Yes, I go to church. Not every week, sometimes not for a couple weeks. I was baptized in the Episcopal Church and attended as a child. I do admit I have sometimes gone years without going to church. The obvious reasons lead me to church. I believe in God. Sometimes I have problems that I just don't want to burden anyone with except God. Sometimes I have problems that no one can solve except God. Most days, I am so thankful for my life and the people in it that I want to thank everyone, especially God. These days I attend All Saints Episcopal Church here in Redding on a "mostly regular" basis. Regularly for me anyway. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, church makes me cry.
Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve 2014, was one of those times. We had a new priest at All Saints. He might have had something to do with it. Father Paul has a voice that makes me want to listen. Father Paul has a voice that makes me happy to be in church, happy to believe. I am not always a good believer. He is from England, our Father Paul, with an accent appropriate to what you'd expect of a middle aged Priest from England. Sometimes those voices make people want to listen. Especially we here in America who I think draw a rather romantic notion when we hear those accents of the old country. It is not just the accent that makes my Irish ears perk up. It is the tone and emotion I hear in the words of a person speaking, preaching if you wish, about Faith. To be fair it's happened to me with other Priests and even without a priest around at all, this tearing up of mine at church. Not often, and rare as it is I find the tears joyful.
This midnight mass the pews were full. Arriving a few minutes late as seems to be our habit, my husband and I sat in the last empty pew at the rear of the church. At least we were on the right side. I try to always sit on the right. It is closer to the door which makes it easier to sneak in given our habitual tardiness. I get all thrown off kilter if I sit on the other side. The incense and prayer at the columbarium, combined with Father Paul's story about Brother Froilan and the children in Northern Spain showing their parents the Christmas story through hand carved wooden nativity scenes, the candles we each held....it all wrapped warmly around 120 or so souls looking to feel the peace of God in their hearts. I did. My view from the farthest rear pew on the right of others in attendance told me I was not the only one to feel it.
The knowledge, the feeling of absolutely knowing that Christ is real, that the Holy Spirit is present and is being felt by others as deeply as I am feeling it is a bit surreal in itself. Most often I feel that way when I'm alone in my garden. Sometimes I feel it in the darkness of 3 a.m. on a sleepless night. Sometimes, I actually feel it at church.
The feeling is strong, a peaceful warmth tugging at my heart, and it makes me want to be at church more often. Tears can be joyful and these are joyful tears. Tears of thankfulness and pure peace. Tears that run through my heart as much as stream down my face. It is a feeling that when gone I am anxious for it to return. I want to feel that unexplainable, untouchable peace in my heart again. So, I go back. Yes, I go to church. Because sometimes, church brings me to tears.
Location:Redding, CA
