I was raised in a Catholic church, though I resigned upon receiving the sacrament of confirmation at age 15. Inside the church I felt more confused than convicted, there were too many questions that went unanswered, and quite honestly, for me, a palpable absence of God. The church we attended was in the next town over, given that our small farm town did not have a Catholic church of its own. A few years after my departure, rumblings began in our community about building a church right here. At the time, the town was experiencing rapid growth with subdivisions replacing farm land and new roads running through old sugar bushes. The population could now support a parish of its own.
No longer part of the church community, I do not recall the inception of the new church, but I do remember how modern it seemed in comparison to what most Catholics are accustomed to in their churches. It felt almost Methodist in its simplicity: clean functional lines with little fanfare, nothing ornate, gilded, or even a drop of stained glass in the place. At least, to my recollection. The south side of the building encased in a stunning amount of glass, allowing for God’s light to flood the pews. I remember appreciating that detail. Why bother with a gilded crucifix when you can fill the church with golden sun.
Recalling this time, I would be remiss not to share that the greatest bit of excitement in the community came not from the construction of a new church, but from the announcement of the new priest who would lead it. I’m going to try and describe this as tactfully as I can, and hopefully will not feel the need to attend confession when I’m done. The women of our town were very pleased with the new priest. He was young and friendly and ruggedly handsome and rode a Harley and was known to indulge in the occasional cold one. Think Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. (But less dancing and more praying.) Yeah. Women who long abandoned their church going ways now had their families at mass every Sunday morning, and sometimes on Saturday evening as well. There was even a not-so-secret but respectfully affectionate nickname for him: Father What-a-Waste. I probably don’t have to explain what that means. (Now I definitely feel the need to say five Hail Mary's and an Act of Contrition.)
I don’t know if he still resides as priest, but I do know he had the reputation of being a good one. Maybe it’s true that many of the women in town initially showed up for his rugged good looks, but it is also true that they stayed for his genuine faith, kind behavior, and charitable generosity.
Last night we drove past the church and noticed through the southern wall of glass that the inside was filled with candlelight. Hundreds of warm glowing candles. On the altar, in the parishioners hands, they were everywhere. It was an overwhelming sight in the best possible way. A quick to pass moment as we drove down the road that caused me to gasp aloud at its beauty. Adam asked if I wanted him to turn around and go back; of course I did. We pulled into the parking lot and backed the truck into one of the few empty spots, facing the glassed church. We sat quietly and watched for a couple of minutes. Then I remembered… Advent. It was the prettiest, most magical thing.