On Worship

Okay, it's Sunday. For the record, I didn't go to church. I never go to church.

Actually, I take it back. Saturday afternoon I ended up attending part of a Catholic Mass celebrated by Fr. Greg Boyle in honor of his birthday. I'd dropped by the Delores Mission to pay my respects to someone I admire, the founder of HomeBoy Industries. Little did I know it would include a religious service I'd proudly boycotted since I left Catholic School. Had I known, would I have even shown up at all?

I'm of the generation of Catholic School kids who saw the tail end of the "old school" Church. We sang in Latin. We felt the whack the of the nun's ruler or wooden pointer on our knuckles and behinds. We won prizes for reciting whole chapters of the Baltimore Catechism. We named our pets after God's martyrs and saints. We hooted Sr. Mary Ignatius on Broadway. But most of us aren't practicing Catholics anymore. We haven't signed up with any other faiths and aren't searching either.

Are we just Godless heathens or spineless agnotics?

Me? I'm somewhere just outside the fold. I know when to stand, kneel and cross myself during a Catholic service. I can recite all the prayers along with the other worshippers. And I realize it's all rote. I could do it in my sleep. When worship becomes something you do on automatic pilot, you might as well not do it at all. An omnipotent God knows when you're just going through the motions.

Some years ago I tried explaining to my devoutly Catholic mom that I had found another way to "pray." I assured her that sending us to Catholic School was not a waste. It had imprinted on me the practice of doing good works, donating time and effort to good causes with no thought of personal reward. In fact, I know that self-serving intentions are tantamount to Original Sin. I no longer believe in Heaven, so salvation isn't the point of good deeds. You do it because it's the right thing to do. And how do I know that? Because I was raised Catholic.

The past few months, some charity has been sending me fundraising mailers with religious key chains. I'm surprised at how offended I feel. These trinkets aren't like a rosary you can pray with or be buried with. They're tacky, mercenary pieces of marketing aimed at people who respond by rote to icons. I'm not having it.

I've pinned them up on my bulletin board crowded with family photos, notes and reminders. They help me remember what's a chore a what's a prayer.

Every Amen has to be earned.