02.28.2021
Well, two weeks have come and gone and I have officially "graduated" from quarantine. Today is Sunday - and so, my first venture was to church.
I woke up early, got myself together - a needed change from my constant state of pajamas while confined to the apartment - and I walked outside. A right turn, a left turn, and some guidance thanks to Google Maps.
The air chilled the skin of my wrists and hands, uncovered by my jacket, and I was very aware of the sharp sound of my shoes on the road, echoing in contrast to the nearly empty streets around me. Is no one awake at this hour? My right foot a deliberate step forward, my left foot hoping to not be as startlingly audible as my right.
About 15 minutes later, I found myself standing outside of my destination - an evangelical church I had found online that was supposed to meet at this address. I looked around and saw no people entering, no open door or sign of a service. Strange. Uncertainty started to settle in the lining of my stomach as I continued to search for some kind of direction.
A sign behind a barred window said:
"Orario delle riunioni. Domenica ore 10 Culto di Adoraziona. Ingresso Libero."
Roughly translated: Meeting times. Sunday 10 am Worship of Adoration. Free admission.
I waited a few minutes for it to hit 10 am and despite my hope for a door to open suddenly - physical or metaphorical - none did. My first solo venture was feeling like a bit of a flop. I loomed for a few minutes, searching once again on Google Maps for a nearby church that was open. I found many addresses, but little information. Why do none of these churches have their hours online? A phrase I have heard a few times now came to me: "there's more churches in this town than there are people". Alright then, all I have to do is find one.
I prayed that my next steps would be made plain. I continued to pray as I traced back the route to my apartment, less aware of the sound of my steps this time, and all the while keeping my eyes open for the church I knew I had passed earlier on my way to the first destination.
A mixture of warmth from walking and the cold of the air around me brought an acute awareness of the feeling of my shirt pressing firmly on my upper back, stuck with either a cold sweat or by the top layer of my jacket.
About two minutes away from my apartment, I saw it: the front of a large Chiesa that seemed promising. A man stood in front of the doors but off to the side, perhaps waiting for something or someone. I walked over to a large sign with writing on it, hoping to find some information about mass times. All that was written was history about the church in Italian and English, which would have been convenient except for at that moment.
Moments passed and an elderly couple walked up the steps to the church, heading towards the front door. So I followed, more thankful than they could know for the leadership they provided me with. Following their entrance certainly helped me to not feel quite so intimidated about walking into an unknown space facilitated by a largely unfamiliar language.
I walked into a dimly lit cathedral with rows of people sitting in socially distanced pews, two by two. COVID's ark. I managed to find an open seat in the back few rows. A church filled with people, two minutes away from my new home. So there are people awake in this city, and it looks like they have all gathered here.
Peace and relief washed away the nervousness of my morning. I felt immensely blessed to be sitting in a place dedicated to the Lord, among other believers to worship alongside of.
The timing couldn't have been more perfect. A few minutes after I sat down, a woman came and sat on the other side of my pew. A minute or so later, mass began. That awkward in-between time I had spent earlier - walking to my "plan A" and subsequently googling churches for a "plan B" - wasn't wasted at all. God got me exactly where I needed to be, at exactly the right time. How powerful that moment felt.
The Service
Attending a Catholic mass in Italian turned out to be incredibly valuable, even if I could only understand about 3-5% of the words that were spoken. I was able to understand things beyond words, to observe more keenly the environment I found myself in.
An act of kindness: Throughout the service, sunlight would peak through the pews as more and more people opened the doors to enter the church that now offered only standing room. An older gentleman with ears that sloped horizontally outwards sat in front of me. About halfway through the service, he noticed an elderly woman with a cane standing to his left. He quietly caught her attention and gestured to his seat - a kind exchange, humbly conducted.
A foundation: Of the few words I understood, some of them were Latin. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. Words like these are still formed by muscle memory in my mouth, an automatic tell of being raised in the Catholic church. And of course, there is also memory in the rest of my body: making the sign of the cross and the constant rotation of sitting and standing. I was grateful for this, that despite all that I could not understand, familiarity was still present. I love moments like these, where I realize how my past experiences have prepared me in ways unexpected.
A connection: I began to reflect on going to Catholic church growing up, which reminded me of when I learned to dance. I attended a specialized dance program for a few years in grade school. Once a week, myself and other students from around the city were bussed to the Old Donation Center where we learned tap, jazz, ballet, modern, hip-hop, (probably more?) and studied the history of where these styles of dance started and how they changed. All day long dance would permeate our brains and movements. I remember feeling bored in ballet lessons, longing for more *upbeat* and *fun* classes. But I was told that ballet was the foundation for other styles of dance - that the form and basic techniques allowed us to better carry out the movements in tap, jazz, you name it. I wanted to dance gracefully, and so I decided to let ballet in.
Coming back around to the subject of church, a different kind of grace makes itself apparent. I cannot tell you how many years of my adolescent life I spent on the edge of stepping into faith fully because the variance present felt daunting. I had a few religious influences in my life - Catholic and Protestant/Non Denominational Christian - that seemed to tug at each other, like ends of a rope. Event though both ends of the rope share a center (Jesus), they pull away towards their own ends, their own perspectives. Someone not familiar with Christianity might say that these "ends of the rope" sound like the same thing - they're all under one big umbrella, right? But I have found that in both settings there is a desire to not be found like the other.
Over the past few years of my life, I found myself shifting from one end of the rope to the other. I had some wonderful influences that led me to embrace faith in Jesus fully, and I became more open minded about what celebrating church could look like. While in college, I found a non-denominational church in Philadelphia that I loved, thanks to the introduction by a dear friend. I became comfortable there, enjoying and appreciating the community, the focus, the mission. I am grateful for the people and influences that led me there and fueled my growth. And while I still appreciated my Catholic roots concurrent with my newfound community in a different kind of church, I think I subconsciously separated these denominations in my mind more than I was aware. And so today, in my own pride, I sought to find a church here in Italy that was not Catholic that I could attend. Because I wanted what had become familiar to me.
But I have found that God often does not push us where we are comfortable. And He showed me, in the course of events on this particular Sunday, that my priorities needed some redirection. He led me where I did not expect to go, and helped me realize that the whole point of mass on Sunday is time and worship of Him - no matter where that takes place.
He led me somewhere I assumed I would be uncomfortable, but actually made it quite simple. God's grace abounded with me. Despite my pride and my attempt to go to a church of my own choosing, to find something more "my speed"- like the modern dance I preferred as a child - He showed me that the foundation I grew up with is still important, and is still a blessing. Like ballet, it is the movements that demonstrate closeness with the foundation, the grace that is carried into the other styles of dance reminds me of the grace of faith that is brought into the various forms of Christianity. He made it clear that His presence is in all that recognizes Him - He is in the people rather than confined to a physical space (1 Corinthians 3:16) - and that supersedes any of my own assumptions about what or where is the best way to spend my time with Him.
I find myself so tangled up sometimes, ruminating over doctrine and what to think about the little things that spark debate in church-goers. But these contentions that frustrate and separate us often don't bring us closer to God or each other, but leave us missing the whole point: Him. The Lord reminded me of this today with what felt like a bit of a curveball at first glance, but in fact was His plan all along.