Customary Practices Lost, But Found in Grace
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Customary Practices Lost, But Found in Grace
Last weekend, I attended mass at Saint Vincent De Paul Catholic Church. I was there to support a friend whose son was being confirmed.
Tangent alert: The church is named after a priest, Vincent of Paul, from a geographical region in France. He was known across Europe for his deep compassion, practical charity, and tireless work among the poor. Many consider him one of the greatest figures of Christian charity in history. A champion of the poor, if you will.
I mention this because names, designations, and titles carry meaning. The name of a church tells you something about the people who founded it.
Okay, back to the story.
It's been, oh… roughly thirty years since I last attended mass. So when it came to the usual reverent gestures, the genuflecting, the sign of the cross, the whole liturgical choreography, let's just say my internal instruction manual had expired sometime in the early 90s.
I completely forgot to genuflect before sliding into the pew. Sat down without doing the sign of the cross. I did remember how to use the kneeling rail, though. I just forgot when to use it.
And here's the kicker — I used to be an altar boy. At Saint Joseph's, no less, back when it was still in the North Loop of Minneapolis. You'd think at least some of that muscle memory would have survived. Apparently not.
To make things even more entertaining, we sat in the first pew. Front and center. Basically, the "everyone can see your every move" section. So all my hesitation, my half-step misfires, my "oh… right… that's a thing we do here" moments? Public. Very public. Awkwardly public.
After mass, the man sitting behind me, who, during the kneeling portions, was positioned so close I could practically feel the warmth of his breath during the hymns, leaned forward and quietly said, "You survived. You did okay."
And honestly? It was such a decent, human moment. He didn't correct me, didn't judge me, didn't shake his head at my half-remembered rituals. He just offered a little kindness to a stranger who was clearly trying. I appreciated it more than he knew.
Perhaps you're smiling right now, picturing it, the front pew, the hesitation, all of it.
Here's what I've been sitting with since then.
The whole experience was just another expression of worship, even if it didn't look perfectly polished. What mattered wasn't the form; it was the heart behind it. God sees that long before He notices whether your gestures line up with everyone else's.
Different doesn't mean wrong or sinful. Different is just… different. And sometimes, that's more than enough.
The word Catholic means "universal," the whole church, together, united in Christ. It's a beautiful idea, one that reflects the heart of Jesus: a people drawn toward one another, not pushed apart.
And yet, over time, we've ended up with nearly 40,000 Christian denominations, each shaped by different cultures, histories, interpretations, and sincere attempts to follow God faithfully. Sometimes this diversity brings richness. Other times it creates distance, even suspicion.
But many expressions of faith don't have to mean division. It doesn't mean one group holds the entire truth while everyone else somehow missed the boat. It simply means that humans, in all our limitations, have been trying to make sense of the same God in different ways.
If anything, this should invite humility, an understanding that we each see only in part. And it should invite patience and unity, because what draws us together is far greater than what sets us apart.
As the French say, vive la différence.
At the center, Christ remains one. And we are still one family, learning how to walk toward Him together.
If the worship isn't diametrically opposed to Scripture, relax.
Paul modeled this beautifully. He didn't demand that everyone worship the way he did, he met people where they were.
1 Corinthians 9:22 — "I try to find common ground with everyone, doing everything I can to save some."
He even advised Jewish believers to adapt their practices to welcome new Christians, navigating the tension between old customs and new freedom with wisdom rather than rigidity. (Acts 21:20–26)
The body of Christ was never meant to move in perfect unison — just faithful harmony.
Being adaptable doesn't mean compromising truth. It means having the humility to recognize that God works through people who don't look like us, think like us, or express their faith exactly the way we do.
Respecting another believer's customs — when they don't contradict Scripture — is not weakness. It's wisdom. It's spiritual maturity. It's the kind of grace Jesus modeled everywhere He went.
Your way may be meaningful, familiar, and deeply personal. But your way is not the only way.
Philippians 2:3–4 — "Don't be selfish; don't try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don't look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too."
1 Corinthians 9:19–23 — "I am not anyone's slave. But I have become a slave to everyone, so I can win as many people as possible… I am ruled by the law of Christ."
In a world full of division, maybe the Church can lead the way — not by being loudest or most certain, but by being willing to say:
"Let me learn from you, too."
Hallelujah! Sing a New Song to GOD. Sing HIS praise in the assembly of godly people. Psalm 149:1.
"Turn It Around", 2025, Kevin Winebarger
A nice, preppy, catchy scripture song. The tune will carry you through at least Tuesday. Lyrics in the video.
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