Typically, any sort of commutation that is begun with a phrase like: “a Pagan and an Agnostic walked into a Catholic church,” might be expected to end with some sort of tasteless religious joke. In this case, however, it is merely a statement of fact. Recently a Syncretistic Pagan (myself) and an Agnostic (my sister) actually did enter the cathedral of St. John Vianney Catholic Church in Lithia Springs, Georgia.
The first thing I felt, before even entering the building, was acute nervousness. This was only to be expected, I suppose, as no human being enjoys walking into a large group of strangers with the foreknowledge that he or she is very different from anyone else present. I was terrified that I would accidentally offend the congregation– something that would oppose my principles of open-minded tolerance and empathic respect– and I was equally worried that someone would realize that I was a not Catholic, not conservative, and not a conformist. I insisted to myself that these ideas were stereotypes– I don’t doubt that there are plenty of liberal, free-spirited Catholics in the world– and reminded myself that if I wanted an example of a progressive Catholic that followed her heart rather than following the rules, I needed to look no further than Mother Theresa. Nonetheless, the concern remained. (For the sake of fairness, I should mention that I attended a Christian high school, and was badly ostracized there, so my fears were not entirely unfounded.)
I admit that I had prepared myself by questioning my younger sister’s boyfriend, who was raised in a Catholic household, and by dressing myself more conservatively than I typically would have. I felt it was only polite to try to follow Catholic customs as closely as I could, but nonetheless I almost laughed when I saw myself. Catching a glimpse of my unfamiliar ensemble in a car’s side mirror as I transversed the parking lot, I realized that the cliché had just gotten worse. I was now an incognito Pagan walking into a Catholic church.
Having been raised in a Baptist church, I found some aspects of the Catholic chapel to be familiar, and that comforted me a great deal. The outer doors opened to reveal the same sort of formally-decorated vestibule that is common to Baptist churches. Respectable looking old men stood just inside, handing out paper programs detailing the planned church service, just as would have been done in my childhood church. The organ notes of a vaguely familiar hymn drifted out of the opened sanctuary doors.
There were quite a few differences, however. Upon entering the sanctuary, members of the congregation crossed themselves with holy water. I silently blessed my sister’s boyfriend for explaining how I should cross myself. There was a large crucifix hanging behind the pulpit, along with smaller statues of Mary and a saint– whom I assumed to be Saint John Vianney– in the front corners. My sister and I took an empty pew in the back, where we felt unobtrusive, and found a couple of nearby hymnals just as a procession walked through the door. There were a few alter boys, a priest, and two other men who appeared to be his direct subordinates. (They may have been ordinans or simply lower-ranking priests.) This procession was very familiar to my Pagan understanding, and incense, processions, and ritualistic entries and exits are fairly common. The priest greeted the congregation formally, much as a Pagan priest or priestess might, though the words were, of course, different. The congregation answered back with ritual words, just as a Pagan gathering would.
I was surprised that some of the hymns were in Latin, which gave my sister hope that a part of the service might be in Latin as well. I felt a little queasy. I had purposefully ensured that this church would have their service in English for fear that I might misinterpret something when my sister asked. (She, of course, had wanted to find a traditional chapel downtown so that she pester me for translations and see if I could actually manage it.) I was glad I at least spoke the language well enough to understand most of the hymns, and was thrilled when the priest began the first prayer in my own native tongue. Everyone kneeled as he invited us to pray– something I was not used to– and my sister and I realized why our pew had been empty. Most pews had been fitted with little cushioned, folding metal stools, so that church goers could pray more comfortably. Ours pew, however, had not been so lucky, and the industrial carpet did little to soften the hard, cold floor.
The prayers may have been quite different from my old church, the time of fellowship was much the same, except that individuals said: “Peace be with you,” each time they shook one another’s hands. (Once again I was quietly grateful to my sister’s boyfriend as I repeated the proper phrase over and over.)
There were several more prayers, hymns, and repetitions of ceremonial phrases. At last the father stood at the pulpit and read from his Bible. The congregation responded with an appropriate hymn, and the priest read some more. There was one more song before he delivered a sermon very similar to one that I might expect to hear in the Baptist church I was raised in. After that, communion was given– which thrilled my sister until I reminded her that our “inside informant” had said that we couldn’t take communion since we weren’t Catholic. She did, however, get in line and cross her arms, as our sister’s boyfriend had instructed, and received a blessing. Then the offering plates were passed in a very similar manner– though the men passing them wore robes rather than plain suits. There were more songs, more prayers, and then the service was ended. I remembered to cross myself with holy water on my way out.
Odd, how so much of the experience wasn’t so strange and nerve-racking as I thought it might be.
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