Eyes Wide Open (with apologies to Gotye)
Somebody I Used to Know–Part 3
I glanced around nervously. Balancing the order of service given to me with the book from the pew took more dexterity than I was accustomed to in a church service. Quietly but frantically, I flipped through the book, trying to find the right page that had been referenced in the program. Fumbling with the words, I read the responses with the rest of the congregation. Trying to focus on what I was reading, I was also stealing glances ahead to know what to expect next. Looking up, everyone is standing now. I rush to my feet. Now it’s time to kneel. Ok, we are standing again. Bowing? That’s a new one to me.
Unsuccessfully, I was trying to fake my way through a Catholic mass. Finally, I just gave up following the service in the program and different books and decided to go with the flow.
St. Anne’s Parish was within walking distance of ENC. I was searching for something I felt would make spirituality more meaningful. Something that I had not found in any of the Nazarene churches I had visited. So many times, I felt that many churches expected you to check your brain at the door and only experience the emotion of religion. So, why not try a more “emotionless” church whose practices and doctrine have existed for centuries? I didn’t necessarily agree with Catholic theology, but at least I would feel like the service would have some gravitas. Some may think that the Catholic church is the height of pretentiousness, but in my mind, I felt that a church that has done something for a long time had earned the right to be ostentatious.
When the Church of the Nazarene offered communion (literally 4 times per year), eating the bread and drinking the grape juice felt shallow. As a young adult, to impart some sort of spiritual significance to it, I started quietly and privately crossing myself after I ate and drank. I had to do it quickly so no one else would see what I was doing. Once, as a child, I remember sitting in my parent’s first pastorate in Brazil, watching a woman visibly cross herself before she went to the altar to partake of communion. I don’t remember if I asked my parents what she was doing, but I do remember thinking and feeling weird because that was not the norm.
As I was failing miserably at not being conspicuous, the time came for the Eucharist. I knew that if you were not a confirmed Catholic, you should not partake. They didn’t know me, I didn’t know them, and what they didn’t know would not hurt anyone. I got in line and partook of the bread and the wine. I noticed that some people allowed the priest to put the bread into their mouths, and others held out their hand and did it themselves. I quickly put my hands out.
I was not struck dead.
And I crossed myself. Visibly, not having to hide it from anyone.
After the mass, I felt like I had experienced something. It was completely different from what I felt after Nazarene services. Did I immediately want to convert to Catholicism? No. Did I go back? Once or twice. Foundationally, I felt that mass has been more meaningful than the spiritual masturbation experienced in evangelical services. But it still did not fill those cracks that had started to develop.
One of ENC’s pride and joy has always been The ACapella choir. It has existed for almost 100 years, founded in the 1920s. When I heard about it, I knew I wanted to audition. While my audition experience is a story for another time, I was graciously offered a spot as a 2nd bass. I remember the feeling of sheer joy when I got my acceptance letter–I was among the few new students chosen among many other applicants. At that time, the choir had about 80 people participating. It opened many social doors for me as I immediately met 10% of the student body. My social groups began to develop from my experiences with ACapella.
As far as I know, the professor that directed the choir was, and is, a very spiritual man. He would always give a brief devotional before rehearsal, and the pieces of music he chose, while classical, were deeply religious. While I choose not to believe the same things he believes, he is kind, gentle, and genuinely seeking a spiritual life. He is the best possible definition of what a Christian should be. At concerts, he would encourage us to introduce the songs and discuss how the songs impacted us spiritually. As a choir, we had chaplains responsible for the choir's spiritual formation. His spiritual walk was front and center not only as a person but as the director of the choir.
It was at a choir event that I experienced my first definite crisis of faith.
The choir was singing at a religious event held at a rather large convention center. Per the norm, we were there a few hours early to warm up and practice. After we warmed up, we were all seated in an open area. It was during this time the professor started leading us in guided prayer. He would give us things to pray for then after a while, he opened it up for others to pray out loud. This was a normal thing in Nazarene settings–prayer might last about 20 minutes, someone would wrap it up, and we would move on.
A half hour went by. I started to feel restless.
An hour went by. I was starting to get annoyed.
An hour and a half went by. I was mad.
What the hell were we doing? The individual praying had morphed into a cacophony of multiple people praying out loud. I looked around, frustrated and angry. Honestly, I was taken aback by my rage. We were in a public area–80 of us–kneeling at benches, putting on what felt like a religious show. What was the point of this? I sat there dumbfounded. If this was intended to leave me spiritually refreshed, it had the opposite effect on me. I saw this as an absolute waste of time, which made me furious.
I was not used to thinking prayer was a waste of time. Since I was a child, I usually found solace in prayer. But at this moment, all of it seemed pointless. What effect would all this prayer have in the grand scheme of things? My conclusion: none. Did this hour and a half of very vocal prayer make me a better person? No, anger is not usually conducive to positive mental well-being. Surprisingly, this realization was not earth-shattering. I don’t remember if I realized it then, but my perception had shifted. While my eyes might not have been wide open, they were definitely open.
I don’t remember singing at the event or even what happened directly after. Life just moved on. But those cracks had developed into fissures, and, in turn, those fissures had developed into fractures. I continued going through the motions–enough to fit in and be “socially acceptable.” After college, I got a job teaching in a small town in central Florida, met my wife, and started my family.
The most important thing I took away from my time at ENC was a sense of disequilibrium–a necessity for change to occur. But even with that sense of imbalance and unrest, I was still searching for something that would provide a depth of belief to my Christian life. It would take another 20 years to get to where I am today. In retrospect, I don’t view these events as damaging. These cracks, fissures, and fractions were just seeds of healing being planted. And like a tree, these seeds would take years to grow and mature.
To be continued.
Thanks for sharing, Curtis. Looking forward to more.