Praise Be

My life has been short on epiphanies and scant of miracles, and maybe I don't know what I'm missing? After sleepovers in grade school, my best friend Cathleen would beg me to keep her company at Catholic mass and, forever loyal, I did. The ceremony of it felt fun. It was nice to see our neighbors, people were friendly enough but the yawns came quick and fierce. We were 10; no passing judgment here. If it wasn't hooked up to a NES controller, we weren't too fond of it.

When clients started telling me in desk-side chats, hallways and mock interviews, that God was their guiding force and life compass, I perked up a bit. Not appropriate to tell an employer, sure, but there was something to this faith of theirs: Baptist, Pentecostal, Methodist. . . a Neapolitan of options. I decided one Sunday to attend a service. Good counselors have empathy and multicultural awareness. My thought is that if I am to counsel those who believe (most of us), then I ought to know where they get and give so much of their love and devotion.

I went to a predominantly black church on the South Side, accompanied by a good Sister and volunteer where I work. It couldn't have happened otherwise. Not how it did. I wouldn't have had a receiving line to bid me welcome; I may not have had a raw palm after shaking so many hands and saying "Praise the Lord" countless times instead of "Hello"; and I certainly wouldn't have been recognized by the Pastor, a hero and king among these men and women, in front of a congregation of more than 3,000. Televised. One of only several white faces in the room.

As I get older, I seek more opportunities to be the minority, feeling it's where the greatest gifts are found. This experience, surrounded by bellowing voices of worship and gratitude swelling with tidal waves in tongues and through tears. . . it was otherworldly. While I was there, somewhat exhausted from experiential overload, I felt it too. Not the presence of the Lord. Jesus wasn't over my shoulder. I wasn't saved.

But there is a magic in the vibration of so many voices singing the same song. Stomping their feet. Looking only upward not sideways to judge. Just unrelenting vulnerability for all to see. And, truth be told, I felt set free that day in Woodlawn. I stopped feeling anyone's glance and looked inward instead. And I have faith; faith in the power of a community like this to do something immense and positive.

No one would have to beg me to go again. Of my own free will, I'm at your service.

The Holy Book

I picked up the Bible yesterday. We have a cute yellow designer copy leftover from the previous owner of our condo. Kind of like a Best Western, it was in the bedside table. Since starting my graduate degree pursuits, I've maintained that I need to get to know religion if I am to effectively counsel those who believe (i.e. 95 percent of humans). I'm in the minority but more than that, I'm ignorant.

My parents were rebels in a few important ways; one being pulling away from the church and its teachings after being raised Catholic. Right on! Except that leaves me an empty slate. All at once I lament not knowing Job from Deuteronomy. And my ignorance isn't just biblical, it's all encompassing toward religion. I went to church and temple growing up but those are mere freckles on my holy past.

I'm intrigued. Marc was also raised Catholic and rebelled so he's a good default for, "I know this is biblical honey, but tell me the origins." I'm impressed he retained so much from his time at St. Monica's in Kalamazoo. I don't even remember the 50 state capitols (ok, I probably do, but don't test me). His knowledge comes in handy, but my curiosity has made me crack the binding on the Book.

A couple chapters into Genesis and I've got more questions than answers. I suppose that is to be expected. What I think is really cool about attending a religious service surrounding the Book is it's a chance to come together with a common focus. Like a big book club. Talk about the stories and interpret in real life. That's what our gaggle did with "The Help" last month. We laughed, explored and exclaimed and that's a lot of how I might like to go about the house of worship experience.

My interest of late comes from the number of offers I've received from volunteers and clients to attend their church service, not as a process of recruitment per se, rather to invite me into a community. I dig that, and I'm up for it. All in the name of research and expelling ignorance, as we all need to do in one way or another.