My Church Community

My Church Community

 I try to get to mass early on Sunday. There is always someone leading the rosary and I enjoy praying along with other people in church. Once the rosary is done, there is a bit of a lull before mass begins as the acolytes prepare the altar and the choir goes over their hymns one last time in the choir room. It is a time to reflect and prepare for the holy sacrifice of the mass.

            I usually spend that time reading a few prayers out of my missal, but often, I find myself looking around at all the people, most of whom I don’t know. Here, before me, are many  people who have been coming to church for decades. People who have kept the faith all their lives, people who grew up in the church and remained even through all of the church’s sordid problems. These are people who understand that the church is not one man, not even an organization, but a faith community worshiping together and remembering the sacrifice that Christ made for us.

            I was raised Catholic. I went to Catholic school for the first five grades. I served as an altar boy in a church where a number of pedophile priests were assigned. Thankfully, I was never molested, but years later I discovered that many of my friends were. It led me to question my faith. Between that and my own vices, I walked away from my church. I became my own God, trying to control my own destiny and over time, became increasingly unhappy. Like the Samaritan woman at the well, I was trying to fill my soul with things of the world. It didn’t work and it took years for me to come home.

Growing up, our family took up an entire pew in our small church with me, my brother and sisters between our parents, one at each end of the pew. If any of us misbehaved, we would receive a tart slap on the back of our heads. I often joke that my parents only had 5 kids because their arms weren’t long enough to discipline any more. We attended as a family until each of the children began to drift away as teenagers. Some of us, like my sisters, returned with a vengeance, my brother  returned to God on his death bed.

As I look around in church, I see people at the end of their faith journey and people just beginning theirs and I think of my mother and father and all of us in that pew. In front of me is a couple with a toddler and an infant, doing their best to keep the kids occupied and still participate in the mass. It would be just as easy to have one parent stay home with the kids while the other attends mass, but the mass is so important to them that they bring their children with them and attend as a family.

In fact, families are scattered throughout the church, some sporting up to three generations in one long pew. I also see those people who are coming to church out of obligation rather than as a celebration and I think of myself all those years ago. While there are no guarantees, I know that if they attend mass regularly, they will begin to see what I see, people grateful to be in the presence of God.

Perhaps because my church is located in a traditional retirement community, there are a large number of elderly parishioners who attend each week. I’m sure that some of these people have been coming to this church since it was established 50 years ago. I see these people in the same pews every week and when one of them disappears, I think of them standing before God as he tells them, “Well done my good and faithful servant,” as they enter the kingdom of heaven.

Our church is strongest when we gather as a community with the longtime faithful standing as an example every week for newer or younger Catholics or for those who have come back to the church trying to find their way home. Had I not returned to the church, somewhat begrudgingly, I would never have been surrounded by so many faithful people, welcoming and encouraging me with only a smile, nod or word. I feel humbled here to stand among the faithful.