Still There

 I like going to church, but I have a problem. After a few minutes of sitting on the unyielding wooden bench before the service begins, my back starts to ache. Rather than indulging in praise or penitence, I get distracted by my posture. The right angle of the pew serves as a guide for me to throw my shoulders back and press my lower back into a straight line. The stretch feels good and I try to hold it.  After a few seconds of DIY physical therapy, I startle to find myself zoned out and slouching once again.

Some might assume I’m reflecting on my virtues and vices but I’m jiving with my own pre-service mantra: Slump, straighten, hold, sigh. Slump, straighten, hold, sigh. After my initial orthopedic warm up, I’m carried along by the liturgy. I love the candles and the music. I particularly love both the familiarity and surprises embedded in scripture, and feel lucky that our priests deliver amazing homilies. More than anything, I’ve always been drawn to the solemn mystery of the Eucharist. Ongoing presence and nourishment from God - what’s not to like. 

And yet, despite the weekly inspirations and graces, I’m routinely struck by the fact that, what I might call, holy moments don’t seem to last. We are tired, preoccupied or moody and start bickering about what to have for dinner on the way home. I remember this dynamic from childhood, too. The whole family would get ready for Mass dressed in our Sunday finery: hats, gloves and missals - I could say missiles because all hell would break loose on the ride home. We all fasted for Communion back then, so there was the hunger factor, but you get my point. I go to church to get inspired and then wallow in ire. I feel full of grace and then act like I’m full of sh…! 

I take comfort thinking about Jesus alone by himself in the desert. He was like us in every way except for sin. We know that getting distracted is just a quirk of the mind - no worries of condemnation there. I see Jesus cinching his robes around him and settling in for some prayer time. Back straight, maybe like us, feet grounded. Then perhaps, he leans up against a rock and his attention is immediately diverted by Peter’s last annoying comment. He starts to settle in and his stomach growls. I’m not meaning to be sacrilegious, but it helps me to think of Jesus getting distracted by a bird. 

I love the biblical invitation towards the mystery of God's fullness - the idea that there is always more of God than I can hold. In fact, the term drive-by devotee comes to me when I reflect on the intermittent nature of my relationship with God. Lucky for me, the Gospels include mention of many brief, but spectacular spiritual encounters.

A favorite is the woman who fought her way through a crowd to touch the mere hem of Jesus' garment. Not his hand. Not his shoulder. Just his hem. In her brief encounter with Jesus, she sensed that immense power lay in the smallest contact. I think of my own attempts at practice, applaud her gutsy move and feel better about my limited capacity to hold all that holy fullness. 

Maybe that’s why I keep coming back. Slump, straighten, hold. Sigh. I may seem distracted, but that’s me. Still there. Not always upright, but always, held.