Nativity Catholic Church
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No Thanks, I'm Just Looking
A "FIRESTARTER"
Spiritual Essay by Rev. Dr. Benjamin Berinti, C.Pp.S. Men are not generally known to be shoppers, at least not in the way one usually understands the full ramifications of shopping. For most men, at least those brave enough to enter a store (Home Depot and Outdoor World not included), “shopping” consists of heading directly to the spot where the desired merchandise is displayed, grabbing it up as quickly as possible, and making a bullet’s path to the shortest register line there is—all this without so much as a sideways glance at the remaining 60,000 square feet of available goods and services. Men can never seem to understand why anyone bothers to look at items in a store that one doesn’t intend to purchase in the first place. How many times have I heard my own father say to my mother (even though he is quite well aware of her shopping expertise): “Why are you picking that up? We didn’t come in here for that!” I think most men would believe they’ve died and gone to heaven if every retail outlet simply followed McDonald’s lead and installed “Drive-In Service”—simply pull up to the window; order the saw or light bulb or pair of jeans; listen for the total; drive around to the first window to drop the cash; slink forward to the second window to retrieve the goods; head home without breaking a sweat. Sure would be easier and more satisfying than being dragged into a store and suffering the ignominy of being found asleep on one of the ½ price patio deck chairs in the clearance section. Having acquired many of my dad’s wonderful traits, I fortunately have not inherited his shopping style; I’m all my mother’s son when it comes to stores, bargains, and spending hours looking around and touching things I never intend to take home (at least not until the price goes down). I can more easily get lost for hours in a Marshalls than I ever can while reading a papal encyclical. Sometimes I like to use the archaic, but apparently making-a-comeback term, “browsing,” when I’m floating among the shelves and racks, trying unsuccessfully to dodge the phantom-like appearances of salespersons asking, “Can I help you find what you’re looking for?” In those moments, I really want to say, “The only thing I’m ‘looking for’ is to be left alone!” But I almost always offer back the kinder and gentler, “No thanks, I’m just browsing.” As I gaze out on a Sunday assembly, I realize that there are lots of spiritual browsers trolling the pews and aisles of the church. I imagine if a minister of hospitality or fellow worshiper were to ask someone nearby, “May I help you?” Or if I stepped off the altar to sidle up next to any given number of people politely reciting the prayers of the Mass and honestly asked, “Can I help you find what you’re looking for?” I think I’d often get the same response I give to the pesky salesperson at Dillards: “No thanks, I’m just looking around.” Each week, there are fellow travelers in our midst who are browsers, the spiritual window-shoppers, those who touch the merchandise, examine a few things of interest, casually join in a song if it’s a favorite (ignoring all the rest that are not), wonder about the “cost” of it all, seem mesmerized by the candles and incense, keep their distance on the edges, leave whenever they’ve seen or heard enough, and even those who fall asleep like the unfortunately dragged-along husband who never intended to spend more than a few minutes in the store to begin with. This is not a criticism, but an observation. Some current fully engaged members of the community will honestly admit to their own “browsing” days in their faith journey. And for some, it hasn’t been that long ago when they made the switch. The poet Rumi spoke about “spiritual window-shoppers who idly ask, ‘How much is that?’” in his piece We Are Three. I find his advice to be worthwhile. “Even if you don’t know what you want, buy…something…to be part of the exchanging flow.” Many of us struggle at times with knowing what we truly want or what we are really looking for when we gather as a worshiping community—there are latent browser genes in all of us. Even after we think we’ve mastered the fine art of being engaged and connected with the practice of our faith, there are still those surprising moments when we want to back off, to touch a few things without someone hovering over us, insisting that we buy now or forever regret our foolish hesitations. There will always be moments when we want to simply hang back, take another perspective, really observe what is being offered before we sink our hearts back into it all. But as Rumi so truthfully suggests, more often the best thing we can do is invest in something, some aspect of what is being offered for us within the life of the Church—the size and cost of the particular piece doesn’t matter. Without making some commitment, without risking more than a look-see, we will never be a part of the “exchanging flow,” and will thus miss the opportunity for conversion, to be altered by our participation rather than remain aimless in our wanderings, forever imprisoned by our disconnection. Sometimes I like to be left alone when I’m in the browsing mood, and sometimes, I really want someone to break my façade and invite me to be more engaged than I’m currently willing to fess up to. Trouble is, there are times when I’m not sure which of the two moods I really am in, and so I’m thankful when another dares to ask, “Just browsing, or may I help you find something?”
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