1/5/25, wee update: Our same Catholic church-which-does-all-things-brilliantly emailed me a month ago about a welcome social brunch scheduled for today. It was their first social since pandemic lockdown. They wanted to welcome all the people who had registered with the church since 2020. The brunch followed the largest Sunday Mass, so that the most people could walk right over after the service to the large hall across the street. The program sounded really nice! Something hopeful and shy in me responded right away to the email. Then every day for weeks I gazed at the event on my calendar and looked forward to going.

So good, the brunch was today at 10:30. At 10:33 I was just walking down the steps to the hall, and crossed paths with a woman who was already leaving. She was very attractive and well dressed with a pleasant manner, younger than me, in her 40s or so. We greeted each other. We introduced ourselves as Catherine, and Mary. Catherine very graciously welcomed me to the event and pointed out the exact entrance. I thanked her, confiding that I’d never been to one of these parish welcomes before. She confided right back that she hadn’t either. In fact she’d stepped in, took one look around, and headed right back out the exit.

“I guess I am just not any good at being sociable,” she confessed.

“I’m plenty sociable,” I told her, “and really want close people in my life. I’m just not any good at finding them at church socials.”

“Oh, I want close people too,” she hastened to add. “But at this event I lasted about three minutes.” She wished me a good time, and went her way.

It turns out that in the last four years, some 425 people plus their kids had registered with this church. The tables were packed with young couples and proportionally way more babies and kidlets than one would see anywhere else in town. I floated around nodding and smiling at everyone, looking for a place to sit. Finally I perched on the edge of the stage and pulled out my lentil soup and spoon, tuning in to the atmosphere and listening to the conversations all around while the children ran shrieking with joy around and around and around me and the hall. The couples looked on happily, cuddling babies and pointing out their kids and sharing conversations about parenting.

Now, I should have gone to the kitchen at the back and volunteered. I should have asked “Is this seat free?” and plunked myself down to meet some young families. I should have invited Catherine out for tea. But this grip of sadness came over me, as if my heart were bleeding light. The light turned to tears pouring out of my eyes, so I put the soup away and left for the bus home.

(Christmas at our Catholic church: Poinsettias at the altar rail.)

There’s a human experience out there called building a Faith Community. According to wise and spiritually attuned people, we can not be saved for eternity except within the safe ark of the Church. According to these wise people, faith community leads to the deepest most powerful intimacy possible: being members of the literal Body of Christ, the mystical transformative union of people who share in sacraments and ritual week after week for life.

The formula is that this begins with showing up at the services and becoming a member, so people can see us as familiar and dependable. Next it means titheing and teaming up to administer the church and also serve those less fortunate. Next it means carrying each other’s burdens and interacting with vulnerability to know and be known in our deepest selves. Next we open ourselves up and bathe in the love of the Holy Spirit shed abroad in the hearts of the faithful around us. We become true brothers and sisters in Christ in unconditional love and honesty and trust and sterling accountability, forged into true stable lasting family who show up for one another no matter what, and that’s the true solution to the loneliness of being human. As a kindly Orthodox priest said to me, “This congregation is here so that YOU won’t ever be alone.”

And according to the wise people, that starts with coffee hour. As one Catholic wife & mom urged me, “If you are single, then show up after Mass, take a seat with us, share a beverage and doughnut. And then this coffee hour will become the true family life that you are longing for.” Even Dr. John Delony on his podcast made the point that statistically, people who make it a point to join in a worship community do much much better in every area of their lives. Certainly people in churches look infinitely happier and more socially integrated than I am. So I keep going back.

The initial step in belonging is that all-important first conversation, where the community forms an impression of who you are, and your place in the congregation. It’s vital to put one’s best foot forward, and to say the right things. That starts with giving good answers to friendly get-acquainted questions. For some of us, that’s a delicate art.

At an Orthodox church some 20 years ago I sat down at coffee hour and was greeted by Olga and Irina, two Russian ladies born before the First World War. “You are not Orthodox, are you my dear? What is your background?” Olga asked.

“I’m an Irish Catholic who loves the Orthodox faith as well,” I told her.

The two exchanged looks. “What you are?” they asked again.

“I’m Irish,” I said.

“What?”

I switched to Russian. “Ia irlándka.”

“Chtó oná govorít? What is she saying?” the two of them asked one another.

I tried the country name. “Irrr-LAN-di-a.”

“Ah!” They beamed and nodded. “Wonderful. Welcome.”

The next week, the ladies had an amazing surprise for me. First, they tracked down the right parishioners, who tracked down the right relatives, who tracked down the right care home staff, who arranged the right access van, and synchronized a whole successful operation to bring a special guest to church. That Sunday after Liturgy, in the parish hall, the ladies eagerly introduced me to a very frail looking but dapperly dressed gentleman. The Russians all around us gathered to watch the excitement as he and I were introduced. Our venerable guest kissed my hand and greeted me. My smile froze; his Russian was incomprehensible to me. As onlookers watched for my delighted reaction, I struggled to figure out what dialect this was, but to no avail. Well, he was probably saying something along the lines of “Hyvää huomenta. Miten voit? Mikä sinun nimesi on?“

“See?” the ladies beamed. “Like you: he is from Finlándia!” But soon my dumb look and inability to respond sensibly to this dear man made for a great disappointment to everyone at the table.

It took a week or two for everyone to establish that my heritage was Irish. Then Olga said “This then you will know: V Amérike, Któ sámy velíkii irlándets? In America, who is the very greatest Irishman? We admire him very much.”

I looked around at the group. “Uh. John Fitzgerald Kennedy?”

“What? No no no no no,” Olga said. “AH re li. AH re li.”

Hm. Well, that li was the Russian past plural ending. The word sounded rather like the Russian verb “they howled.” But… Who? “Któ?” I asked them. Who was doing the howling??

Olga prodded my arm, giving me a triumphant knowing hint. “Bil!”

“Bil?” Well, that was easy: bil is the singular masculine past tense of “to beat.” So some man beat people until they howled. That was their idea of the greatest Irishman?

Olga repeated everything again. “Bil! Bil! AH re li. AH re li.“

Finally Irina turned to Olga. “I think Americans call him Bill O’Reilly.”

Olga just shook her head, waving away the whole sorry conversation. After that day, after their two attempts to make me feel at home, the two women gave up and stopped speaking to me altogether. “Imagine,” Olga said to Irina as they stood up and put on their coats. “An Irish, and does not know Bil Areli!”

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My latest foray at finding community was this year on Christmas Eve, at our Catholic church of some 1,000 households. There was an absolutely beautiful holiday reception in the decorated parish hall. Here is only one of four tables loaded with homemade treats. (Those two round pastries in the front are baked Brie cheese pies, one with apple and one with fig.)

This 6:30 event had to be a short visit for me; I planned to leave the building at 7:00. The church neighborhood experiences armed robberies and attacks every single week, at all hours. Last week, one bus stop away from this very church, a city worker minding his own business carrying out his city job was murdered by a random stranger. It made all the local headlines, and people left flowers and candles on that corner:

(Leaving early turned out to be a good idea on that Christmas Eve. At 7:00 pm every single business was closed, and my bus home was completely empty. So were the dark foggy streets, with not a car or pedestrian anywhere the whole way. It was a great relief to get back home and in the door again.)

Meanwhile, the church greeters welcomed me right in. “You’re joining us for Midnight Mass, right?”

“I would love to,” I told them. “But I only stopped by for a prayer upstairs and to meet you all down here and thank you for creating this beautiful event. Then I need to get back on the bus home for safety’s sake.”

Their faces fell. “But can’t you stay with us for Mass and the reception?” Judging by the full parking lot, it’s likely that these early arrivals had cars right outside the door, and families to ride home with.

“Well, I’d better go earlier,” I said. Then I felt anxious to explain that this was not a reflection on their beautiful event. “What with the murder up the street this past week.”

The friendly folks around me were left at a total loss for words.

That cast a pensive shadow over the greeting committee. So I thanked them all again and moved on in to the reception, and took an empty seat next to a friendly married couple. They invited me to help myself to the festive treats, and eagerly asked me the standard Catholic question: “What is your usual Mass?” Orthodox people don’t ask this. Their churches have one Liturgy on Sunday, and with the readings before and after that’s over two hours. Their churches are smaller and there are no pews, so everyone is in full view as they file up to venerate the icons; you were there and they all know that, or you weren’t and they know that too. But Catholics ask you this to glimpse which parish social set you run with, and who at the church will know you. It’s a friendly interest question. The deep true answer is, “Mass attendance depends upon my level of existential anguish on any given day.” Instead I say “Oh, depends. The Masses all have their own appeal, and I really like those different experiences. I visit other Catholic churches too. And Orthodox churches as well.” I handed them my Orthodox daily prayer book. The husband looked at the book cover, written in liturgical Greek letters. He turned away from me and began murmuring at his wife about a work project he was planning at their home. I waited a few minutes, and then got up and tiptoed away.

Upstairs at the church I knelt down for a quiet prayer. Early Mass was just ending. The manger crèche had been put up that very evening.

Apparently, in this parish the manger scene is the setting for a joyful tradition: Dozens of families were lining up to exclaim over the Baby Jesus and to have their pictures taken on their small pilgrimage to the stable. During my half hour visit, wave after wave of excited little ones took turns rushing up to the altar rail to stand for pictures, and young couples posed with infants in arms. The church rafters echoed with laughter and excitement and greetings. It was nice to watch these family portraits in the making, keepsakes to share in future years. I caught my breath trying to envision how wonderful it would be, to have a person of my own alongside me for pictures and Mass.

Finally one woman pointed me out and whispered “I think we’re disturbing that lady there.” Her family turned to look at me.

I gave her my warmest smile, standing up to greet them all. “YOU are re-creating the true spirit of Christmas. The Holy Family has been here just waiting for your visit.”

They beamed back at me, and started arranging each other in rows for their Christmas portrait.

I picked up my coat, and caught the bus.