Church Hopping

The Honeymoon Edition

I’ve been Church Hopping¹ since the summer of 2020. Which means a lot of “concerned evangelicals” have felt justified to ask, “What are you searching for.”

That first summer I claimed to be searching for holy ground. However I already knew that it was wherever a Saint steps — wherever God speaks to us and we listen in prayer. I have never been searching for anything as much as I’ve been interested to see what it is that others claim to have found. It thrills me to see that it’s all pretty much the same, in minor degrees. Some pastors are more boring than others. Everyone makes claims about the “other” churches in town. Everyone has their rituals, their deeds, the words-that-are-not works. And very few are curious about the others.

remake of a Viking Catholic church from around 1000 BC

“Seek and ye shall find,” they murmur among themselves in the territory of their home-church, patting one another on the back because they somehow found truth without seeking it. Why aren’t the others seeking it? They’d be here among them if they sought… if they loved the truth, as they loved the Bible.

Not all. Only the majority. Maybe not even that many… only a few loud ones.

I, too, among them, also vocal, a little charismatic, a little opinionated, forgetting what it means to seek before you find.

Now I have dragged my husband in on the game of flirting with the appearance of universalism. And yet we are no more of a universalist than Paul or St. Francis of Assisi or C. S. Lewis. We are curious, alive, and nonplussed by the promissory comforts of the world. This world is not our home, and neither is a single building.

And yet… if you seek, ye shall find. It matters not that my intentions were no different than that of an atheist — to attend, to observe, to write. I am relating to the woman at the front of the church who is not Catholic, but hired to sign the sermon and songs out for the deaf attendees, thus hearing every word of the priest and chorus more thoroughly than any of the parishioners… and finding that her job has morphed into a spiritual awakening.

I am finding community, kindred spirits, Truth outside of my Understanding of it, and a narrow path. I am becoming less curious as a larger passion consumes my heart and soul. I have found the fire that paves holy ground.

We intended to attend Mass while on our honeymoon — something difficult to do when you have no agency over where you will be day from day as hitchhikers reliant upon the goodwill of strangers and public transit. We joked about putting up a cardboard sign, our thumbs in the air, “TAKE US TO CHURCH.” Maybe someday.

Instead we went where we could.

The first place was Anglican, and in Newfoundland, and run by little old ladies — thirty of them to be precise, scattered in the pews , in the choir, and at the altar. There were only five men, all of them seated. It was truly a church for widows, a church that was doing it’s very best to remain active, putting on plays and picnics even though there were no young people or children. The spirit was there with those little, old ladies. It was comforting them, pushing them forward even though they had lost much. It was reminding them of all that awaited them in Paradise. And they were ready.

They gave us cookies, and greeted us with forgotten, motherly smiles, as if we were not mere strangers but apparitions of heavenly promises. We were their reminder to keep hoping, and they were our nudge toward charity. For upon first entrance, we were not thrilled to see every position filled by women. We sat, we witnessed, and we listened. They had not killed God in that church — they were doing the best they could.

After that we found different Catholic churches to pray in, always far away when Sunday came around. There was a large one — a shrine — on the border of Quebec, Labrador, and Newfoundland — and then another a little further into Quebec in an Inuit village that, although, Catholic, hearkened to the traditions of these people, too. And I remember thinking, contrary to Protestant propaganda, how beautiful it is that the Catholic church allows people to retain the beautiful parts of their peoples’ history.

After that we walked by a window that sported “Seventh Day Adventist” in a French-Canadian Maine town. It was a Thursday, and we’ve already determined to stay in town for a French-Acadian Mass on Sunday.

“Let’s go there,” I told my husband. “It might be a little frustrating, but it’ll be a good experience for you.”

He agreed, and so we brought ourselves and our backpacks there Saturday morning. The church was new — it looked more like a main street business because of its location and the large windows. There were only six or so people instead.

“Can we join you all?” I asked. “No, I am not Seventh Day Adventist, but I’ve attended many services because my family keeps Sabbath on Saturday.”

We put our bags in front of a pile of unopened boxes of “The Great Controversy” and they handed us a booklet on Romans and two pens. The room was ugly, like a ware house, except for the lace curtains in the windows. For the next two hours we “studied the Bible”, mostly discussing how wonderful Jesus is, and what it means to pray — how often we should pray and what makes prayer sincere — and how all Protestant churches are basically Catholic because they acknowledge the authority of Rome and the Pope to change the Sabbath from Saturday to Sunday. We enjoyed it, because most of it was wholesome and they did not ask us what our thoughts on Catholicism were, but were loving toward us.

The church service was bland, hard to follow. I tatted a lace bookmark to try and keep awake. The man was likable, but he droned on about a Bible story, not really recounting it accurately. I don’t think that was the point of his speaking though — they were simply allowing him a moment to speak, because he was a man and the church had few members and needed participation from everyone in order to be keep the spirit alive.

They did not give us cookies, but something better — a meal of various dishes bean and rice dishes. There was fresh homemade hummus, too. As we ate, everyone continued to ramble on about how awful it was that other churches didn’t care to follow all of the ten commandments.

“Evangelicals want the ten commandments in schools, and yet they do not want them in their churches.”

“If children came home from school and refused to do their homework on Saturday, most Christian parents would not be happy.”

“There’s a church in town that has the ten commandments hanging on the outside of their building,” the pastor said. “So I talked to them about it, and asked them why they don’t care about the fourth commandment. Oh, boy! The pastor said he’d get back to me, and let me tell you, Oh, boy, oh boy, that he finally decided that it he could piecemeal a bunch of verses today and how he thinks he can prove that Jesus wants us to keep all the commandments now EXCEPT that one.”

That night the pastor let us stay in his house, and as he showed us all his proof for Saturday Sabbath, and how the Catholic church as duped nearly all mainstream churches, Andy finally confessed, “I am a Roman Catholic, and I believe the Church had the authority to change the Sabbath to distinguish us from the Jewish faith.”

The man started. Then he said, “Well, I think Jesus will save Catholics, too, even though they are only keeping nine of ten of God’s commandments. But they will be judged for disregarding the Sabbath Day.”

We were friends now.

In the middle of Maine we attended one other church. All the days leading up to it were edifying. We’d spend a wonderful evening with an elderly Mormon couple who’d found us hitchhiking then brought us home to “show us some literature”. It was not the Book of Mormon. They handed us a glass of orange juice and a box of raisins and played old 60s and 70s love songs for us, then told us their love story, of how they had a temple wedding in Switzerland, of their fourteen children, eighty-eight grandchildren and seventeen great-grandchildren. After we played a game of cards, they brought us to our destination, where we stayed with a quaker-esque hippie christian family. This family brought us to their church the next day.

It was as if God was aware of our desire to attend a mass all month. Although the church was small and non-denominational, it felt how an early church might feel, or how a Catholic mass might feel if it were in someone’s home. They prayed and sang some of the songs you’d hear in a Catholic church — along with songs from an Assemblies of God or baptist type non-denominational church. They said the Apostles Creed together, and did communion as a Catholic church does, with everyone coming up front and receiving it in long lines from the pastor. The sermon was sound — like a homily, and did not feel as scattered with pieces of scripture as many non-denominational church services are. We were spellbound. If it weren’t for how modern everyone seemed to be dressed, I’d have thought we had been transported to an era before the Reformation.

After it was over, I asked the pastor if their church had Catholic influence.

He laughed, said no, that if there were ex-catholic members they would probably oppose these traditional Orthodox inclusions. No, these were things he’d included because from his studies and experiences he’d come to believe that there was a lot that Protestantism lost when it spurned tradition and ritualism, and he was slowly trying to incorporate it back into Church. “It’s in our roots, too.”

I talked to his wife and told her about my Living Room Academy (she’d heard of it), and how it was partially inspired by my travels in woke circles when I realized that many lesbians and liberal women were doing a better job at being women and passing on beauty and skills than christian women. Her eyes opened wide, “You’re right.” I’ve heard that since we left she’s decided to open her own iteration of the Living Room Academy for the girls in their church.

What I loved about their church was they didn’t seem be stuck in their bubble… their Church wasn’t really their “home” as much as it was them trying to find out what home means by looking to the past and looking to Paradise. They seem to be doing a very good job at making it work — their church was filled with children, and happy-looking teenagers, and a diversity of fashion from very beautiful dresses to jeans with frilly purses. There seemed to be room for expression of Faith.

After that we finally made it to a mass in Fitchburg, Massachusetts. And I gotta admit, it kinda felt like coming home. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to love attending Catholic churches with my husband. There’s still a lot of questions I’ve had to sort through about the Church and whether or not I can in good consciousness submit myself to its authority. However, being there, surrounded by the beauty of the type that God requested when He detailed the temple he wanted from the Jews, feels like being at home… in Paradise. Everything else feels so earth-like, so business-minded and corporate and mechanical. Even though the “music” of mainstream churches claims to have more life in their show, there’s nothing quiet like the chorus in a Cathedral. And while you might get a good sermon in a Protestant church, you’re not going to hear near as much scripture read as is read at mass. Most Protestants would complain if they had to sit through half of what is read — they want a Bible verse that corroborates a sermon. Meanwhile you might get about fifteen minutes of rich preaching at a Mass — the rest is pure scripture.

It’s almost a hobby now — I will certainly never stop church hopping, of comparing and pondering. I want our children to have these experiences. So many wonderful conversations have sprung up between my husband and me because of these visits, and we are finding ourselves growing more spiritually aligned because of it.

And so I will continue to exhort anyone of any faith: visit the churches around you, no matter their denomination. Every church has something to offer you, and will give you an opportunity at practicing humility and charity.

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1. if you want to read the rest of my church hopping series, search “church hopping” tag on my substack. I should have about five articles.