The other day I was struggling to come up with ideas for essays and so I went to my online community and asked for prompts. Over the next several days I plan on posting my responses to those prompts.

Todayâ€™s prompt: â€œWhat is your relationship with your denominationâ€™s doctrine? What does â€œOld Catholicâ€ refer to? Why that movement? What drew you to it initially?â€

There is a lot in this multiple prompt question but all of the answers flow together so I am going to combine them into one essay.

Let me start off with a confession (as it seems appropriate): Can I be honest about doctrine? In every tradition there is something that doesnâ€™t seem to mesh. Iâ€™m secure enough in my walk with God to not worry so much about it. I believe in a God of love who cares about justice and is always on the side of the marginalized and oppressed. That is the God I see in Scripture, itâ€™s the God revealed in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, itâ€™s the God revealed in the saints through the ages. So any doctrine that doesnâ€™t match with that revelation gets tossed without regret and without fear.

What drew me to the Old Catholic church (and Old Catholic is an umbrella term for a variety of churches and church groups that trace their roots back to a split from the Roman Church in the late 1700â€™s. If you want more history this article on Wikipedia is actually quite good.) is the way that it has taken the best parts of centuries of Catholic tradition; care for the oppressed and marginalized, the beautiful liturgy, all of of the tactile parts and fused it with a modern sensibility that not only welcomes but celebrates the lives and contributions of women, queer folks, and transgender people. Our bodies are vital and valued and allowed at the altar. The Old Catholic church also cares about unique expressions in its congregations, and my Bishop cares about reaching new people, non-traditional forms of ministry, and doing church in a new age. All of those things are where my heartbeat lies and it’s been a wonderful fit.

Now on to the personal: There is a scene in â€œSon of a Gunâ€ where Greg (the character I play) tries to explain to his girlfriend, Kate, why he found himself in a church on his morning walk. He talks about feeling drawn to it and Kate expresses surprise. She says, â€œI had no idea you were so religious.â€ His response is this: â€œIâ€™m notâ€¦I like churches. The architecture mostly. The way I feel small in them, but not in a bad way, not diminished, just small. Like maybe it all doesnâ€™t rest on my shoulders. I like the prayers, the rosary, I even like the kneeling; the way itâ€™s all tactile.â€ Greg carries a rosary in his pocket, pulling it out whenever he gets stressed and overwhelmed.

These moments from Greg are based on my own spiritual journey and practice. The church I grew up in wasnâ€™t fond of icons and candles. Other than the raising of hands in worship or the occasional laying on of hands during prayer there wasnâ€™t much that was tactile. Our buildings looked like warehouses and were built in the 1950â€™s. Our only art was schmaltzy or cheesy.

I remember walking in to the Sacre Coeur in Paris for the first time. The way the ceiling seemed miles away, the artwork everywhere; carvings in wood and stone, candle lit. The place was filled with an expectant and holy hush. This was a working church, a church that wasnâ€™t just a tourist attraction. This was a place that had been made into a thin space by centuries of prayer and worship. I couldnâ€™t explain it to you then, but something about that place and the way I could encounter God in that place, took hold of my heart and wouldnâ€™t let go. I have a small figure of the church that sits on my desk even all of these years later, reminding me the connection I felt there.

Iâ€™m a tactile person. Touch is really important to me. The way a pen feels in my hand, the scratch of the tip on paper, the feel of the paper under my fingers. The hug of a friend, the rosary beads running through my fingers, my hand intertwined with someone elseâ€™s hand.

Growing up I felt disconnected from my body. The raising of hands in worship felt foreign and strange and I could never quite get outside of myself enough to do it without feeling self-conscious. It felt like an extroverted form of worship that I could never quite pull off. And since I was so estranged from my own body, the fact that there wasnâ€™t much in the way of tactile worship expressions in my church didnâ€™t bother me much. But as I have come home to myself, being able to worship bodily has become more and more important to me.

In Catholic practice I found the marriage of all of the things that speak most to my soul. I found a tactile faith; a faith where you kneel and light candles and feel beads. A faith where you eat and drink and get up and move. A faith where the liturgy is literally embodied in the people.

â€¨Itâ€™s also a faith that takes seriously the life of the mind, Biblical scholarship, historical criticism. And itâ€™s a faith that takes seriously the living out of justice. The call stand up with the marginalized and oppressed, the call to listen to the poor, the call to make the world better.

I want to be in a church that honors bodies. I want to be in a church that honors art. I want to be in a church that knows that liturgy is resistance and the act of worship trains our bodies to resist the principalities and powers of the world. I want to be in a church that makes space for silence and lament. A church that makes space for a variety of worship styles. A church that takes seriously serious thought, the intellect, and the way that emotion and intellect go together to create a powerful experience of connection with God. In Catholic practice I find all of that and more. I have found my home expression and the best way I can to connect with God and be strengthened and emboldened to follow Jesus more closely.

photo by Jill Harms Photography