Social distancing has been the best excuse to swerve church since the two-by-two rule applied to flood-prone beasts - but even if congregating wasn't suddenly (and literally) a mortal sin, we would've missed Mass anyway because we're in the throes of a pretty deep lapse.

Instead, like so many other families resorting to breaking the "backyard camping" glass during these holiest of homebound holidays, we'll be sleeping rough a dozen metres from the house and the resurrection will apply more to Dad managing to shake off last night's Coopers in time to get the camp oven cranking as opposed to any empyrean observations.

Watching George Pell progress from the High Court to the Hume Highway this week brought being Catholic home again with a thud. Like the acquitted cardinal's road trip attire, being part of the flock these days for us, anyway, is a rather dishevelled affair. We're not sure whether we're coming or going, kneeling or sitting, feasting or fasting.

When the idea of going to Mass is raised, generally on Thursday or Friday evening, we'll grapple with visions of a sententious hour on a wooden bench in a freezing/sweltering country cathedral and, before the cock crows, cravenly declare "we'll go next week".

Despite this ambivalence, we're still raising the kids in our own image; they're racking up sacraments like frequent flyer points, mispronouncing their haitches and rote learning a whole canon of bizarre ritual and prayer (I always thought it was "world with our tend" not "world without end"; the same way, for years, I was sure road signs at the top of vertiginous mountain routes said "steer decent" not "steep descent".)

Oh, and we love our little local Catholic school. In that regard, we're truly blessed.

It hums with genuine pastoral care, the children are cherished, their teachers are saints and at the sacred heart of it all is John 13:34, which tends to do the job nicely.

Obviously, though, all those empty pews across the country on any given Sunday testify that just because plenty of families, like ours, are attending Catholic schools, they're not backing it up with regular visits to church. The 2016 census might suggest 5 million or so Australians still identify as Catholic, but it's clearly more vibe than covenant.

The Pentecostals seem to be the only mob getting bums on seats these days - and jolly good for them - but the whole megachurch thing just doesn't make sense to old-school Catholics. To that cohort, a stadium is a place to go and watch hard men run at each other for 80 minutes, after which, sated for another week, you head home to your fibro, stopping off for a carton of smokes and two longnecks on the way (check out the beer and cigs in The Devil's Playground).

Despite our desertion, most lapsed Catholics will confess to at least a few fond memories of Mass, and might even admit the desire to attend never dies; it just lies dormant, like the lyrics to Here I am Lord.

We know church isn't all bad.

Firstly, like COVID-19, it forces you to spend time with the family.

Sitting in a row amid all the austerity produces a special kind of reverie. With an arm around your child, you stretch your legs and simply surrender; dipping in and out (mostly out) of the Pauline epistles and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of weirdly relevant agrarian parables. You find yourself considering everything from the lilies of the field, to why the Catholic embracement of technology stopped at the overhead projector, to death itself, which, really, is the whole point.

And speaking of death, it's often while on my knees in the post-Communion hush I'll take in the Stations of the Cross. Each church comes with its own kitschy depictions of the Passion, the artistic merit varying wildly but the message consistent; explicit brutality in full sight so we never forget Christ's suffering. What begins with a bureaucratic bungle far off to the left side of the room swings around our way to rapidly devolve into a scene of sheer snuff-movie torture hovering above my son's head as he plays obliviously with his contraband Lego.

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"Boy, that escalated quickly," as Ron Burgundy might say.

Luckily, you can always trust a Catholic to fish for moments of levity in our vast sea of blood and tears.

We laugh uproariously when a baby in an heirloom tunic screams at being splashed with ice cold Holy water, but what we enjoy even more is watching all the overdressed, non-Catholic members of the extended baptismal clan sit up the very front (you don't sit up the front) and cast bewildered glances over their shoulders when those behind manically sit and stand as if playing a sadistic game of Simon (Peter) Says.

Church can be edgy, too, especially when alcohol's involved; the occupational hazard of being an open house of the Lord. Leonard Cohen and The Pogues knew this, and painted memorable scenes of inapposite behaviour in places of worship. They rightly cited Midnight Mass for this kind of thing but the best example I ever saw was during the Veneration of the Holy Cross, when a drunk, having a very good Friday, lurched up the aisle towards the crucifix being held by the priest and yelled "Hang on to her, baby!" before planting one on JC's toes and disappearing triumphantly into the night.

But as much as Christmas and Easter refire the pistons of latent devotion, marriage is Catholicism's true secret weapon; its tractor beam of guilt and propriety.

When my wife and I planned our nuptials, something lurking inside insisted we had to be "married properly" at the altar and before a priest. So, about a month out from our secular knees-up with family and friends, we held a secret Saturday ceremony in our local church, completely empty, bar us, our then-only child running around the Paschal candle and her aunty and uncle as witnesses.

Just as we exchanged vows, a pair of strangers wandered in off the street, plonked themselves down the back and, when it was all over, gave us a round of applause.

I'm glad they dropped by.