A Buddhist goes to Mass

It’s been six years since I went to a Catholic mass (then with my super Catholic first love) and it was probably another six years before then that I was at another mass. My father hasn’t been ‘religious’ for some time. He was raised Catholic and was even an alter boy as a youth, but life had driven him away from the Church and toward the conclusion that what’s important is treating people well and that we don’t really know much more than that. My mother was the one that brought the family to church in my younger years. But she had a falling out around the time I was twelve; something about a Priest at a funeral inviting ONLY Catholics to join in the communion. She too has come to think that how we live our life is more important than church affiliation or rituals.

So it was me (the ‘ardent atheist’ and ‘practicing Buddhist’) that pushed for a family visit to the St. Helena Cathedral for the Christmas Midnight Mass. Why?

Well, part of my current philosophical project will involve unraveling the tapestry of the Self: ways of knowing who we truly are. What this boils down to will be both a survey of philosophical answers to ‘who we are’ as well as a personal answering of that question for myself. Part of that journey for me will be understanding Catholicism, even if it is a slow process.

My Mother, my nephew, and I arrived early for good seats, and the boy quickly fell asleep in the pew. The mass was, for the most part, a disappointment. It was lovely to be in such a sacred place with so many people dedicated to their faith. The building and the sanctuary are nothing if not inspiring. The music was luscious: including Bach, Vivaldi, and Friedell. But…

It felt quite contrived, dead, uninspired, rehearsed, solemn. The sermon involved a long story about a high-tech yacht [representing us in the modern age] on which, on its maiden voyage, the electrical system failed [‘cuz material things always fail you at the worst times]. The crew was left on the dark, stormy, cloudy seas [of life] without guidance, without so much as a [moral] compass to guide them. Then, as if by a miracle, after four hours the clouds parted and the north star [the light of the Holy Catholic Church] shone upon them and guided them home [to Christ, of course]. This took a full twenty minutes, and only then did the Bishop (I think he was the one telling the story, I was behind one of the big pillars and couldn’t see – for me it was just a voice booming from on high :), bring it around to the spiritual issues – in his telling it was just a story about a yacht – leaving many of us wondering all the while when he would get around to the sermon proper.

So after the thinly veiled moral tale of the fancy boat, he mentioned the troubles the Church is facing, “from without [loooonnnngg pause] and within.” From without were “modernism… secularism… nihilism… relativism…” and a couple others that I don’t remember.

From within? I was curious. Would he bring up one of the Priest sex scandals (or here)? The difficulties progressive Catholics have with Pope Benedict (or here, on liberation theology)? Financial difficulties for the U.S. Catholic church? No… the internal troubles of the Catholic Church were a matter of those seated in the pews around me, or at least many of them: complacency. Catholic folks just aren’t doing enough to bring their faith into life. Here, Christ has done so much for us, and what do we do in return? Not much, apparently… or at least, not enough.

At that point I kind of quit paying attention and thought about the beauty of the building I was in. I recalled the sign I read at Glastonbury Abbey which read roughly: “built large to inspire even the feeble-minded.” I remembered the giant Cathedral in Granada Spain that I visited this August with Ana (where Isabelle and Ferdinand are entombed). I thought of the beauty that raises people up, opens their hearts, releases their self-clinging. I especially loved the point where we all turn to our neighbors and say “piece be with you… and also unto you.” It was that kind of connection with community that I was craving – going beyond the familial celebrations of the week, to perhaps see old neighbors, school-mates, and friends long lost, or just to make that direct contact with a stranger on perfectly equal and beautifully spiritual grounds.

But then as my mind returned to the chanting of the night, I worried that at some point it might not impair rising hearts, close them to other people and traditions, and give rise to overconfidence in one’s own ‘faith.’ Why can’t Christ be a way? A fine way, a noble way, a beautiful way, but a way – not the way? And further, why just this Church, the Holy Apostolic Catholic Church?

By this time my nephew, Tuyen, was growing annoyingly restless. My mother told me she was going out at communion, to take him to the car. I said I’d go too, and we, along with a surprising number of others, headed out the doors as the faithful lined up for the body and blood (bread and wine).

My mother complained that she simply didn’t feel anything. That it was dead to her: too moralistic, too contrived, not so much speaking to us as at us. “This,” she said, “is why I don’t go to church any more.” I said I though it was ok, but yes, a bit lacking, a bit of a downer for Christmas.

“Next year,” my mother said as we drove home on Helena’s empty streets, “we’ll try the Methodist Church.”