Between leaving and believing

Embracing a faith that doesn't demand certainty

For six months or so, I stood with one foot in practicing my religion again, and the other still in the 20+ years in which my Catholic identity was primarily cultural. Nothing about my situation made logical sense to me. None of the reasons I’d left in the first place had changed. It was pure feeling, a sort of quiet recognition of something I’d buried deep within, that led me. I stayed in that space all the way through the Lenten season.

Then I attended all of the Triduum liturgies: the Mass of the Lord’s supper, Good Friday, the Easter Vigil. I hadn’t planned on this. But when I considered whether I should spend another evening scrolling on my phone or really experiencing Holy Week, I felt something I now recognize as a longing for the sacred. Somewhere between the depths of emotion in seeing the priests prostrate before the altar on Good Friday to the symbolism of darkness to light on the Easter vigil, I could hear the still, small voice: Welcome home.

I reached out to make an appointment with our parish priest just a few days later. I’d told him I was a returning Catholic, but not much else. No matter how I worded my initial email, it sounded a bit awkward. Returning Catholic—like an overdue library book that someone had finally pushed through the return slot, maybe. He asked if I was raised Catholic, and I told him, “Oh yes.” I’m at least the fourth generation of Ohio Catholics on my mother’s side—maybe the fifth.

As I continue to navigate this unexpected journey, I’ve found myself reflecting on my experiences of the Mass, from some of my earliest memories to now.

The church of my childhood had three priests, unfathomable today, when a single priest may serve two or even three parishes of that size. Mass was not confined just to the church itself. Sometimes we had two simultaneously, one in the church and one in the basement, to accommodate the crowds on Christmas and Easter. There was also a “family Mass,” which was held in the gym at the parish school.

I suspect family Mass was meant to be a place where it was recognized your children were going to behave like children. As an adult, I can see a certain appeal. But that certain appeal is fairly limited—I wonder what they did to bring any semblance of a sacred space to an elementary school gym. It was all folding chairs and the faint scent of Friday’s school lunch. I can vaguely remember climbing on my mom as a young child in that hot gym, full of questions. Some things never change.

In those early memories, three parts of the Mass stood out to me: pass the basket, shake hands, stand in line with a parent. Or: the offering, passing the peace, Communion. I knew the service was almost over after the stand in line part. I shared my “three things” with my dad one day, and he pointed out that these three things were not very even markers of the Mass, since they all occur in the second half. True, but I suppose in the world of the child, they represent the most activity. Faith seemed to me to be something you did. The first half involves more talking.

The prayers, responses, and corresponding actions were transmitted largely through osmosis. No one ever actually taught me when you say, “Glory to you, O Lord,” and when you say, “Thanks be to God,” but over time, you just know all of it. You’re really there when you can recite the Nicene Creed along with everyone else. I seem to remember I was 9 or 10.

That was my experience for a long time. I could participate, but I was a kid, so my real understanding was limited. I frequently found it boring. Our church was fairly ornate, much more so than ones I would later attend. If you gazed up at the ceiling, there were lots of pretty angels to look at. While my mind wandered, the music, rituals, and words were making pathways in my mind and heart.

When I went off to college, I saw the Newman Center as a place of comfort and familiarity. It was both those things, but it was also the most progressive expression of Catholicism I’ve ever experienced. Parishioners made the bread used for Communion. We always reached across the aisles during the Our Father, so as many people as possible were holding hands. The building was contemporary and modern, lacking both kneelers and a designated space for Confession. Minor but significant changes were made to the liturgy, which I’ve talked about here. The parish was served by a priest and a nun, who were both very involved in all aspects of ministry. My faith felt alive and meaningful to me in a way that it never had before. I served as a lector, usually at the 7 p.m. Mass on Sundays. I liked setting aside that time before the week ahead. And I really liked not having to wake up early. It felt more like a space that accepted me for who I was. And I think I was fairly seen, in all my messiness—the priest once gave me a penance to buy and use a planner. (Yes, really.)

The story of how and why Catholicism faded from my life is perhaps one I’ll tell in more detail someday. But for now, I’ll just acknowledge that a Newman Center was my last experience as a Catholic, both the one I attended in college, and later the one where my husband and I completed our marriage preparation.

So much life has happened since then. I’m middle aged, a mother, a feminist, and aware of both my own neurodivergence and that of my family. My lengthy absence has allowed me to experience Mass as familiar, but with depths I’d never really explored. It’s a bit like the rare time when you watch a favorite childhood show as an adult, surprised to find it still has something to say to you. I bought a copy of St. Joseph’s People’s Prayer Book, in part because I’ve enjoyed poring over the different forms of the liturgy. I wasn’t an English major twice over for nothing.

A sure sign of deeper meaning: Post-it tabs!

The Memorial Acclamation is what I find myself most drawn to now. The priest says, simply, “The mystery of faith.” At my church, we respond in song: “We proclaim your death, O Lord, and profess your resurrection, until you come again.” If you’re expecting me to have a profound revelation here, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you. I just like that, every time we celebrate the Mass, we honor that our faith is unknowable. It’s beyond reason. There are surely many aspects of our human existence we will never fully understand, but it’s not often that we just outright acknowledge that. Mystery—of death and resurrection, of transubstantiation, of the triune God—is central to our identity as Catholics. We don’t know, but we step forward in faith anyway.

I’ve always been contemplative. I’m sure I had big things on my mind when I was a bored kid, just like I do now. The beauty is in the liturgy meeting us where we are.

Shaking hands. (Peace be with you)

Gazing up at the angels. (Angel of God, my guardian dear)

Knowing I was accepted in all the messiness of my humanity. (In what I have done and what I have failed to do)

The ever-deepening mystery of faith. (Until you come again)

They’ve all become pathways of meaning, an antidote to emptiness, patiently waiting in the narthex for me to discover anew.