The Mormon Reformation

For Louise's class, we had to pray in a Catholic church and write an essay about it. Here's mine:

My knees are not used to the cushion of leather. Us Mormons, we kneel on the ground. I have prayed on grass, dirt, wood, tile, carpet, concrete, rock, and linoleum, but never leather. Catholics kneel on leather. The leather on which I now kneel is old. It has white cracks running down the soft brown surface like streams run down a mountain. I suppose that it has been here in St. Stephen’s Basilica since it’s construction 105 year ago; always a place for people to turn to their God for encouragement and comfort. It has survived both world wars, the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and the end of the communist regime. It would not be as soft now if it were new.

My ears are not used to the music of mass that now surrounds me. I hear a choir singing in Latin and the rich sound of an organ playing. The music comes from every direction, most potently from above. My eyes search for the origin. When I can’t find one I think to myself it must be a choir of angels. I wonder how the Catholics pulled that one off. Then I spot the balcony and am disappointed to see human beings. The choir sits there, led by a conductor conducting so energetically with his entire body that it seems overdone from where I stand far below. I have never heard such beautiful music at a church service. I am used to the Mormon meeting where the congregation sings hymns that sound like funeral processions and poorly written poetry. Sometimes a few trained voices sing louder, overpowering the off key masses. But regardless, it is never very pretty. We Mormons sing to sing. The Catholics sing to make music.

I close my eyes again. I am here to pray. But it feels like a sin to close my eyes and hide the beauty of the basilica. Every inch is decorated ornately. The ceilings are painted depicting scenes of angels. There is rich marble all around. An ornate alter sits at the front. I myself kneel in front of a life size painting of Christ. It is the one thing here that is similar to my Mormon church. We have some paintings too. Ours are there to cover up our bare eggshell-painted brick walls. We have brown carpet with goldfish smashed in and folding chairs with words like “crap” and “dangit” scribbled on their backs by bored Deacons. No one ever converted to Mormonism because of the beauty of our meetinghouses.

I focus on my prayer and myself. It’s hard to do. I am not used to the magnitude of the service in which I now find myself. This basilica is huge. It could eat and digest two of my Mormon meetinghouses. Even more impressive is the amount of people here. I start to count. I count four hundred and eighteen people sitting down, and there are more standing and coming in and out the back. There are about a hundred and fifty people that come to my Mormon ward, and I know every one of them. I am so insignificant in the crowd of Catholics. I doubt that anyone notices me. I know that I seem to be a Catholic. My capacity for deception gives me a thrill.

I start my prayer again, but I get distracted by the sound of hundreds of people standing up and moving. Apparently it is time for the sacrament. People flood into the aisle, like the breaking of a dam. They line up and receive the sacrament one by one from the priest. It is beautiful. I leave my kneeling place and get in the back of the huge line. I take one step forward. The woman in front of me crosses herself. Then I remember I am not really a Catholic. I am a Mormon. We get our sacrament from silver trays passed down the aisle, not from priests.

I go back to my spot and, intent on finishing, start my prayer. Heavenly Father, I thank thee for the Catholics.