What the Hell Am I Doing Here?

This priest's collar's a little scratchy today. I ask: What the hell am I doing in this humongous stone cathedral with its stained glass, polished wood pews, and dazzling candelbras; with these strangers murmuring about hair do's, a theologian I've never heard of, the latest four-buck coffee drink, the recent non-sequitur of George W. Bush, and, of course, who will be the new bishop. I'm here, but I don't get it.

After the horrific sex abuse scandals, a deafening silence about this devastating war, and centuries of homophobia and misogyny, you'd think I'd have found a way by now to get out of my skin, rewire myself with a new nervous system, take on a snappy new religion-free persona.
But, no-o-o-o. Here I am thumbing through the convention booklet, eagerly preparing my vote for the next bishop of California. As if I belong here. As if there's really something to all this sound and fury. As if maybe, beneath all my doubts and confusion, lies an even more profound hope.