Perhaps I’ve become distracted by spirit worlds and heavenly realms and future paradises. The colorful plot twists of Christianity’s evolution have captured my imagination. I have to remind myself what this story is really about, and my original question of how it speaks to regular life lived right now.
All of it goes back to a person called Jesus and the core values he expressed during his time on Earth. His was a message of love and sacrifice. Through his example, I am meant to feel loved so that, in turn, I can do my part to love and care for humanity. I am meant to grow comfortable, confident even, walking this planet with the knowledge that my life as I know it will not last long. I have to concentrate to allow this core lesson to resonate in my chest.
Each time I step foot in a church or sing a hymn or read a Bible verse, am I supposed to automatically return to this basic message—triggered like a buried memory?
Not long ago, with my Martin Luther picture book in hand, I had imagined the experience of worship in a Catholic church as one of passive observation: ritual as beautiful, remote spectacle. I have stepped foot in countless Catholic churches as a tourist both here and in Europe and admired the opulent interiors that, even when not in use, are alive with statuary and reflective surfaces.
I may have come a long way on this journey, but it doesn’t compare to the distance the Catholic Church has traveled—first to the Atlantic shores of this continent and then towards the Pacific.
The plain and intimate chapel I walk into is surprising. The walls are stark white, the furniture simple. The one bit of sparkle comes from the flames of two candles atop the modest altar. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a Protestant church.
As I take a seat in a basic wood pew, I conjure the image of a pampered and perfumed lady making her way across the American plains in a covered wagon. Each stage of the journey, she sheds a facet of her fancy facade. Illness forces her to trade jewelry for medicine, the wind takes her silk scarf, the sun freckles her porcelain skin. Finally, she arrives at her destination indistinguishable from the other pioneering women who’ve made the same journey: weathered, weary, and windblown.
The only initial indication that this is an outpost of the mighty Catholic Church is a fat book tucked next to the hymnals, which I pull out and flip through. In this volume, every mass of the entire year is spelled out. The “lectionary cycle” insures the Bible is completed on a regular schedule, mandating which parts are read when. The format, authorized by the authorities in Rome, is shared by Catholic churches all over the world: first, a reading from the Old Testament or, at specific times of the year, books of the New Testament; a responsorial Psalm that is, ideally, sung; a second reading from one of the New Testament Letters (only on Sundays); and finally a Gospel reading. Throw in a few hymns and communion. Bada bing, bada boom! You’ve got a service.
Even the communion wafers are mandated. The priest hands each person a tasteless disk of unleavened cracker. No random chunks of misshapen loaves here. Someone, somewhere, is in charge of purchasing Lord’s Supper supplies from a centralized source.
Consistency is key; codes and canons have standardized the practices. It’s a reminder that this denomination has a figure who’s something like a king, a human who speaks on behalf of God. While each church is a finger or toe of this single body, decisions are made by the head. It’s in part what Luther was reacting to when he wrote his manifesto of desired reforms. He wasn’t so much opposed to the consolidated power as what it meant: mandates or traditions he found disagreeable could not be easily changed.
Yet in the 500 or so years since Luther, the Catholic Church has made significant changes, some of which are exactly what Luther was calling for in his day.
As the day’s service unfolds, I imagine what Martin Luther might think if he were sitting next to me…