Or an earnest attempt at a religious experience

From down the hill, the Cathedral of the St. Mary of the Assumption stood as a thick twisted block of checkered concrete seeming to merge with the grayness of the low clouds that hung over the City, its only indication of religious or spiritual importance a boldly sized and unadorned gold cross reaching up in solitude to the untextured mass above. I parked my bike to the side of the imposing building and walked around to the facade, to the bronze, patined doors made of spiked thorns and ram-dragon handles. Looking down on me as I entered: a depiction of an open-hearted Jesus with winged angels to either side, an array of smaller biblical figures beneath, and vertical and horizontal slats filling all of the empty space - all in green bronze, all in front of a stained glass window, all a strange mixture of intimidating and inviting. 

I stepped inside. Oh, shit. I stepped back outside, realizing that this had the potential to be an epic, and snuck off to the side of the holy building to take a few puffs of a 23% THC sativa pre-roll, not without a light tingling of sin on the flesh, a generous amount of downcasted darting back and forth, and a much more perceptible thumping of the chest, given my unusual proximity to God (please forgive me). Maybe this (totally legal, by the way) marijuana could help me, even if for a brief moment, finally have that coveted religious experience; finally possess some kernel of eternal truth that’s been just out of reach for so long; finally dissolve all of the confusion and dissatisfaction and longing for there to be just a little bit, a little bit of order and meaning and certainty in the whirling winds of experience; finally turn my auto-immolating eye towards a natural and loving selflessness. It was worth a shot. Only a few puffs, though, since too much of a religious experience is possible. 

It was quiet inside, cavernous and grand and almost empty, the dark brown pews in a semi-circle around the altar, shiny, reflective, and slick-looking, only sitting a handful of waiting bodies scattered respectfully away from each other. Under a different gray sky, one closer and full of rectangular scales frozen in movement, two corridors of stained glass (without parables or figures - just abstract shapes) pierced through each other at the zenith, making a cross of dim light that descended down the externally protruding sides of the dome. A gray-silver chandelier of progressively larger, thin, steel squares was suspended above the altar and was pierced by vertical, reflective rods that made the entire structure look like a portal of some kind, a tunnel of light exiting into an emptiness. The rods danced without hurry in the open air and flickered in slow motion above a gold cross hanging over a massive table (the altar) of pure white marble; behind the table were stairs leading to an angular throne made of the same material, and both the table and the throne swam in the black marble of the stage floor. Light that made it through the low clouds outside poured in from 30 foot tall windows in each of the four corners of the square base that held up the dome-cross hybrid. The dome-cross began just past the windows: four strong slanting legs made of concrete littered with delicate, random cracks and imperfections held up the thick base. And from the base rose that twisting sky cut by the colorful cross. 

A lot can be seen through the large windows in the corners of the Cathedral: Salesforce Tower, the tip of the Transamerica Pyramid, swaying trees full of foreign red flowers, the neighboring Sacred Heart Cathedral on a hill leading to Buena Vista Park and Twin Peaks, and cars racing along Geary and Gough streets, a godlessness threatening to invade. This Cathedral is the third to serve as the headquarters of the Archdiocese of San Francisco - an Archdiocese being the unnecessarily fancy word for “Catholic district.” The OG St. Mary’s was built in 1854, and a second St. Mary’s was built in 1891, on Van Ness, to accommodate a growing congregation. A fire destroyed St. Mary’s #2 in 1961, which required this St. Mary’s #3 to be built and blessed in 1971 based on the collaborative design of 5 architects -  Pietro Belluschi, Pier-Luigi Nervi, Angus McSweeney, Paul A. Ryan and John Michael Lee - in a mix of the Brutalist and Structural Expressionist styles, according to the literature. A modern Cathedral, different, its own - like San Francisco.  

  I sat down in the 5th row, close to the action. Shortly after, the organ - to my right, a metropolitic skyline made of silver pipes and wood sitting upon an elevated island of the same imposing gray concrete - made itself known, and the conductor - a graying gentleman wearing a white robe, glasses, a wedding ring, brown leather shoes, and gray pants revealing an imprint of a phone - used his graceful fingers to bathe the chamber in sounds that grew and multiplied and reverberated in the emptiness. I became aware, in that instance of seeing the organ player perform, how complicated the instrument was; this particular organ had four levels of black and white keys, 3 large petals surrounded by 28 knobs underneath where his fingers flowed, and at least 12 smaller black petals by where he rested his feet. I closed my eyes to get closer.  

As the organ continued, I heard the walker-assisted shuffling of an elderly woman’s feet on the marble floor and opened my eyes to watch her sit herself down, trembling and shaking, in the first row. I wanted to sit next to her, to talk to her, to absorb life from her and give her some in return, but I remained alone in my row. More bodies entered - mostly old and asian and hispanic, though fairly diverse in every respect except age - as we approached the 11 AM start time. The empty seats outnumbered us. 

A blonde woman, in a similar white robe to the organ player, walked to a lectern and announced that we should follow the proceedings using the printed guides I missed upon entering, so I got up and grabbed one as the choir, sitting past the organ player, backlit by the half-light entering from the southwest corner’s windows, began the Introit Hymn. Singing is a big part of mass, I learned. Everyone is encouraged to join the choir, following the words and chords outlined in the guide (in color, in both Spanish and English). I could imagine how powerful a full cathedral could feel, how the whole thing might come alive with the harmony of a community, how one’s voice might melt into the grander landscape, but the reality fell short as only a relative handful of the strangers around me knew how to follow along (I tried, but couldn’t figure out what was what from the guide’s cluttered aids), each voice made almost singular in its spaciousness. I wished I knew the words, the cadence, the stories and meanings that make this feel sacred and bring tears to the woman in the pew in front of me (to say I’m jealous of her tears is both true and maddening). I don’t feel anything, really, besides a bland flavor of awe for the beauty of the sounds and shapes I sit in. It is, above all, an aesthetic experience, not a physical one. Maybe I should have smoked more.

Incline your ear, O Lord

And listen when I pray

Preserve your servant

Who confides in you all day

Have mercy, Lord, and hear my plight

My soul cries out by day and night

While the choir and organ and tears flowed, I saw Father Kevin Kennedy, wearing a respectable white beard and a lusciously green robe, at the end of a procession (uncreatively called the “Entrance Procession”) walking behind two other men, one holding up a gold cross with a tiny dead (or dying) Jesus hanging peacefully upon it, and another, in the front of the somber parade, swinging a smoking gold lantern-esque object by a chain (called a thurible - charcoals and incense being the cause of the smoke), acting as a moving fog-machine, his arms appearing perfectly still despite the effort they were making. His Excellency, The Most Reverend Salvatore Joseph Cordileone, the Archbishop of San Francisco, was nowhere to be found (later I learned that he’s a bit of a controversial figure, to put it nicely - I’ll let you explore that fun side quest, if you wish (but a little taste: a drunk driving offense in 2012, shortly before being appointed as the Archbishop of San Francisco - no one is perfect, but it’s strange to take wisdom from a glaring source of hypocrisy)). 

The procession walked deliberately from the back of the church, around the western edge of the dome, and down the center aisle to the stage. Approaching the altar, the procession broke up and the green Father bowed and touched his forehead to a large, golden book laid open on the massive marble table. The fog machine was passed over to the Father, who took over the act of swinging while the original thurifer (one who holds the thurible) lifted the Father’s green robe out of the danger zone that is the path of the coals, both walking in tandem around the altar. The choir burst forth again in song to cheer them on as they circled the altar. And then, silence.

“And they will bring all your people, from all the nations, to my holy mountain in Jerusalem as an offering to the Lord—on horses, in chariots and wagons, and on mules and camels,” says the Lord. 

This is read stiltedly by an older woman, who had just walked with a cane up the marble stairs, who looked decidedly un-Catholic compared to the Father (now sitting to the side) and his processional, even compared to the organ player and the young choir who all wore simple white robes. She donned a light pink scarf, white pants, black sneakers and a tan sweater. I clawed to find some meaningful crumbs in the words, but the semi-desperate attempts were futile. I looked up at the split grey sky of concrete and smiled, accepting the beauty I could experience. More singing and standing and sitting back down and standing again and singing followed, and I followed the bodies around me. 

Praise the Lord, all you nations!

Extol him, all you peoples!

His mercy for us is strong;

the faithfulness of the LORD is forever.

Hallelujah!

The ritualistic nature of mass is obvious, but observing rituals without the context of why they matter, or what they are supposed to represent, turned the experience into a strange, surreal performance, as if done out of obligation, without feeling, rote; at first, the words the Father spoke, or sang (solo, by the way, without backing choir or support from the organ, very intimate), were mostly unintelligible except for the odd “God,” “salvation,” and “holy,” peppered in liberally throughout. For those that had experienced this before, it was likely a comforting and familiar series of actions, like the ritual of waking up, that anchored what followed. Though making meaning is as natural to a human as waking up, meaning requires context. Furthering the surrealistic introduction was the fact that this man and most of the strangers around me actually believed what was said, believed the words not as a parabalistic ideal or set of instructions, but as something based in history, in fact, unquestionable. Faith. Another thing I’m jealous of: this faith, the ability to fully accept a reality full of contradictions and impossibilities and the resultant wash of sweet relief that comes from not needing to explain or analyze or understand, relinquishing the illusion of control to a fantastical order; I stood amongst them but felt no relief, no reassurance. I was observing, not participating - maybe not ideal for a revelatory religious experience. 

My son, do not disdain the discipline of the Lord or lose heart when reproved by him; for whom the Lord loves, he disciplines; he scourges every son he acknowledges. Endure your trials as discipline; God treats you as sons. For what son is there whom his father does not discipline? At the time, all discipline seems a cause not for joy but for pain, yet later it brings the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who are trained by it. So strengthen your drooping hands and your weak knees.

I wondered, how could I get the benefits of religion - the sense of community, of certainty and peace, of what is right and wrong and worthwhile and useful, of love and reverence for something beyond me which provides both purpose and support - all of that good stuff, without the downsides - the need for faith in unbelievable things that my mind immediately rejects, the strictly incompatible social views on sexuality and abortion and science and more, the hypocrisy embedded not only within the words and teachings but also in the actions of the humans who are supposed to espouse them? Is it possible to extract the good, the useful, and leave the rest behind?

Finally, it was showtime: the Father solemnly moved to the lectern and a deep stillness invaded the air, the bodies, and the gleaming chandelier. In a more natural manner, with a bit more emotion born from choice (even if made within certain constraints), without the stiffness of rituals, while the thurifer swung the smoke behind him, Father Kevin Kennedy began the homily with a gospel:

Jesus passed through towns and villages, teaching as he went and making his way to Jerusalem. Someone asked him, “Lord, will only a few people be saved?" 

He answered them, "Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I tell you, will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough. After the master of the house has arisen and locked the door, then will you stand outside knocking and saying, 'Lord, open the door for us.' He will say to you in reply, 'I do not know where you are from.' And you will say, 'We ate and drank in your company and you taught in our streets.' Then he will say to you, 'I do not know where you are from. Depart from me, all you evildoers!' And there will be wailing and grinding of teeth when you see Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves cast out."

Following this cryptic (to me, at least, in my ignorance) introduction, the Father spoke directly to us now, making eye contact with the sparse crowd, not reciting from the holy golden book that he had just closed but from his internal source of wisdom, which, taking some creative liberties and personal interpretations in paraphrasing, while attempting to maintain the essence, went something like this:

Welp, if that Gospel didn’t get your attention, then I don’t know what will, you brainwashed and half-asleep zombies. It’s unsettling and challenging, meant to capture our attention, get us thinking - you remember how to think, don’t you? It’s kept me thinking for more decades than you’ve been alive, you self-absorbed little fuck - yea, I’m talking to you over there in the fifth row. Listen up.  

What is the “narrow gate” through which one must enter? Everything depends upon that: that sweet eternal salvation, that door to blessedness in the Kingdom of Heaven, forever, forever, forever. What is it? Is it some special secret code? 

(In a dramatic twist) Sometimes I like to go two blocks down from here to Mel’s Kitchen (my eyes widened, a smile cracked as I imagined the Father sitting at the red and white Mel’s bar, ordering a Denver omelet with hash browns and a black coffee in his elaborate green robe, chatting with the waitress about mundane things). I know the manager. You have to be a customer to use the restroom. After a big meal, I said to the manager, “What just happened? I couldn’t get into the bathroom.”

“We changed the code,”  they said (he chuckled, somewhat forcefully, and shook his head from side to side).

“Well, are you going to tell me the new code? Is this a guessing game?” (another snort of air through his nose, and I began to see the point of this charming personal anecdote) She told me the code, but I won’t tell you because she’d be very upset. Besides, we have a bathroom here, and it’s very nice, approved by his Holiness even. 

Is that what the Kingdom of God is about, is that our Gospel today? Is it? Of course not, you simple-minded fools. Our gospel isn’t about hide and seek, knowing the right code, being in the right place at the right time. No, you innocent sheeple, it’s not even about being religious, did you notice that, did you? They say, “We ate and drank in your company and you taught in our streets.” In other words, more simply, in case your mind can’t comprehend it that way: they observed their religious duties and responsibilities, like good little followers of faith. And what does He say to them in return, He says, “I DO NOT KNOW YOU!” (his voice echoes grandly).

How would you like someone, the Lord, saying that to you, especially if you just had a black coffee and a large breakfast special that needs to find a way out? “Well, I have my baptismal certificate, my confirmation certificate, right here, oh mighty Lord!” you might say in your blissful stupidity. Apparently, if you just think about it for a few seconds, something else is needed to enter into the great Kingdom of God. 

What would that be? How might we find that place, that Kingdom? How can our hearts be fixed in that place where alone is found true gladness? It’s more than a code to get in through a door. What is this place for which we were created, for which our hearts yearn and long, whether we realize it or not? Where do you find it and how can we arrive and remain in that place? 

But first, we must go back to when Jesus is taken down from the cross, covered in his sacrifice. His mother is behind him, holding his shoulders. This is her dead son, crucified and dead, brutally scourged and about to be buried in a tomb. She's holding him, embracing him, and their two cheeks touch: a cheek to cheek embrace, his blood, her tears, her sorrow, and a love, a love beyond all…comprehension. Everything poured out, everything surrendered, everything given away on the part of those two hearts - he the new Adam, she the new Eve - poured out for you, you ungrateful and mindless slave, and for me. (As if staring right into me) Nothing of the self left, an emptiness, and yet a fullness. 

There is no room for anything else to fit in. THAT cheek to cheek is the place upon which our hearts are meant to be fixed, where happiness alone is found, the narrow gate, the narrow door where alone we can enter and find the elusive Kingdom. You might say, in your endless ignorance, “Well, how can I do that? How can I do that? You yourself, Father, said there is nothing there, there is no space for me.” 

Yes, that’s right… there’s nothing there. There's no space for…what? (heads leaned forward in anticipation, waiting for an answer) For the fallen human ego, that burden we carry with us wherever we go, an inseparable part of our nature. Our ego, which becomes a burden, baggage too heavy to carry, too large to fit in, as it were, into that narrow gate, into that cheek to cheek embrace, into the quality and mystery of that love which surrenders everything, which gives everything away, which leaves nothing left that has not been offered, has not been sacrificed on the altar of love; it is redeeming love itself. But what do you know about love? 

We believe we have so much to acquire to get to this place, this sacred place that our fallen spirits look up to with incredulous disdain and hope. You don’t need to acquire, you need to let go. But, let go of what? Let go of yourself, your ego, your desire to own, possess, be proud of, accumulate one thing after the other after the other (yes, yes, yes, I thought, now we’re talking). You’ll have too much baggage and you won’t be able to enter that place where your heart is meant to be fixed, that narrow gate where alone you can find happiness in the end. We must unlearn and undo everything that has prevented us in our fallen human nature from acquiring that relationship, that cheek to cheek, and let go of everything else as the ultimate price. Are you willing to pay that?

A good place to start, for you sinful souls out there, is the standard examination of conscience. We have confessions here every day, where you can get one step closer to the mighty Kingdom, one step further away from yourself and the selfish and insatiable needs of your ego (that sounds pretty good, I thought, and made a note to come back to St. Mary of the Assumption to try out a good, old fashioned, anonymous emotional dumping). To examine if you have participated in any of these things, these burdens: the foolishness, the foolishness of vanity and self-absorption (check); the ugliness… of lust (double check); the malice born from envy; arrogant judgements routinely made (check) - the baggage is getting bigger and bigger, heavier to bear, to get through that narrow gate; deceit, manipulation, hypocrisy (check), aggressive self promotion at the expense of others; and finally, indifference, indifference especially to the needs of others, the sick, the lonely, the poor (check - it seems I am a certified sinner and that confessional grows more enticing by the minute). 

Our message in the gospel today is not that we need to acquire more, but that we need to let go, let go of more and more. Surrender the self so that one might enter the mystery of that love symbolized by the cheek to cheek embrace of Jesus and his poor, weeping mother; a place where you have to be very small indeed to go in. Having lost yourself - and only then - will you find yourself entering through that door. This is what we must do. Are you ready to finally surrender your self? 

I did not expect to agree, in my bones, with the Father’s words (minus the whole Kingdom and Jesus stuff); the message felt modern, subtly Buddhist, and relevant to the self-serving and self-absorbed American reality. I suddenly understood why I had, at least so far, been unable to have a religious experience under the great grey roof, despite an earnest attempt and an open mind: my ponderous self was still very much here, and the weight of this self prevented me from rising above the earthly din. The guidance to examine oneself was also sound, though the self-judgement naturally present in the Catholic language felt somewhat unhelpful. Still, there was undoubtedly value in the suggestion that the most pure form of love, happiness, and satisfaction are only possible without the blanket of the self obscuring the mind, clouding experience, creating stories, turning everything back to itself.   

A small army of volunteers carrying shallow baskets with long, wooden handles capable of reaching effortlessly into the center of the empty pews walked up the rows of newly educated Catholics, soliciting donations. I scrambled to see if I had any cash and, to my horror, my wallet was empty. I looked beseechingly at the volunteer who passed by me expectantly, and there was an understanding in our eye contact and the trusty toothless-smile-and-headnod combo we exchanged that everything was ok, that there would be no judgement for not giving. Is giving money to the church one of those selfless acts that precludes a religious experience, that removes the baggage bumping against the edges of the narrow gate? 

Father Kevin Kennedy continued his bland singing of ritualistic incantations, with arms held out to embrace the invisible. Eventually, after another series of standing and sitting at the right moments while the holy Father bathed in incense, he turned his back to us, and the thin congregation and I descended onto the extendable, padded kneelers with hands clenched and elbows on the heads of the pews in front, ready to pray. I, of course, had never prayed and had no idea how to pray, so I assumed the position mechanically as the Father recited words that meant nothing to me. Then came my favorite moment of the mass: at the end of the prayer, we all stood separately together and bowed with prayer hands and made eye contact and smiled to those near us, spinning in a circle to make sure not to miss anyone, and I could see the gladness and goodness in the short-lived glances I exchanged with these strangers. No one said a word, and for a moment I did not feel alone in the home of God. 

That feeling of connection was brief, since the final phase of Mass was upon us: Communion. As if doing something shameful that we should not behold, the Father devoured a thin, round saltine of flesh and guzzled the blood of Christ himself from a golden chalice, with his back and bald spot towards us. And the same blonde woman from before, the head of the choir, said:

   We invite practicing catholics to come forward to receive holy Communion. Others present today are invited to join us in prayer and song.

And suddenly I was the only one kneeling, alone again. The Catholics stood and formed an orderly single file line extending to the back of the pews, waiting for their allocated and deserved bit of flesh that symbolized their connection to one side of the cheek to cheek embrace (no wine was given to the masses, which confused me, since the Father had partaken and the blood seems equally as important as the flesh, if you ask me). One by one, the Catholics used the fancier kneeler at the base of the stage and ate from the Father’s hands, most performing the sign of the cross as they left to go back to their seats. I considered standing up and getting my due - I could certainly pass for a practicing Catholic, plus I hadn’t eaten anything all day (my humble sacrifice for thee). But I decided to remain kneeling and prolong my suffering, and I could feel my heart in my knees and my lower back screaming for relief as my cumulative daily kneeling time stretched to at least 30 minutes, far exceeding my daily average. Am I giving enough of myself away yet, Father? Is this what you want from me? 

One final round of donations took place, with the same long baskets and judgementless volunteers, just in case the delicious flesh might have ignited some spiritual generosity. One final prayer, and then, somewhat ingloriously, an announcement brought us all back to reality:

At the Sistine Chapel exhibit in the event center, all prices will be 15% off through the end of the exhibition on Sep 14th. This discount applies to senior, youth and student rates as well. On your way out, stop by the gift shop to see any new gift items. 

Huh. Maybe the journey to selflessness starts with a stop at the gift shop.