Easter Someday

If you had told me a year ago that I’d no longer be going to church and flirting with Anglicanism… well, I actually might have believed you. That’s because last year on Easter, I became an atheist in the pew of my own church.

Okay, not really, but close enough. That Easter Sunday, I sat in church and listened to the message given, as I always had. And yet, for some reason, on that day I heard a message that made me realize that everything I’d been taught had little ground to stand on. You want an easy way to spin into frustration and depression? That’ll do it.

Months later, while still harboring bitterness (some justified, most not) against the evangelical church as a whole, I decided I wasn’t getting any better. So I left.

And now, here I am. One year later, and my flailings and failings have tossed me into the last place I ever would have expected: the Anglican Catholic Church.

When I decided to leave, it was suggested that I look at the early church for guidance. Seeing the history of the Church might help me understand what the apostles and their direct-descending church leaders created. So I started reading, and what I found surprised me: the early church has a lot more in common with the traditional, liturgical church than any other church model I’ve seen or heard of.

So now, I’m dipping my toe in. The tradition is foreign to me. It honestly kind of scares me. But you know what’s funny? It’s the closest I’ve felt to understanding what it means to fear God, and what it means to embrace a mysterious, seemingly contradictory story that goes beyond our understanding. It took me a while to get here, but I’m trying (which, I think most can agree, even if you don’t understand or agree with the liturgical tradition, is better than doing nothing).

I’m writing this at one in the morning in the spare bedroom of a family I love dearly. A family who has shown me great care, given me much love and acted as a major sounding board during this frustrating yet fruitful time of my life. They are also the ones that have brought me here. Tomorrow, on Easter, I will be sitting with them in a pew, breathing in the incense, watching my good friend in a funny white-and-purple robe, stumbling over prayers read out of a book, all in great wonder and bemusement, because I won’t understand most of the ceremonial procession I’ll be seeing. And somehow, that feels more right than I ever would have imagined.