we're in an awful mess, and i don't mean maybe

by mg at 05:46 PM on March 23, 2003

The last time I willingly attended church was just a few weeks after September 11th, more than two years ago. I’m not exactly sure what it was that woke me up so early on a Sunday, after only about four hours sleep, or what compelled me to visit St. Joan of Arc’s this morning, but there I found myself.

I hate church. I was one of those kids, who from a very early age knew the whole organized religion thing was about as believable as the love between Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. I was forced to Sunday school every week for seven years. What pissed me off most was that I had to wake up early, sit through three hours of indoctrination, while my mom stayed home and slept in.

The thing about Sunday school is that it just never ended. If we weren’t preparing for First Communion, or Penance (would mortal sins does a 3rd grader have to confess?), we were polishing the Priest’s crucifix back in the rectory (oh, right, that’s what we had to confess). By the time I was preparing for my Confirmation, at around 13 years old, I knew I wanted out, not just of Catholicism, but the whole god business.

I was forced to become a Christian soldier, but went AWOL shortly thereafter.

After 9/11, I made the trip back to church, something I hadn’t done willingly for several years. Like so many people, I was there to join in fellowship with my community, to feel the familiar strengths in the rituals of my childhood, and to get in that last couple good deeds, just in case this really was the end times.

I suppose each of those was true for again today.

Now, my neighborhood has a very high Hispanic population, so any church, especially one of Catholic flavor, is going to be packed on any given Sunday. In fact, the local church even has a separate Spanish language mass, which is as widely as attended as the English.

Guess which one I wandered into?

Not that it mattered much, because I wasn’t really there to be preached to. I was there to be around other people. I was there to be a part, at least for that hour and change we all shared a pew, of a community that loved each other, cared for each other, and were sharing a common goal. Of course, that common goal was the glorification of God, but I’ll take what I can get.

Which should also explain why I found myself amongst the protestors yesterday. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a poster-child for the anti-war movement. But as my class got out Saturday morning, I felt compelled to walk over to Union Square. I met the mass of protestors there, and walked against the flow up the entire length of the protest, from 14th Street up to Times Square (about a two mile hike).

Sure, a part of me was there to witness the Tools on Parade, but another part just wanted to be around people who were passionate about something, and were sharing the kind of collective moment so rare in life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so much a moment as it was a spectacle. If Jane’s Addiction were playing, I’d have sworn I was at Lollapalooza. There were as many people holding cameras as holding signs. I got the impression many were there for the same reason I was, to take a good look at the parade, there probably wont be another one this big in New York until next time the Yankees win the world series (so, about 6 months).

It is interesting to compare this to the St. Patrick’s Day parade which was just a couple weeks ago, because for that one day, everyone was Irish (if only for an excuse to drink). Yesterday, everyone was a Peace-Protestor, if only for the chance to snap a few pictures, maybe get on the news, and, of course, have a story to share with their grandkids about how they “saved the world from the evil George Bush.”

Even though I spent a good hour wandering amongst the protestors, I didn’t feel a thing. Church this morning, was a different thing altogether. Sure, my Spanish is so rusty that I was able to grasp about as much of what the Priest was saying as I was able to understand the illogical rhetoric of the protestors, but I still felt like I was part of something.

Now, this isn’t likely to turn me into a peacenik, or get me recant my heathen ways, but being amongst people who at least cared enough about something to show up was a good feeling.