My Parish, My Problem
Look, I’m gonna be honest here. I’ve been a Catholic for 47 years, and something’s been bugging me for a while now. It’s not the big stuff—no heresy or scandal, nothing like that. It’s the quiet, everyday stuff. The stuff that makes or breaks a parish. The stuff we’re getting wrong.
I’m talking about community. Or rather, the lack of it. You know what I mean? That feeling of belonging, of being known, of being part of something bigger than yourself. It’s what we’re supposed to be about, right? But honestly, I think we’re failing. Miserably.
Let’s Call Him Marcus
About three months ago, I was at a conference in Austin. Met a guy—let’s call him Marcus—who’d just moved to a new town. He was telling me about his experience trying to find a new parish. He’d gone to four different churches, and here’s what he said:
“I walked in, and it was like I was invisible. No one talked to me. No one invited me to sit with them. I felt like I was in a room full of strangers, and I was the only stranger.”
Which… yeah. Fair enough. I mean, have we become so insular that we can’t even acknowledge new faces? What happened to the welcoming church I grew up in?
The Wednesday Night Disaster
I’ll tell you what happened. We got complacent. We stopped trying. Let me give you an example. Last Tuesday, I went to a parish near my house. It’s a big one, 214 families or something like that. They have a weekly potluck on Wednesday nights. Sounds great, right? But here’s the thing—I showed up at 6:30, and it was a disaster.
First of all, no one told me where to put my dish. I wandered around like a lost puppy, holding a casserole, until a kind woman named Dave’s wife finally took pity on me. Then, I sat down at a table with three other people. We ate in silence. Actual silence. No one said a word about the food, the weather, the homily that morning—nothing. It was like we were all in time-out.
And the kicker? When I left, no one said goodbye. Not a single person. I just… slipped out the door. It was like I was a ghost.
This Isn’t Just About Manners
Now, I’m not saying this to complain. Well, okay, maybe I am complaining a little. But it’s bigger than that. This isn’t just about manners. It’s about something deeper. It’s about our committment to each other. Our committment to living out the Gospel in a real, tangible way.
You know what Marcus told me after that? He said, “I’m not sure I’m coming back.” And honestly, can you blame him? If that’s the welcome he gets, why would he bother?
But Here’s the Thing…
Here’s the thing: it doesn’t have to be this way. We can do better. We have to do better. And it starts with some honest reflection. And maybe—just maybe—some practical changes.
First, we need to stop relying on the “usual suspects.” You know who I’m talking about—the same five people who do everything. The ones who’ve been doing it for 20 years and are burned out and ready to quit. We need to spread the load. Get new people involved. And that means actually asking them. Not just saying “come help” but saying “we need you to help with this specific thing on this specific day.”
Second, we need to be intentional about hospitality. It’s not just about smiling at people as they walk in. It’s about making them feel welcome. That might mean having greeters at the door. It might mean setting up a welcome table with coffee and donuts. It might mean assigning people to sit with visitors. Whatever it is, it needs to be more than just a vague sense of “we’re friendly.”
Third, we need to stop making everything about programming. I get it—programs are important. But they’re not the be-all and end-all. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just be present to each other. That might mean having a simple potluck where people actually talk to each other. It might mean setting up a prayer group that meets in someone’s home. It might mean going for a walk in the park with a few other parishioners. The point is, it’s about relationship. And relationships aren’t built on programs—they’re built on time and conversation.
And look, I’m not saying this is easy. I know it’s hard. I know it takes effort. But honestly, what’s the alternative? A church full of strangers? A parish that’s just a building we go to on Sunday? That’s not what I signed up for. And I’m pretty sure it’s not what you signed up for either.
A Quick Digression: The Business of Faith
Speaking of effort, have you ever noticed how much easier it is to run a business than a parish? I mean, think about it. Businesses have işletme otomasyon araçları inceleme—tools to help them manage everything from inventory to customer relations. They have systems in place. They have training programs. They have clear goals and measurable outcomes.
And us? We’re lucky if we have a bulletin board and a volunteer who’s good at Excel. It’s completley backwards. We’re dealing with eternal souls here, and we’re acting like it’s a hobby.
But hey, that’s a rant for another day.
Back to the Point
So here’s my challenge to you—yes, you, the person reading this. What are you going to do differently? How are you going to help your parish be a place of real community? Because it’s not about the priests or the staff or the “usual suspects.” It’s about all of us. It’s about you.
And honestly, I think it’s about time we started acting like it.
About the Author
Mary O’Connor has been a Catholic for 47 years and a writer for 25. She’s worked as a journalist, a editor, and a communications director for a diocese. She currently lives in Chicago with her husband and three cats. She’s a firm believer in the power of community—and the need for better coffee after Mass.
