Most Sundays I feel far too broken and weak to brave the sermon. I'm not strong in the face of the booming male voice of Biblical authority. I bleed too easily. But still, every Sunday morning I get up and put on my church clothes. I put on my church face. I put on my church talk. It's my armor. It hides my aching, bruised soul. Every Sunday morning I hope for just one taste, just one tiny draught of grace. We attend a Presbyterian church as a family and later, I go to Mass alone. What this usually means is that on Sunday morning I get torn apart and on Sunday evening I get sewn back together. It's a cobbled-together faith that matches my cobbled-together life. Today, sitting alone in the sunny courtyard, I really felt the schisms that divide Christians. I've inherited the centuries' old grudge of Protestant v. Catholic. Sometimes it feels like I'm being asked to pick between two equally beloved parents. How do I pick? I love them both. And so I wept for the divorce. I wept for everything that Protestants threw away during the Reformation and I wept for the sex scandals that are rocking the Catholic Church. I wept for the misunderstandings and the misconceptions, the prideful one-upmanship, the false dichotomies and the pitting of brother against brother. Mostly, I wept because I don't know how to fix it. Sometimes I think God is asking me to live in the place of brokenness. In fact, I know this is what He's asking me to do. And frankly, I hate it. I accept it. I don't resent it. But it's painful and, well, I don't like pain. So, every Sunday morning I get up and put on my church clothes. I put on my church face. I don't have zealous feelings or passion. I don't have the answers for repairing the breach or mending the centuries' old divorce. But I do have love. And I can choose to obey. I can give my broken, paltry offering. By God's grace, perhaps it will be enough. One single act done with aridity of spirit is worth more than many done with feelings of devotion. –St. Francis de Sales
I walked out of church today. The Presbyterian pastor made a derogatory remark about Catholics and his sword of spiritual elitism sliced me open. Everyone else laughed but I bled all the way up the aisle, stumbled out into the sunny courtyard and blinked back tears.
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