This room is a womb to me.

Earlier this summer, one of the directors I'm working with, sensing that I was religious, asked me about my relationship to religion. I responded, "It's the basis of everything I do." She was surprised. People are often surprised by this because their associations with religion (as opposed to spirituality) are exclusion, distance, hypocrisy, and a holier-than-thou attitude, which are not things I like to model. After trying with a good amount of success to explain my faith to her (God transcends specific religious boundaries, we use those boundaries as language to be able to talk about that which is beyond language, etc etc etc), which she understood, she started to ask me why I still bothered with the church as an institution.

That is an absolutely legitimate question. There are many people who deeply believe in God, but who have left the church. Because of hypocrisy, because of real harm that the church has done. I always knew about this, but moving to New York definitely solidified it--there are many people who have been scarred by religion, who have been branded with shame and guilt so ruthlessly that of course they don't want to set foot in a church again. They have seen people who don't even attempt to live what they preach and expect that their confession on Sunday morning absolves all sin and they can go on living just the way they want to because they've got a "Get Out of Hell Free" card. The church has some atrocious acts in its history, and unfortunately, those atrocities still continue.

So, why am I still in the church?

We had to move out of our Ithaca College housing, and now us designers are living a short walk from the Ithaca Commons (essentially, downtown Ithaca). Where we're living now is what I call the "Ithaca Church District". On my block is a Christian Science church, a block away from me is a United Methodist Church, two blocks away is First Unitarian Church, and three blocks away is a park that has a church on nearly every corner - Episcopalian, Presbyterian, and Baptist. I peeked onto the website of the UMC church last night, and discovered that today's service would be a Taize service.

The Taize community, for those who don't know, is a monastic community in France, whose focus lies largely on hospitality and community life. Taize has become a spot for people of all different cultures to pray, study, and worship, with pilgrims coming from all over the globe. Now, it is known primarily for two things--its outreach to young adults, and its music. People ages 17-29 are invited to stay for a week or two at Taize with a suggested donation of 6-8 Euros per day (that includes meals an accommodations), to meet and study with the brothers and sisters there. (This means that before I turn 30, I will return to France to go to Taize, as well as visit Chartres again.) How I first learned of Taize was the music. Taize's services feature both music and silence heavily. The music is a meditative, repetitive, almost chant-like music (see here), which, being easy to learn no matter what language you speak, is able to bring together people from different cultures and backgrounds. Being the child of two church musicians, I know Taize music quite well and of course if there's a Taize service happening a block away from me... I am there.

I wandered into the church, where the prelude was a piece called "Singing Bowl Mediation", played on an electric piano instead of a singing bowl but which still managed to still the pre-church chatter. At the passing of the peace (which I've noticed to be an intense time in every single church I've been to in Ithaca), I had lovely conversations with the two people who I was sitting beside--one of whom does Production Management at Cornell and the other of whom is going to Rocky Horror (which I assistant sound designed) at the Hangar tonight. After a brief explanation of the Taize community and the style of worship we were about to embark on, and some beautiful thoughts on silence, we began the service. We sang six of these songs, repeating until they naturally faded out, and each song was bookended with silence. Readings from scripture were interspersed throughout, as well as an opportunity to light candles in prayer.

I have been to a good number of Taize services in my life, and they have always stood out to me as services of healing. I remember one in particular, the first time I was ever at Montreat, as a conferee for Worship and Music in 2003, which was evening prayer, being a transformative moment for me and some rough things I was going through at the time. Taize services have a way of creating stillness. The mantra-like repetition, the vibrations moving throughout the room, the unity created by everyone singing together in such a way, work on one's soul in a way that brings such peace. This was, in fact, exactly what I needed at this moment in my life, amidst the confusion of this summer, and after an exhausting tech week.

Afterwards, I sat during the postlude talking to one of the women sitting next to me. We spoke about how moving the service was, and we talked about how all these different denominations and religions are leading to the same place. She shared a story of being involved in a Buddhist ritual and how beautiful that experience was, and we spoke of the Spirit moving in all things.

This is why I don't leave the church.

For one thing, being raised in the church, having worked for the church, and having been to churches all over the world, I have met too many people who are in the church for exactly the right reasons, who strive to live in a way that is open to all, who take inspiration from scripture to be more generous, loving, kindhearted people, to possibly condemn the church outright. I have seen religious organizations take strong stands against injustice, I have witnessed their waves of outreach in response to disaster and tragedy, I have watched as they've honestly struggled with the question of how to live a life of Christ's example as times continue to shift and change. I have seen too much good come out of the church to write it off. Unfortunately, it is the bad that is quickly publicized and never forgotten, but there is good there. There is much to be proud of. Is it perfect? No. But that is all the more reason to not abandon it, and help it to grow in the direction of Christ.

For another, it is beautiful to be able to come together in community like this. I am not a particularly social person--it takes a lot to drag me to parties and often I'd just genuinely prefer to be alone, but the communal nature of a church service is truly what brings me back again and again every week. When I told that same director that I was unavailable for anything on Sunday morning, she assumed it was because I needed to sleep in until I said, "No, I have to go to church." She asked of that "have to" was some kind of thing about saving my soul, a requirement, and I said, "No, it's for my own sanity. I can not go to church, but I'll be a much more pleasant person throughout the week if I do." And it is true. I started crying during the first Taize song today, and it was not the tears of an emotionally manipulative service (trust me, I've been to those plenty of times and I detest them), but rather tears from the beauty of all of us, in one space, singing and praying together. I am so blessed to be able to, no matter where I am, come to a place where I can be with other believers--even if we actually have vastly different opinions, even if our visions of God are vastly different, we agree on a language to speak together for that hour in a celebration of that essence that will always be impossible to define. Perhaps that language seems overly simplistic to some, but I have found that the most simple statements are often also the most complex, and I think the essence of God is one of the most simple words in the English language: "is".

And then there is the final reason I won't leave the church. After the prayers today, we started singing the song "Veni Sancte Spiritus" ("Come, Holy Spirit"). (you can listen to it here.) This was the one song we were more "taught", layering the harmonies on top of each other, with the occasional soloist. Something happened at the moment when all the voice parts had been layered in, and we were all raising our voices--in this fleeting moment, I was absolutely convinced of the existence of God.

I am a person of strong faith and conviction, but part of the definition of the word "faith" is a lack of proof. God's existence or lack thereof can never be proven. I know this, this was the reason for my period of agnosticism. And that is absolutely fine. In fact, I think this is necessary for a health faith. Do I believe God exists? Yes, of course I do. I do not know in what form--God is clearly too big to be limited to an old white man with a long beard in the sky. But I acknowledge that I believe this on faith.

Except for these moments, which I've had both inside and outside the church, where suddenly it all becomes clear. In these "thin places", as people have said, where the line between the earthly and the divine almost disappears. I cannot describe what it is, because it goes beyond language. But for that fleeting second, I experienced the essence, knew that God was, indeed, in this place. God was the singing. God was the people. God was the building. God was the air. God was our breath. And God always is... but it is often hard to see that. But how glorious are the moments when we do. And I, for one, will continually search for them... in nature, in others, and even in church.