Recently I was at a natural food store with three friends of the yogic sort, one of whom is an Episcopal priest. This mix has huge happy hour discourse potential. Alas it is a working lunch and therefore dry. I found myself curious about the spiritual path of the priest in particular because without the collar I might have expected layers of mala beads.
I typically find others’ stories much more intriguing than my own so I was flummoxed when the question boomeranged. A seeker raised Catholic, I found myself saying I was a ‘non-practicing Catholic’. Whaaaaat? The things I love: the incense, the ritual, the quiet reverence to the great mysteries. The structure. The guilt. I was addicted to it all. And I had the best example possible in the most elegant and wise of practicing Catholics, my mother. For all that has been revealed that is wrong with the Catholic Church, my mother was right. Gone far too long and much too soon, my mother is my angel, my muse, my best friend, my example, the bar and arms I seek.
How could I have SAID that?
But it’s true. I haven’t been to Mass much in the last many months. This Ironman Texas (April 27) training and the sleeping habits of my millennial children make me weary of Sunday morning church fights in my home. Lame.
And then there’s Tony Bennett, head basketball Coach for the Virginia Cavaliers. He is in Minneapolis in virgin (for him) Final Four territory and gives credit where credit is due. To his blessings, the many blessings in life, indeed to his Jesus. He says is faith in Christ is the ‘greatest truth’ he knows. And he’s the darling of basketball, especially this weekend. No dirty tricks, no questionable recruiting tactics, Clorox white, humble to the core and I want some of that pie. I used to visit that bakery regularly.
Maybe, just maybe my Mass just looks a little different now. It is on a bike for 80 or 100 miles with my favorite people racing for a cause I never wanted but couldn’t live without. Maybe my Jesus is in the quiet of my heart as I beg for sleep or in the search and find for the will to take one more step toward that finish line or the lift of my arms as reach out to hug my sister. My Jesus is near. I just haven’t been to his house in a minute. He is in my house. In the brick one and the visceral one. And I know I practice a lot. Yoga and triathlon and love. I just miss Tony Bennett’s out loud Jesus. Maybe mine is just a little more quiet for now.
I won’t be quiet when Virginia takes on Auburn. Jesus, take the ball!
