It’s one of those things you just can’t ever quit— save a traumatic experience. The Catholic Church is so rich in ritual that after a few decades of immersion, you can’t quite shake it. Innate Catholic guilt? Perhaps. Or is there really something that happens to you in that weekly hour and a half?

The smokey chandeliers. The rustling of a nun’s habit. You catch a glimpse of her rosary within the folds of her skirt and can’t take your eyes off the stereotypical round glasses she wears. The booming baritone of the presiding priest. The twelve altar boys— yes, twelve! What can they all possibly be doing up there? The haunting organ, the radiant choir voices intoxicating your senses, calming you to the point of courage when you foolishly let your weak voice join in. The symmetry of the ushers, the variety of reverence on the faces of those assembled. Two sisters wearing matching floral skirts and identical cowboy boots, a young wife cradling a newborn, a diverse gathering of thick-rimmed glasses and antique pearls. The detailing in the stained glass windows— the intricacy of heaven’s towers and castles, the lines on an old man’s face, the cascading curls of an angel’s hair. Hello Jesus. Your constant presence each week is… reassuring?

I don’t think the Catholic Church has all the answers— but then again, maybe they do. This particular strain of Catholicism is the only bit of southern conservatism I embrace; strict guidelines on who receives communion, an interpretation of the gospel that wouldn’t fly north of the Mason-Dixon. Would I relish an opportunity to experience a synagogue, a temple, to learn the names of each Hindu goddess (can anyone recommend a comprehensive history of Hinduism, please?), to visit a yogi retreat? In a heartbeat. But something keeps pulling me back home to Mass and I cannot deny the weight that lifted off my shoulders the day I plucked up the courage to go to confession…