONG and why they had been way overreacting. When I told the story to my husband, I went deep and wide with my woundedness. This was 21st century stubborn-as-a-rock opera. Listen to my aria, won't you?
So my question is, where was my church best on Tuesday? What happened to the higher, more reverent and spirit-aware version of me — the one who definitely shows up when summoned to church or the woods or for a good conversation with a friend? What can we do, those of us who believe in church spirit (if not so much religious hierarchies), to make sure we're wearing our Sunday Best on Tuesday, Wednesday and beyond?
My friend Celeste Glasgow Ribbins wrote a lovely book called The Power of Mustard Plant Faith. Celeste and her husband Mark, a Christian minister, are true churchgoers, but also human beings with the usual doubts and fears. In her book, Celeste uses that humanity to expand on the relevance of the parable of the mustard seed; how Jesus told his disciples that with faith the size of a mustard seed, they could move mountains.
Reading Celeste's book helps me. All I need on a Tuesday is a tiny, almost imperceptible moment of remembering the person who shows up at church or in the woods, with all the best thoughts and intentions and sense of connection to the universe. A mustard-seed moment of remembering can take the wind out of victim complex or self-righteousness. It can sometimes quiet me when I'm tempted to gossip, or give me a moment of pause that keeps me from being reactive. I imagine a time when it may even stop me from weaving yards of Irish lace out of threads of profanity while I'm driving, but that's probably down the road a bit.
A more religious person might set his or her sights on doing this because the Bible says we should, but as I mentioned at the top, I was raised Catholic, and The Church preferred that we plebes not try to read it on our own. Mission accomplished.
No, for me, church on Tuesday is about finding a higher self a little more often — say, daily — because it seems like the right thing to do. When I summon Church Karen or Walk in the Woods Karen, I feel like a better, calmer, less egocentric human being. That person is pretty good company. And that seems like reason enough.