Undercover Mormon

[Mom if you could give me some help it would be much appreciated. :]

“Playing Catholic.” That is what my writing teacher, Louise Plummer, called it. I called it objectifying religion. The assignment: pray in a Catholic Cathedral and get down on your knees. Here’s the catch, I’m Mormon. Being a BYU student studying in a foreign country lends itself to all types of experiences, but this was not one that I was expecting.

Praying is not a foreign concept in my religion. We are told to pray morning and night, before meals, and occasionally we offer a solemn group prayer before meetings, but never are we asked to pray in a public place while others are watching.

On Sunday, after finishing my own Mormon Church service, I figured it was time to do the deed. Infiltrate a Catholic Cathedral. I picked my target. Jesuitenkirche Cathedral located in the first district of Vienna. I had been there once before as a tourist, but now I was going as a Catholic. I was a woman on a mission. I felt like I was undercover for the Mormon church going to spy on the Catholics. I know it was my imagination, but it made my subway ride to the cathedral more exciting.

Upon arriving one thing was immediately evident. More tourists visited cathedrals on the Sabbath than any other day of the week. I found this discovery somewhat ironic. I entered in under the golden arches. Look normal, don’t be intimidated I think to myself. A cathedral has a way of doing that, reminding you that you are insignificant.

I sat down on a bench in my stereotypical Mormon Sunday dress, skirt, blouse, and leggings.  I could feel the eyes staring me down. Not people, but the statues. No matter where I was in the church they penetrated my soul. They knew I wasn’t catholic. They had to.  I sat thinking. Mostly about the church service I had just had compared to the church service I could envision in this magnificent cathedral. My church service was held in something that looked comparable to an office building. This is definitely not an office building. The tourists aren’t leaving. I start to sweat. It’s now or never. Kneeling down I recognized that this is not something I ever do. I feel like an imposter. I don't cross myself but clasp my hands in front. I opt for the hand clasp instead of the traditional Mormon arm fold. I begin to offer up my simple prayer to the lord. My mind wanders. I am conscious of the tourists coming in and don’t feel like I can focus. Someone takes a picture and I feel the flash go off to my right. Did they just take that picture of me? Have I taken pictures of people in cathedrals praying before? Yes. Crap. I bet that picture is of me. The Catholics probably hate us. Tourists coming in, even on their day of worship.  The prayer turns into more of a plea to God, asking for clarity of mind. Then it comes.

Praying here is no different than praying next to my bed at night. It is just me and God. God and me. Who cares if the tourists walk past, because that isn’t what this prayer is about. Nobody except God knew that I wasn’t Catholic and he doesn’t care. He is just happy I am striking up a conversation. People are the same no matter what religion they are. They are all just searching for something. Who cares where they find it? My church may look like an office building, but it gives me the same sense of unity and peace that the Catholics seem to receive from their cathedrals. They would feel just as foreign in my place of worship as I do in theirs.

My prayer ends. It wasn't really a prayer. It was more a strand of disjointed thoughts that I hope God accepts. I’m done playing catholic and ready to return to my rightful place in the Mormon religion.

A boy in a purple hoodie walks in the door and takes his place in the pew next to me. He is my age. He crosses himself and bows his head. He will never know that I wasn't catholic, but to him it doesn't matter. This is his place of worship.