Outward signs.

Jesus likes the Pharisees. He hangs out with them. He just wishes they remembered religion is an inside job.

With the many recent announcements of beatifications and canonizations, I keep waiting for Melanie's name to appear on the lists.

All of us who knew her in grammar school suspected her of sainthood early on. She fit the description of holiness in the hagiographies, those miracle-laden stories of saints' lives we were addicted to back then: a quiet, prayerful girl who cared more for God than games. It wasn't that she was always serious, for she had a ready smile, flashing her braces at us whenever there was a joke to share. But she was always serious about God. For Melanie, God was the real thing.

Melanie thought nothing of leaving us, mid-throw of the dice during a round of Parcheesi, to say the next installment on her novena. She would go into the coatroom and whisper some prayer or other, which made those of us who were her friends slightly embarrassed--for her or for us, I was never sure. Melanie also chose to spend almost every recess period in the church instead of on the playground. While most of the girls tossed jacks or skipped rope, Melanie was deep in mystical communion, on her knees in front of some statue. Sometimes we trailed after her and stood in the back, watching her as she watched eternity. At the end of a few of these encounters, she would rise and turn to us slowly, her eyes full of heaven.

"I saw something," she might say. We presumed she saw something that wasn't available to the rest of us to see. We didn't ask. She didn't tell.

Melanie came from a humble home, like the children who saw the Blessed Mother at Lourdes and Fatima. And she ate next to nothing, which seemed the linchpin of sanctity after reading countless stories of mystics who survived on nothing but the Eucharist. Maybe all of this was an elaborate show for our benefit, but it didn't seem that way to us. At the least, I think of my childhood friend as a novice in the spiritual life, doing what we all do, more or less: imitating the piety of others until we find a spiritual path of our own.

And then again, perhaps Melanie's image will end up on a stained glass window or statue some day. I keep a lookout for her, just in case.

Children play at religion like they play at everything else in their world. They try on different spiritual identities the same way they stumble out of closets now and then, wearing their parents' clothes. Lots of Catholic children have played "Mass," giving out Necco wafer communion to their friends. We may not have been scrupulous back then about the rules: Girls and boys took turns being the priest, and we indiscriminately placed the candy hosts on the tongues of Protestant and Catholic friends alike. Some adults found this behavior shocking, and told us in no uncertain terms that Mass is not something to play with. We did not intend to commit sacrilege, nor were we consciously trying on the priesthood of the baptized. We were simply imitating what we saw and incorporating it into the business of the day.

WHERE ALL OF THIS RUNS US INTO TROUBLE, I THINK, IS when we don't stop pretending, even in our adult faith. The blind practice of ritual as holy behavior is probably as old as religion itself. Some of us do our pious impersonations to impress God, and some to impress others, such as our watching parents and later our children. It really gets out of hand when we begin to judge others by their willingness to conform to pious behaviors. That's where the Pharisees are at in Mark, Chapter 7. Not only do they conform to an extensive litany of ritual washings--listed here in an amusing chant of "cups and jugs and kettles and beds"--but they are quick to point a finger at the disciples, who do not perform even the simplest purification rite before meals.

The Pharisees, we should keep in mind, are not bad people. Jesus ate often in their homes and shared many of their theological views, like a belief in holy and unholy spirits, and a conviction about life after death. We can compare the Pharisees of the first century to some lay leaders of the church today, who take their faith very seriously and are prepared to reorient their lives around what they believe. The Pharisees did not think the religious hierarchy was doing a very good job leading the people in holiness, so they took the trappings of the priestly life upon themselves, though they were not priests. The purification rituals they practiced were not legally binding on the community at large but only on the priestly caste. They were attempting to affirm the identity of Israel as a priestly people, a holy nation. Because they felt their leaders were not prepared to lead, they took on that role themselves.

The real failure of the Pharisees is that they missed the boat. What if there were a movement among lay Catholics today to wear clerical collars and to take vows of celibacy in order to protest the current state of clerical leadership? I'm afraid the movement, however sincerely intended, would just prove to be cannon fodder for the media and a source of snickering all around. It wouldn't make us a more priestly people, because true leadership isn't donned as easily as a suit. "Out-priesting the priests" isn't the same as embracing the vocation to lead through service, as Jesus did.

The worst of "Pharisee-ism," of course, is that they, like so many who want to see the community "do better," became judgmental and oppressive. Those who did not share their scruples were scorned. True holiness leads to a spirit that is loving, gracious, gentle, and forgiving. False pieties cover a nature that is all too often coarse, angry, and accusative. By our fruits we reveal ourselves, even though we may put on a good act.

IT WOULDN'T BE FAIR TO EXPOSE THE VENEER OF THE PHARISEES without seeing how appearances affect others in scripture as well. Take the fellow who is healed from infirmities of hearing and speech, later in Mark 7. It's such a theatrically induced miracle--spitting, groaning heavenward, sticking fingers in ears, and the cry, "Be opened!"--so Hollywood, you'd think Jesus might have blushed a little in the execution of it. After all, there were plenty of occasions when Jesus cast out demons with a word, or healed the sick without ever laying eyes on them. So why the camera-ready scene here?

Perhaps it suggests that Jesus knows what we need even before we ask. Some folks are healed with a command, and some need the full show. Remember the fellow who gets healed of his blindness in stages, first seeing "men walking like trees," and later gaining full sight (Mark 8:24)? Jesus is willing to work with us, giving us all the time and special effects we need to accept the goodness of grace into our lives. Thirty-day Ignatian retreats? OK, if that's what it takes. Herbs, spiritual direction, "soaking prayer," healing of memories? Catholicism is old and big and can absorb every spiritual practice from rosaries to monasticism. Can Jesus work with us in these and a thousand other venues? Absolutely. Does Jesus need these things to get to us? Only insofar as we need something tangible to hold on to, then Jesus throws us a rope.

Jesus knows our humanity. He broke bread with the Pharisees even though they drove him crazy sometimes, because he deeply understood the human need for the outward signs they employed. What are our sacraments, after all, but little tools to unlock very big mysteries? When entered into with the proper mind and heart, the sacraments make us aware of the very presence of the Lord. But trouble befalls us when we cling to the outward signs and go no farther. What if the man who sought healing reverenced the spitting, groaning, and cry, instead of the Lord behind it all? What a tragically comic figure he would make, binding himself to the outer casing of a miracle and missing what is truly holy.

If we could simply point at the flaws of the Pharisees or the eccentricities of the needy and stop there, we might be spared further reflection. As it stands, even the disciples themselves lip-synched the right answers sometimes without taking the word home. Peter's famous affirmation is a classic example. When Jesus asks, "Who do you say that I am?" Peter does not hesitate. "You are the Christ!" he shouts, beaming, so proud of himself for answering correctly, for earning a gold star for today's lesson.

And then Peter makes his mistake: He opens his mouth again. No sooner has he affirmed the true identity of his Lord when he betrays how little he knows, understands, and believes. Peter actually takes it upon himself to rebuke his Christ! Still glowing in self-importance, he pulls Jesus aside and says something like, "And now, about this suffering, rejection, death, and Resurrection you're talking about--not a good idea!" Jesus is forced to reveal Peter's advice as a devil of a deal. It eerily echoes the original bargain Satan tried to make with Jesus back in the desert at the start of his ministry.

THIS MISTAKE OF PETER'S IS ONLY TOO familiar to us. How easily we recite, our creeds and prayers and affirm our faith, and how quickly we refuse the challenge of suffering and the cost of discipleship! We blame the Pharisees for , their superficial piety and do not see how shallow our own faith may be. Any faithful Catholic can tell the story of how life's greatest trials tested and often exposed the holes in his or her understanding of God. But there is hope even in this unwelcome exposure. Jesus said faith the size of a mustard seed would gain us the kingdom. What is significant is not how much faith we have or how deep it goes, but that we do not confuse our pious words and actions, or even the little image of God we carry around in our brains, with the source of all true worship.

During my years in grammar school, my friend Melanie's piety impressed and attracted me. I still appreciate small gestures and displays of reverence to keep me mindful of the sacred--a slight bow of the head when passing a church or a crucifix on a wall to raise my thoughts from the mundane aspects of the day. But like the Pharisees, I wrestle with the difference between the bending of the knee and the unyielding, unbowed heart. And like Peter, I am learning how many times you can name the right name and still be clueless.

ALICE CAMILLE, writer and adjunct faculty member at the Franciscan School of Theology in Berkeley, California. She is the author of Seven Last Words (ACTA, 1999) and a collaborator on the homily series "This Sunday's Scripture," available through Twenty-Third Publications.