Ship Jumping and Barnacle Scraping

Granted, I was praying cross-legged and barefoot on the floor of a Cathedral.

But somehow I wasn't expecting to be told off.

"Excuse me, dear. I thought I'd just let you know that we don't sit like that in church, dear. This is God's house, which means being reverent. Perhaps you're from a different spiritual background - are you a Catholic? Oh. Really? Yes, well, anyway, there are certain ways - appropriate ways - to sit in church. I'll be praying for you, dear."

She was kind-eyed and spoke with a tender voice, but I felt like I'd been slapped.

Mortified, and now also painfully aware of my hemline - which was considerably above the knee - I crawled back to my pew and knelt down like a good Catholic girl.

Wounded pride stings. I angled my face away from my admonisher so she couldn't see the tears on my face. Weekday Mass was starting in twenty minutes, but in that moment, all I wanted to do was leave.

I was mad. Not, bless her soul, at the woman herself. I was mad at the Church, and Christians who judge, and every person whose words have ever made another human want to leave God's presence.

I was mad that the reasons many people have for not wanting to be part of the Catholic Church are emotionally valid, grounded in memories of inhospitable glares, judgmental comments, or painful associations.

And I was sad - I am so, so sad - that many people will never have the chance to experience the hope, mercy, and fullness of life that is found in Jesus Christ because those who claim to believe in His love behave in a way not in accordance with that love.

Some days, I want to leave.

I sit in history class and hear horror stories of corrupt clergy, crusades, and purchased papacies - and I pray, "Oh, sweet Jesus, is this really your Church?"

I turn on the news and hear yet another story of abuse or misconduct - and I pray, "Oh, sweet Jesus, is this really your Church?"

I go to a hurried Mass said in disinterested tones where every parishioner sits at least two metres away from another human and hovers at the door only to exchange neighbourly gossip - and I pray, "Oh, sweet Jesus, is this really your Church?"



I am in love with Jesus with every fibre of my being. I believe in His mission of Good News, and I want to devote my whole life to sharing in that mission.

But the ship He built - the Church He began for the purpose of that mission - it's covered in barnacles.

And those barnacles hurt. I wish they weren't there.

Perhaps the lady in Church today was right to tell me off. But there are many things in the Church that aren't right - whether that's mistakes from the Middle Ages, or scandal, or outright loveless judgments that reject the dignity of precious human souls.

Some days I really, really want to jump ship - because the effort it takes to scrape the barnacles and renew the Church in its core identity as a mission of God's Love is exhausting.

For some reason, though, I stay.

Today, when I wanted to get up and leave, Jesus asked me: why do you stay in the Church?

My literal and my broad-scale answer were the same: the Eucharist. The God of Incarnation who daily makes Himself available in my reality so we can be eternally in union.

I believe that the Church is God's great tool for loving me, and loving the world through me. Stripped back from its manifold sins, mistakes, and uglinesses, I really do believe the Church of Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. I believe it even when I don't believe it.

I love the Church, even and especially when I don't love the Church.

Because Love is what transforms things.

A little while ago, I was talking to a friend about their relationship struggles. They were battling to look past the frustrations they found in the other person, and were somewhat embittered by the continuing discovery of imperfection, weakness, and "irreconcilable differences" in the one they loved.

But their commitment to loving that person was transforming them every day to Love like God does. By naming the things they were grateful for in the other, claiming the victories in the relationship, and looking forward with hope to the ways God would bring about good in the world through that precious soul, they were reminded of the value of the relationship.

No human is without their faults and failings. No human institution is without its deeply ingrained faults and failings.

When I look at the Church, God doesn't just call me to love in spite of brokenness, but because of brokenness.

Only Love can heal. Only Love can transform. Only Love can scrape the barnacles to let this ship sail smoothly.

It's the beautiful reality of every good human relationship that God should use two broken things to fix each other.

For me and the Church, it's the same story. By choosing to be united with the Church, even when I wish she were different, I'm enabling healing in both of us - and hopefully in the world, too.

On those days, then, when I want to claim "irreconcilable differences" and walk away forever, Jesus asks me to Love more.

Weep for the wrongdoing, yes. Fight for truth and mercy to prevail, yes. Exhort and challenge towards positive change, yes.

But don't jump ship. Love wears down the barnacles, if only you invite Him to.