Last Sunday I skipped church. That in itself was no big deal. I had skipped it the week before too, out on the potato boat in Peru. But this time I was in town, and a block away from Trinity, and I very intentionally decided not to go. Javier and I talked about going to another church in Harlem, and my habitual Sunday practice is to be in church so I felt the pull, but something in my instinct said Stay Away. Read the Paper. Take a Walk. I felt uneasy breaking my rhythm and habit, but once a year I do that – make sure my vacation includes two consecutive Sundays off, so that the break in my rhythm can better show me why that rhythm is valuable to me. It felt good to feel the hunger.

I talked to someone this past week who was wondering why they bother to go to church at all. They didn't see the benefit in their lives. They still had all the same problems and challenges they had a year ago. I was careful not to answer their question but to let it stand. It's a good one. Why do we show up at all?

It used to be that many people filled the church pews because of what other people would think of them if they didn't. Mainline churches burgeoned with nominal Christianity built on social protocol. Now it's the reverse: in New York City, and even more strongly in San Francisco where I lived previously, the street-side sentiment is: What is wrong with you that you would choose church over brunch?!

In a land of instant everything, incremental practice isn't remotely in vogue, which is partly why numbers in churches are generally down. But one of the reasons Liturgy is powerful is that it is habitual. We talk about it being transformational, but the other chemicals that create that combustion are time and repetition. Neither of those things is very dramatic. Most of the time we don't notice anything really transforming in us.

But once in awhile, when the sermon stops us in our tracks, or when we hear a standard phrase in the liturgy as if for the first time, or when the music speaks our soul's language, or in my case, when we feel the simple hole in our routine and miss its orienting steadiness, the ritual shows a glimmer of its power.

To get to those glimmers though, one must log hundreds and even thousands of hours of practice – of just showing up. The transformation Liturgy offers is one that requires sometimes-exasperating amounts of cultivation. This is not glamorous, but the fruit is so reliable and so sustaining – it's a guarantee as sure as the difference between an industrial-farm store-bought tomato and the beefsteak tomato from your garden.

And then occasionally, one gets those glimmers by NOT showing up. I recommend the practice: Play hooky for a week or two this summer. Do it to discover more intentionally why it is that you show up at all.