I come by it honestly. My father was a minister. My mother's father was a minister. So were her three brothers. And I'm sure that she would have been one too if ordination had been an option when she was a young woman. As it was, she was the best minister's wife I've ever met, but I might be a little biased.
I am not completely open about my churchiness to everyone in my multi-dimensional life. It's just not cool to believe in God, or go to church, or pray so I put in a little compartment called Sunday morning. I sometimes stop in a church near my office for noon services and it feels illicit, stepping out of the bright street in that dark building with its familiar musty smell. It would surprise the people I work with as much as telling them I had two drinks at lunch.
I like the hymns, the language of the Book of Common Prayer. I posted a golden oldie yesterday because it summed up what I wanted to pray for my friends going through a dark night that's lasting more than a week. I like coffee hour after church where I catch up with people like sweet Marjorie Davison, 93, just a little crushed out on me because I think I remind her of herself when she was younger; or Rob who sells cars and likes to trade stories about our kids; Catherine and Bill, the Immortals of our parish. We talk about nothing and everything and really, they don't know much about me but we do gather once a week, say words in unison, sing hymns and hug. Sometimes I think that's all it takes for good to happen in the world.