pew

The voices of the choir resonate in the vast space. The decoration is ornate and decadent. Columns of marble hoist the ceiling to the right and left, holding up the tall arch of the ceiling in the center. The walls, ceilings, and doorways are decorated with carvings of figures and words or paintings and patterns. Intricate designs are chipped from solid stone or concrete. There are gorgeous stained glass windows on either side.

The alter is large, solid, and central on the raised platform to the front. On the sides of the platform stand two Christmas trees, exceptionally decorated with tinsel and ornaments. The priest wears his elaborate robes, reciting melodic chants that those in attendance repeat back reflexively. More than once he swings a small orb, filled with smoking incense, in rhythm as he circles the alter, spreading the aromatic fumes.

The Church is meant to be a sanctuary or a place for answers. Decoration, elaborate architecture, and ceremonial repetition further the indoctrination of its visitors. The funds to build such a structure were provided by these indoctrinated masses. Their donations, collected just before the climax of service in small baskets, provide the financial backbone.

Constructing this beautiful place must have cost a small fortune. A modest building, with seating for twice as many, would have served the same purpose, the excess going to providing care and assistance to those in need. Instead it went toward a statue of the crucified Jesus and tutorial carvings. A church is meant to be impressive and intimidating.

Mass tonight, on Christmas Eve, is the seventieth such mass to take place within these expensive walls. How much has changed in that time? What has the Church done to bring light and salvation to the millions? The message bellowed from alter to pew is one of compassion and unity. That message is repeated back from pew to alter with hallow voices. It is a knee-jerk response without feeling. How has the Church made an impact with its accumulated donations?

Seventy years ago this nation was in the midst of transition. We were just past World War I and not yet in World War II. We were recovering from the first Gilded Age by suffering through the first Great Depression. Later, through military contracts and benefits, we would regain a middle class. We would be seen as a benevolent superpower. We would protect the world from Atheist Communists and Muslim Fascists. Our nation, while this building stood near the banks of Lake Michigan, grew rich and powerful on an unparalleled scale, but what has changed globally?

Third World nations of the thirties remain Third World nations with the exception of those sitting on precious oil reserves. The economic explosion that benefited the most powerful nations has caused practically nothing positive for the others. Corruption, starvation, and exploitation are just as prevalent as they were. The Church hasn’t attempted to slow the tide of economic and political exploitation, it has promoted it.

The Church, though preaching tolerance and peace, has, throughout its history, consistently acted against their teachings. Those with dissimilar beliefs are seen as inferior and demonized. It took decades for it to recognize the horrors of the Holocaust. It perpetually opposes scientific breakthroughs that stand in defiance of their core beliefs. It ignores obvious commonalities between it and other established religions while millions die in the crosshairs of that misunderstanding.

The pews around me aren’t half filled. The hollow chants are meek and unimpressive. As recent as three years ago the benches were filled with more standing to the sides and rear. Those around me are with their family or old. The empty seats echo with those who either chose another mass or avoided it altogether. The ones that made it appear to be here in some sort of shallow gesture of their belief or as a part of a long-standing tradition. There is no connection to what they hear or any emotion behind what they say.

Faith did not lay this pew beneath me or raise the ceiling above me. Faith is individual and adept. The people around me, reciting long-memorized, but rarely pondered, words and phrases don’t seem to have faith. Their voices drift past me without intensity. They are a collective. They are obedient drones listening to hypocritical words that have been read, in different languages across the globe, for centuries. The words have failed to change the nature of things. The buildings, like this one, where they chant have had little effect. The walls are cold, the vast space between them is vacuous.

I look to my right, where she stands with her chin to her chest like everyone else. The empty chants and hymns swirl around me. She looks up, notices I haven’t joined in song, and smiles. It may not be forever, but she’s already made enough of an impact to abate the import of anyone else. My faith in something out there having a guiding influence is stronger after my luck in meeting her. Maybe there’s a guiding force that led her to me, or vice versa. Maybe, in some sort of master plan, we were destined to meet. That faith is personal and individual. It keeps me searching. But it’s not here.

This is just a place for people to flock and recite meaningless words among a crowd of like-minded others. It is a place to give monetary affirmations of faith. Outside there is ambiguity, stress, and confusion. Here the mass begins with a preposterous timeline starting at the creation of our planet and ending with the birth of the Creator’s Son. The Son whose words we read, teach our children, and live by without ever questioning their greater meaning or purpose.

The songs are sung, the words are spoken, and the gestures are expressed for the seventieth time in this building. Around the world these same songs, words, and gestures are being repeated in similar places. Outside, the world has shifted politically, economically, scientifically, and environmentally. In this place, faith is objective and static and meaningless.