On Jan. 7, Corpus Christi Church was destroyed in the horrific Palisades Fire in Pacific Palisades, California. I was out of town at the time, and no matter how many photos I saw of the devastation, nothing could prepare me for the sight in person. Corpus Christi had been my parish for 45 years. It was where my three children made their First Communions and where my eldest was confirmed.

The church had burned once before, in the early 1960s, and was rebuilt to be “fireproof” — a parabola of brick, steel and glass. Yet it still succumbed to the apocalyptic blaze, just yards from Palisades Fire Station 69. As I begin to process all that has been lost, I find this loss the hardest to accept. It has led me to reflect on what a parish is and what it truly means to those who belong.

What is a parish? What defines it? Is it just a building? Or is it the people — the priests, the Masses, the collective memory of parishioners and staff? Is it the ascetic precision of Monsignor John Mihan, our former pastor, or the Irish joy and compassionate sincerity of our current leader, Monsignor Liam Kidney? Is it the shy smile of Cindy Reece as she completes another successful First Communion class, or the quiet satisfaction of Jane Richardson when Confirmation students remember their catechism responses?

Or perhaps it’s the ever-upbeat emails from Lorraine Hartman, sharing messages from people across the country about the news of the Church’s destruction — and the miraculous news that the tabernacle, holy oils, and all 14 stained-glass stations of the cross survived the fire?

As a 45-year member of Corpus Christi, I have deposited countless worries and prayers in the seventh pew to the right, just in front of the first pillar. When someone else seemed to stake a claim to that spot, I thought, “Well, I’ve worn out that place with my kneeling needs — perhaps he needs it now more than I do.”

The real question is: “How much is my sense of the sacred tied to the physical space of my parish church?” A fire is a fire is a good opportunity to find out. Which ashes matter more as we move forward — the ones traced on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday, or those now scattered among the broken glass and shattered pews that remain?

I’ve often felt like my car drove itself to Corpus Christi, guided by my “holy longing.” The continuity of the Mass, the idea that people have been experiencing the redemptive power of the Mass for more than 2,000 years, is something I’ve always felt connected to. I know the urge to attend church isn’t just about a building — it’s about connecting to something greater than myself.

I think a parish is a place where we grow comfortable with the idea of death — especially our own. I had always felt at peace knowing I would be buried from there. I was even comforted by it.

I was also comforted by the way Corpus Christi marked All Souls’ Day. An entire pew was set aside for photos of loved ones lost in the past year, and their names were memorialized on two banners hanging in the church. During Mass, we sang each name aloud, followed by the chorus, “We Remember,” striking just the right balance between reverence and familiarity. “All you holy men and women, we remember”, we sang, and I felt blessed to think that one day, my name would be among those voices lifted in prayer.

I was delighted when Father Kidney joined our parish — I remembered him from St. Martin of Tours in Brentwood, which I used to attend with my beloved uncle. Father Kidney is an outstanding pastor. He even manages to make one of the least engaging duties of a priest — the annual appeal — seem effortless.

When my mother-in-law passed away, he stepped up in a way that meant everything to our family. Her longtime priest and dear friend of 50 years had already passed, and the other priest she knew was in a care facility. (She was 93, to be fair.) Father Kidney arranged a private family Mass and helped us lay her to rest with his characteristic compassion and faithfulness, lifting the burden from our shoulders.

During COVID, I deeply missed attending Mass and I missed my church community. The awkwardness of a Zoom Mass did little to ease the isolation. So when we were finally able to gather for an open-air Mass — sitting carefully spaced apart on the patio — it seemed like heaven. We could actually see one another again.

I always looked forward to the Thanksgiving Day Mass — It just seemed like the perfect day to express our gratitude in church. I can’t count the number of times I dutifully brought my bread and wine for dinner to be blessed, only to realize later, as I sat in the car, that I had left them in the church.

There were so many drop-offs in the driveway and at the front of the church — food for St. Joseph’s Center, clothes and bedding for the homeless shelter — but my favorite was always the Christmas toy drive. I especially looked forward to seeing Carol Sanborn’s warm smile as I drove up to unload my loot.

So, we return to my original question: What is a parish? What makes up a parish?

Sometime after the fire, I had a fleeting, practical thought: “Now I should cancel my auto payments to Faith Direct.” But then another realization hit me: “Who am I kidding? We’re going to need donations more than ever now to rebuild.”

That’s it, right there — the use of the collective pronoun we. I was thinking we, and that’s exactly what each member of Corpus Christi must do if we are ever going to consider ourselves a we again.

One small, two-letter word: we. This is the true meaning of a parish.

Justine Bloomingdale writes from California.