St. Cecelia’s anchors the corner of SW Franklin and 5th in Beaverton, OR. just two blocks from my apartment. It’s a busy place. Between five Sunday masses, a school, a food pantry, a parish hall, a separate office building, and an athletic field, the parking lot is often full, and people seem to be around, in and out, much of the day.

There have been several chapters in my life when I’ve attended Mass as frequently as a Protestant Sunday service. The first time I attended Mass regularly, I was hiding. My parents divorced while Dad was still a minister. It was devestating.

Dad’s sermons—the heart of Presbyterian Sunday morning worship—devolved from sophisticated simplicity to plain simple. He once described good preaching as akin to juggling. Not that year. I’d comment with the disgust of a 21-year-old, “Dad, you’re barely even rolling the ball.”

However, I wasn’t hiding at St. Mary’s because of bad preaching. I was hiding from the congregation I loved, the one that had lavished love on me. I was in pain, and they were in pain, but I didn’t want to talk about it. They did. A lot. The gossip, a community’s way of processing bad news, was often unkind, and I overheard too much of it.

So, I went to St. Mary’s, where I could be unknown—even, I hoped, to God.

I like being in a Catholic Church and participating in Mass. A Roman Catholic sanctuary offers something for all your senses and every learning style.

Kinesthetic souls get busy immediately upon entering, dipping their fingers in water and making the sign of the Cross. Next is a deep knee bend—genuflecting—to acknowledge the Cross as one enters the pew. There are candles to light and kneelers for prayer. On Good Friday, one can venerate the Cross by kissing the feet of Jesus. There’s even incense on special occasions—too much for my sensitive sinuses, but a gentle waft of grace for others.

Visual references to the story of God abound. Catholicism is an old faith, and it’s one onto which many cultures have grafted their local customs, including art.

Central NY cities, specifically Binghamton and Utica, have strong Italian influences. Not known for restraint—a $14 plate of spaghetti would feed ten—Italian church art was equally over the top to a kid who grew up with wooden dining room chairs and no cushions.

The Sacred Heart of Jesus had detailed veins and arteries. There was Jesus writhing on the Cross, and statues of grim Saints who looked seconds from martyrdom. Stations of the Cross lined the outer walls, and the message that Jesus died for our sins was impossible to miss. I stayed in the middle of the church, wanting nothing to do with candle-lit, spooky alcoves.

Yet, if the art was intense, the pageantry of the liturgy and sounds of Mass were deeply centering. Priests who understand this universal, holy dance—one that connects believers across time (past, present, and future) and across continents—weave wildly diverse individuals into a vivid fabric of faith. For a time, they even captured me.