A Queer Walks into a Church

A year ago I sent out the first edition of The Imaginary Novelist, and since then I have (mostly) succeeded in my goal: not to find answers, but to find questions closer to the center by writing once a month about spirituality. But lately, it’s been a bit of an empty exercise, because I sort of stopped caring about spirituality. I had a new job, did some traveling, and my writing was taking more and more time. All of this left me with little bandwidth to think about divinity, much less deeply consider what it means to me.

But last week I went to Providence for the day, and stopped by an Episcopal church. The second I stepped in, I felt like I’d been thrown back in time. It smelled exactly the way St. Agnes smelled when I was small, and it was just as dark. The stained glass refracted light into shards of color, and the front of the church made me instinctively want to kneel. And I thought, I miss this. So much. I don’t believe that church is necessary anymore, but in that sanctuary, I felt like maybe it was something I wanted. 

For four years, since I left the Catholic Church, I thought that if I were to go back to church, it would have to be because of conviction. I would have to know that I believed in the creed of wherever I went, and that I endorsed it institutionally. But last week, it finally occurred to me that maybe church can just be something I enjoy. Maybe I like ritual and singing and community. Maybe the event is enough, and I don’t need to be internally convicted. Maybe this is even enough in a Catholic church.

So on Saturday I went to Mass at the Paulist Center by the Common. I’d heard good things about them; an acquaintance at Harvard Divinity School, who I knew to be queer and radical, attended Mass there. This has happened every five or six months: I will be overcome with a desire to go to Mass, and then I do. Why do I keep going back when it never feels any better? I think I’ve been stuck with a notion that if there is anything true in religion, I would find it in the Catholic church, that no other denomination could compete. And then, too, I love the ritual of the service, and that is not something that can be replicated. 

I went, and as I stared at the crucifix, the same thing happened that has happened every time I’ve been to Catholic Mass since 2017, and I started crying. I don’t know why, what I was overcome by, but it felt enormous. It was Pentecost Sunday, the descent of the Holy Spirit, and that felt important, too. 

I felt tremendous comfort in the words I knew so well. The Holy Holy Holys, the Through my Fault, Through my Fault, Through my Grievous Fault. The Hallelujahs. It all made me feel remarkably at home, even through my tears. And then the priest began his homily, and it was about the church’s commitment to anti-racism–theoretically good, but it rang empty in the church, where every single congregant–every single one–was white. He kept talking, and it felt performative and false and empty of the radicalism I know Christianity is capable of.

I left after the homily. I didn’t want to cry any more, and the Eucharistic Rite is always the hardest to sit through. I went to a coffee shop and looked up Episcopal Churches, then talked on the phone with a friend and decided that once more, a trip to church had reminded me that I don’t want to return.

But Sunday morning, I finished my chores and I had time before the 10:30 service began at St. James’s Episcopal Church in Porter Square, and I decided to go. Just to see how it might feel. I took the red line and as I sat on the train, I moderated my expectations and listened to Hozier, thinking that his music was as good as the morning would get.

I walked into St. James and first noticed how empty it was. It’s a large church, not unlike the other Episcopal church I saw in Providence. Dark pews, dark ceiling, pipe organ in the front, stained glass on the side. But in a space that could have sat two-hundred-fifty people, there were maybe forty. In a way this felt scary, because everyone could see me; there would be no blending into the crowd. But it also became clear that this was a community of people who knew each other well.

The service began, and it was like someone ran Catholic Mass through a translator and then back again–the same pieces, just a little different. In addition to the readings, a poet stood and recited his poem, which ended with the line “Humanos entre humanos.” That was how it felt, to sit in that church, like I was a human among humans. The sermon was brief, and then the priest left space for us to form small groups and talk about the holy spirit in our lives. It was so similar to Mass, and yet so different. 

The biggest difference was something I didn’t realize until I approached the altar to take the Eucharist: I didn’t cry.

I don’t know if I’ll go back, but I do know that going to church doesn’t have to be a commitment to believe every word spoken. It doesn’t have to be a commitment to believe any word spoken. If I want to go to church, I can just go, enjoy the service, and leave. My soul is not on the line, because my soul is mine alone. It’s enough to sing and like how it feels to sing. To shake hands and wish peace to another person, and like how that feels, too. That can be enough.

In that first newsletter I wrote, I suggested that I could treat spirituality lightly, with a sense of humor. It didn’t have to have the titanic stakes I once believed in. It’s taken a year, but I think I may finally believe that.