Entering a religious space that you don’t belong to is a lot like being the only person who isn’t dancing.

I have a Catholic friend, and she invited me along to watch a group of young adults complete their rites of initiation. This is a series of rituals, including baptisms and confirmations, for people joining the Church. 

I myself have never been baptized. Instead, my rather agnostic parents chose to host ‘naming days’ for me and my sister. As far as I’m told, this is pretty similar to a baptism: a baby makes an appearance, and a group of adults all promise to look out for that baby. Of course, there’s no mention of God, and any water present is notably unsanctified.

That Sunday, when we walked into the large, carpeted hall, I was immediately separated from the friend who had brought me as there weren’t two chairs left next to each other. Sitting alone heightened the feeling that I was some kind of observer.

What I remember most was the sense of excitement. It was clearly an important day for the community: having a group of young adults joining the Catholic Church is unusual. People had travelled from across the country to see the ceremony. There was an underlying, barely contained buzz, as if it was the last day of school.

Two priests entered like grand, familiar character actors, with sonorous voices and a slightly cheeky air. They welcomed the large crowd and gave readings from John’s Gospel.

The four being baptized were then asked to stand with their sponsors. These are family members or friends who are there in support, as fully initiated Catholics. I found myself focusing on one young man in particular out of the four. He looked about nineteen and his sponsor was a woman who I thought was probably his mum. She looked so happy, almost on the verge of tears.

I thought that the young man looked unhappy. His expressions were odd and shifting. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. The cynic in me was fixated, taking this as evidence against the ceremony and the joy of the community. I wrote his backstory in my head, deciding that he must have been under pressure from his family: the only reason that I could think of for why a nineteen-year-old would choose to be baptized.

One by one, the four had their heads immersed in holy water. They each emerged looking quite jolted and vulnerable.

I watched the young man, his wet hair sticking up and dripping onto the white cloth around his shoulders. His sponsor lit a candle for him to hold.

The attention of the crowd had shifted back onto the priests, but I stayed watching him. He had stepped away a little and, with his free hand, he made the sign of the cross. He closed his fist and brought it to his lips. With his eyes shut, he suddenly looked gentle and calm. I think he was praying.

The cynic in me was silent and, much to my surprise, I was crying.

I’m not a particularly soppy person and try to avoid crying in public places. I have since wondered if I was just very tired that day, or feeling a bit homesick.

Or maybe it was that, in that moment, the room had been filled with warmth and hope. I’d realized that I knew nothing about this man and why he’d chosen to join the Church. I knew nothing about faith at all.