Bad Faith

I hit a bump on my faith journey.

I stopped going to church this year.

I didn’t go on New Year’s Day. When the first Sunday of 2020 rolled around, I decided not to go.

More accurately, I decided I was tired of the Sunday ritual of me announcing that we were going to church, Michael whinging about it; Kayden dragging his feet and then more often than not standing in back of the church instead of sitting with us; Flora getting in the shower five minutes before we were supposed to leave; and Dan just waving us off while he tended to other things.

In my family of five, I am the only one who consistently prioritizes church attendance. My husband, who is a good nominal Catholic and lives his faith daily, does not rank church attendance high on his ways to practice it. My children, for various reasons, are not interested in sitting in Mass for an hour. I got tired of the weekly exhortations, and rather than attend by myself, stayed at home Sundays, too.

This decision didn’t make me happy; it made me sad. It didn’t lighten my load. Sure, not attending church gave me lazy Sunday mornings, a day I didn’t have to have a timer on my routine. I was free to take that “extra” hour and a half (counting driving time) and do…. Whatever. I tried to replace church with yoga, reading, family time, even cleaning.

But nothing was giving me what I had always gotten from going to Mass.

Even as keenly as I felt its lack though, I was struggling with the dilemma of whether or not to re-engage with the weekly battle — or if I should just start going by myself. Making the decision to just start taking myself to church was difficult to face. On one hand, I would be getting what I needed. On the other hand, didn’t I have a responsibility to my family’s faith formation? Should I attempt to lead by example, or should I just give up, give in, and hope eventually some kind of yoga or meditation would fulfill my spirit?

And then Dan’s Aunt Judy died.

Now, I am not going to eulogize Aunt Judy. She was a sweet woman, and very well-loved, and the world is a sadder place without her.

But her death — more to the point, her funeral, reminded me in no uncertain terms what was missing in my decision to stop attending Mass.

The occasion of Aunt Judy’s funeral was the first time in the year I had entered a house of worship. Irony alert: Aunt Judy’s memorial service was in a Presbyterian church. Even so, being in a house of God was immediately a balm to my spirit. The stillness. The pews. The music and the stained glass. The familiar weight of a hymnal in my hand.

Inside of myself, I felt a loosening, a relief. I felt a welcome and a safety. Listening to God’s words and the prayers felt wholly right and good.

From the closing prayer: “Almighty God, You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you; so lead us by your Spirit that in this life we may live to Your glory and in the life to come enjoy You forever….” (emphasis mine)

That was what I felt when I didn’t attend church: a restlessness of my heart and mind and spirit. I don’t go to church out of a sense of duty, or because I fear the wrath of God. I go because I crave his presence, and I find it in the Mass and in the weekly sacrament of the Eucharist.

So this past Saturday, I put aside some time, and went to confession. The priest assured me of many things, including that leading by example was good and right. That of course I should encourage my husband and my children to join me; to express to them that they are loved children of God, and always welcome in his house. But to not fight them about it.

And then on Sunday, I went to church. And it was wonderful.

Image credit: Photo by Paul Robert on Unsplash