The Devil Inside

I went to Mass this morning. It was the first time in twenty five years that I have attended a Sunday service.

We got up at five am because John had an early flight out of Florence. When I drove back to the village, I decided to go church. To be truthful, I thought about it before I left the house, which is why I put on a skirt, earrings, and nice sandals for the airport run.

I fell in love with the simplicity of the church of San Tommasso in our village when we first visited it in 1985. Originally built in the 15th century, it consists of stone, polished terracotta floors, wood, and stucco. There is a painting of the Madonna and Child from 1597, and a few other paintings from the 17th and 18th centuries. It is as far removed from the vulgarity and ostentatious wealth on display in St. Peter's in Rome as it can be.

The service I thought started at 9 am began at 9:30, so I sat there with only a few others for longer than I expected. I thought of leaving. What was I doing there anyway?

I was surprised to see an English couple who live here half the year come in with a guitar. "We sing in the choir," the wife told me, "We're nervous about it, but we're trying." I know they struggle with the language as I do, so I was impressed.

There was a portly guy dressed in khakis who turned out to be one of the priests. He was in the small alcove to my left sitting in a chair against the side wall, staring at the floor. Eventually a few people approached him and I realized they were making their confessions out in the open, without the secret cabinets that I remember as a child. I could even hear a few of them, and if I just had a better grasp of the language, I would know if Lorenzo was coveting his neighbor's wife or if Dorata had poisoned her suocera (mother-in-law).

The church filled to capacity with people of all ages, but the young were in the minority (I'm told most of them go to the 11 am service because "they are up late at the disco"). The choir entered. There were only eight members, three men with guitars and five women. Another priest began the service. He was handsome and the devil in me wondered if he was gay or a child molester. I fought back the rude thoughts.

After all these years, my outward behavior in the pew was as the nuns taught me as a child: don't cross your legs, knees together, sit up straight, do not turn your head away from the altar. I tried crossing my legs at one point but could not do it. I noticed that the women around me were observing the same rules. I actually tried in vain to find someone with crossed legs.

The choir began and they sounded beautiful. Most of the congregation joined in. None of the melodies were familiar to me, but they were pleasing. The Italian language made them prettier still.

The acoustics made the choir sound lovely, but the priest's voice echoed all over the high beamed ceilings and I could hardly catch a word. No matter. Sermons have always bored me.

I recognized the nuns that we see walking in a group after sunset on the Setteponti Road, most of them from India or Bangladesh. The devil reared his head again and I thought, they can't get them from anywhere but impoverished countries now...probably found them in an orphanage. I shrugged that thought off.

A young-ish woman in the choir got up to read the Epistle. Her appearance made me think she was a lesbian (not that there's anything wrong with that). She had been sitting with a woman and a little boy, so I jumped to the conclusion that they were a couple. I admit it was the "butch" haircuts they both wore that led me to that assumption. Side note: I was wrong. The short haircut is apparently popular among straight women in town, too. It is cooler and easier to maintain in the summertime.

Nearly everyone went to Communion. I thought about it, but the voices of those wimpled ladies from my childhood warned me: after all these years, don't you dare!

The devil surfaced again and this time he brought to mind Karl Marx's over-quoted statement that "religion is the opiate of the masses." Well yes, it is, and thank goodness for it.

On the other hand, the people around me this morning were not "the masses." This town is fairly prosperous, people have what they need, quality of life is good. So they were in church for something else. I don't know why I was there. To feel a part of the community? As an observer of Tuscan church habits? Well, yes and yes and...

I have such complicated feelings about religion. I was indoctrinated early and rejected most of what I was taught. What I kept I treasure and am thankful for.

But religious fervor has been the cause of so much suffering in history and continues today. How can that be a good thing? Still, I am uncomfortable when people say they are atheists. I don't care that they are, but it always seems like a smug assertion. How can any of us know for sure? Can we really think there is nothing bigger than us?

My family and friends will tell you I won't talk about religion. If asked, I say I don't talk about it and my beliefs are personal.

So why did I just write this post?