Because You Love Me

For all the hundreds (thousands?) of talks I’ve given over the years, I really only have one talk: God loves you. Or, as you likely know if you’ve heard me speak, “You are loved beyond imagining by a God who died to know you.” That’s at the heart of pretty much every talk I give, whether it’s on Theology of the Body, discernment, confession, Mary, or evangelization. That’s because it’s at the heart of the Gospel. Really, it is the Gospel.

Sunlight through a church windowIt shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me a while back, then, when I stood up to give a ten-minute talk before Mass and found myself saying that every moment of the Mass is a proof of God’s love. What else could it be? But when I asked the congregation to spend the Mass asking themselves how that was true at every turn, I knew I (or, rather, the Holy Spirit) was on to something.

 

So throughout that Mass, I kept repeating this to myself: “Because you love me.” We stood when Father walked in and I said, “Because you love me.” Then I thought about it. What does my standing have to do with God’s love? Standing is a sign of readiness, of willingness to go where you’re sent. Because God loves me, he asks me to go wherever he sends me. Because he loves me, he sends me to be still with him.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, I’m marked by the Cross of Christ. My life is lived not in my own name or in the name of success or pleasure or music or fads but in the name of the Triune God. Because he loves me, he sees not my sin but his mercy. How he loves me.

“Let us call to mind our sins.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, he doesn’t leave me in my sin. He makes me look at it in the light of his love and name it evil. He wants more for me than a life of empty selfishness and so he holds it before my gaze and then destroys it. Because he loves me, he calls me a sinner—and then reminds me that sinner is not my name.

“A reading from the letter of Saint Paul to the Colossians.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, Paul was saved. Because he loves me Paul was saved. For himself, of course, and for every other Christian, but at that blinding moment on the road to Damascus God was also thinking of me. Because he loves me, he inspired Isaiah and Solomon and Moses and John. Because he loves me, he gave the sweet and loving things and the hard and convicting things. Because he loves me, he spoke straight to me two thousand and three thousand years ago, in poem and story and census and song. Thank God that he loves me.

“Alleluia.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, he gives the glad good news of the Gospel. Because he loves me, he asks me to stand to greet it, crossing my forehead, lips, and heart as I cry out (with Thomas Howard), “Let all in me that is not Gospel be crucified!” I hear the very words of the Word and am reminded of how I have been healed, fed, challenged, and consoled. Because he loves me, he came for me.

“Let us pray to the Lord.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, he listens to my prayers. Lord, listen to my prayers! Listen, because you love me. Because he loves me, he sometimes says no. Blessed be the name of the Lord.1

“Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, he accepts my simple offering of bread, the joys of my life handed over for him. He accepts my suffering in the wine. And he makes my life into his body and blood, poured out for the world. Because he loves me, he doesn’t disdain my poverty but transforms everything I entrust to him into glory. He lets me serve him. Not because he needs me but because he loves me.

“Only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, it is the deep desire of the heart of God that I be healed. Because he loves me, he spoke his Word, his healing Word who came into the world 2000 years ago to heal the blind and the lame and still today opens my eyes blinded to the evil of sin and heals my limbs so weary of doing good. He loosens my tongue to speak his name and dries up the flow of blood pouring from my broken heart. Because he loves me he shows me that I am wounded and that he is the only balm for my wounds. He awakens in me a hunger and then feeds me with his very self. What greater love could there be?

“Amen.” Because you love me.”

Because he loves me, he asks me to respond to his grace. He doesn’t just give himself without my consent, doesn’t just save me without my cooperation. Because he loves me, he lets me participate. And so I say amen, receiving his body and blood and offering him my body and blood. “This is my body, given up for you,” I tell him. Because this infinite God loves me enough to care about the pathetic gift I make of myself.

“Go in peace.” Because you love me.

Because he loves me, he doesn’t ask me to stay here. He could easily save the world without my help, but he asks me to be the instrument, to be the voice calling out the Good News, to be the hands and feet doing his work. Because he loves me, he doesn’t want me in a church 24 hours a day. He wants balance and leisure and rest and laughter and good food and community and the joy of knowing his love outside the church as well as within. Because he loves me, he has asked me to be fully human, fully alive, just as he was. He’s asked me to live in his love in the pew and the grocery store and the carpool lane and the cubicle and the bar and the airport and the living room. Because he loves me, he wants me to be a saint. It’s the most perfect love there is.

 

 

It’s a whirlwind run through the Mass, this. If I’d written everything God’s love could shed light on, it’d be a book instead of a blog. But I’d love to hear your thoughts. Will you try this the next time you go to Mass and share your most powerful insights?

 

  1. Job 1:21 []

Something to Consider

I wonder if there was ever a Saint in the history of the world who was able to attend daily Mass and simply chose not to.

Image courtesy of the U.S. Army.
Image courtesy of the U.S. Army.

Not a guilt trip, just an invitation to reconsider your priorities. If the purpose of your life is to be a saint, what’s stopping you? Maybe daily Mass is impossible for you. But if it’s just that you’re lazy or busy or easily bored…think about that.

What to Do When Mass Is Awful

One downside to being a hobo is that there’s no vetting parishes before deciding to go to Mass there. Whether it’s stopping at a parish in Kentucky because its noon Mass fit my 12-hour drive or going to the only church in Abilene, KS, I don’t always have a lot of choice in the matter. And when I do, I don’t tend to have enough information that I can avoid sketchy parishes. The result, of course, is that I go to a lot of…trying Masses.

One particularly frustrating Mass got me thinking, some time after the rain stick and before I noticed half a dozen adults chewing gum. As I tried to ignore the murmured conversations all around me (because, really, why listen to the Mass?), the Lord reminded me that there’s very little that can ruin the Mass. Oh, there’s plenty that can ruin my focus or my prayer or even the state of my soul if I let it, but almost nothing actually has the power to ruin the goodness that is the Mass.

Things that can’t ruin Mass (although not for lack of trying):1

  1. Granted, the lighting wasn't great, but there's not much you can do with seafoam carpeting and cinder block walls.
    Not even seafoam carpeting and cinder block walls can ruin Mass. I promise.

    Ugly sanctuaries. And not just the brown brick monstrosities of my youth. I’m talking a picture of MLK Jr. hanging to the right of the altar. However much you respect the work he did, the man is not a Saint.

  2. People chewing gum. Never okay in a house of worship, but I’m sure you knew that.
  3. People dressed immodestly. Leggings are not pants and if you’re convinced that shorts are Sunday-Mass-appropriate, please do make sure that they cover your butt. Also, what’s with all the cleavage at Mass? Or anywhere, for that matter? I tell you, friends, I just don’t get it.
  4. Cell phones going off. Even when people answer them and talk about how they’re leaving church as they walk out on their phone. Yup, been there.
  5. Screaming kids. By which I usually mean fussing kids whose parents scoop them up and out of the sanctuary but still get dirty looks. But even the ones who are totally indulged, driving their matchbox cars up and down the pews making screeching noises can’t ruin Mass.
  6. Illicit liturgy. I’m talking pita bread Jesus, the congregation sitting through the whole Mass, lay people proclaiming the Gospel, the priest receiving communion after everybody else–I begin to think I really have seen it all.
  7. Bad music. I’m rather a musical snob, so when I hear a cantor who’s a quarter step flat for a whole psalm, a pianist who doesn’t understand rests, or a guitarist playing in the wrong time signature, it’s a challenge to me. And Catholics aren’t exactly known for their music….
  8. Heretical music. “I myself am the bread of life…” Okay, fine, John 6. “…You and I are the bread of life!” What? No. We aren’t. That doesn’t even make sense! Seriously?
  9. If I hear that one again, I'll text this to the preacher.
    If I hear that one again, I’ll text this to the deacon.

    Heretical preaching. I actually heard an Easter homily once where the deacon preached that Jesus didn’t rise from the dead. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

  10. Obnoxious neighbors. You know–the ones who say all the responses reallysuperfast or the ones who seem to be boycotting the new translation or the ones who spend the whole offertory chatting about Kendra’s new boyfriend. I’m of the opinion that the only reason you talk during Mass is if, say, one of your limbs falls off and you have to whisper to your neighbor to please hand it back to you. Otherwise, not a word.

Plenty of these things, of course, might ruin your experience of Mass, but ultimately Mass is not about your experience. It’s about the objective truth of God made man made food for us. And if it’s a valid Mass,2 it is quite literally the most incredible thing ever to happen in the history of the world. When we’re dealing with a glory so stunning as the Eucharist, even the most heinous of liturgical practices can’t ruin it.

Now don’t get me wrong–good liturgy is at the heart of our faith and reverence is tremendously important.3 But when I let these relatively inconsequential things frustrate me, I’m worshiping music or rubrics or proper attire at the expense of God. And really, I’m letting the devil win. When you go to Mass, you strike a blow at Satan; when you spend your Mass frustrated or judgmental, he deflects it. And then some.

So when is Mass awful? When it isn’t Mass.

  1. If the priest uses any words other than “this is my body” and “this is the chalice of my blood” for the “consecration.”4
  2. If the priest “consecrates” anything other than wheat bread or grape wine.5
  3. If the “priest” isn’t a priest.

That’s it. No matter how bad the music, how dull the preaching, or how rude the congregation, if the form,6 the matter,7 and the minister8 are correct, God shows up. And if the God of the universe becomes an inanimate object for you, stopping at nothing to be with you, then no amount of human failure ought to rob you of of your Eucharistic joy. A valid Mass, my friends, can never be awful.9 The congregation or the preaching or the music or you can be awful, but the Mass isn’t about you. It’s about God. And he is faithful, even when we’re pathetic.

So what should you do? Well, I’m a big fan of making imaginary excuses for people.10 Or finding ways not to be distracted. Or, if it’s possible, shopping around for a licit Mass with a reverent congregation.

But it really comes down to your attitude. If you approach the Mass like it’s an opportunity for you to be entertained or enlightened or pacified, you’re doing it wrong. If you’re making a mental list of liturgical abuses, I sympathize, but I remind you: unless you’re a bishop,11 you are not the liturgy police. You are the faithful. And while it would be wonderful if everything was done right and everybody really did what they ought, making that your standard for a “good” Mass is pharisaism at best and idolatry at worst.

I totally took this picture. Be impressed.

If you approach the Mass like you’re approaching the throne of God, though, everything that’s “wrong” with a particular liturgy fades into the background. If you offer God your frustrations in atonement for your sins, if you close your eyes and beg for the grace to focus on him and not on them, if you remember that God loves us in our brokenness and wants everything we have to offer even if it’s awful, if you remind yourself over and over that however Father might embellish the Mass you’re still truly present at the Last Supper, the Crucifixion, and the Wedding Feast of the Lamb–well, just think of the grace!

Now if you’re in a position to do anything about any of the above, please do. Make announcements about gum, preach about proper attire, ban liturgical abuses. But if you’re like most of us, with no power to change anyone but yourself and–maybe–your family, don’t let propriety trump worship. Recognize what’s wrong if you must and then look back to Christ crucified for you. In the face of that, what else really matters?

*************

Last week I mentioned that I wanted to go to Wyoming and now I am! So I’ll try it again: I really want to go to New Mexico and South Dakota but I have nobody to visit and they’re not on my way. Anybody want me to come speak? (Or anywhere else out West, really, but I’ve got every other state covered as far as excuses to go there.)

  1. Every single one of these examples has really truly happened to me. []
  2. Meaning Jesus actually shows up. You’ve probably never been to an invalid Mass. I think I went to one once but I’m not positive that it wasn’t just hugely illicit. []
  3. Half the reason I wrote this post was to point out what isn’t appropriate at Mass. And please, before you get upset that I’m saying it’s not a big deal when things are illicit, I know that it’s a huge deal because the Mass is so important and it needs to be done right. I’m just saying that relative to the Eucharist, who is God himself, liceity is nothing. Because relative to the Eucharist, everything is nothing. I’m advocating perspective, not anarchy. []
  4. My friend once went to a “Mass” where the priest said “this is the cup of my life.” No transubstantiation, no Mass. Lame. []
  5. Leavened bread in the Roman Rite is illicit–against the rules–but not invalid. If a priest tries to consecrate cornbread, though, it’s not Jesus. []
  6. Words. “This is my body,” “this is the cup of my blood.” []
  7. Stuff: wheat bread, grape wine. []
  8. A validly ordained priest–by necessity, a Catholic man. []
  9. Except in the archaic sense of inspiring awe, in which case every Mass is awful, most especially when it’s glorious. []
  10. “He must have gotten stuck in traffic and not had time to change and that’s why he’s wearing sweatpants and a cutoff tee to Sunday Mass.” “They’re probably chewing gum because they’ve never been in a church before and they don’t know proper etiquette.” “Maybe Father’s never read the rubrics.” “That 10-year-old playing her handheld game must have special needs.” []
  11. In which case oh my gosh hi and you’re amazing and thanks for reading my blog wanna be my best friend?!?!? []

Best New Year’s Eve Plans EVER

I don’t know about y’all, but I have a hate-hate relationship with New Year’s Eve. I mean, it’s the most important night of the year. Your social life is pretty much defined by how awesome your New Year’s Eve is. I’m not even talking about the need to kiss someone at midnight–I never understood the appeal of kissing somebody random, even at my most teenage.

Thank you Facebook for this evidence of how little I enjoyed that party.

I’m talking about the fact that people are in Times Square and on yachts and dancing with Beautiful People and I’m hiding from Y2K in the mountains or watching Shrek 3 with my little brother or sitting in my friends’ living room by myself because they’re in bed. I’m not even kidding. Other highlights include watching Mamma Mia,1 taking an hour to drive 3 miles because my mother insisted that I would be killed by a drunk driver if I drove on a highway at 11pm on New Year’s Eve, playing catchphrase in a hotel lobby, and sitting around at a party full of people I didn’t like.

Can you see why it’s not my favorite day of the year?

You think it’s gonna be like this.

I mean, you spend weeks either planning something awesome that ends up not being that awesome (underage wandering around Georgetown looking for something cool to do and ending up in a pub where the manager gave a speech from 11:58 to 12:02) or feeling lame for not having anything planned. And either way you’re miserable because your New Year’s Eve wasn’t the best night of your life. Why on earth would it be? It’s just a random day!

But it always ends up more like this.

So last year, I decided to shout a big “Forget you” to the culture I’ve been trying to satisfy and finally just embrace the fact that I’m not a socialite or a sorority girl or even a person with friends who throw New Year’s Eve parties. You know what I am? Of course you do. I’m a Jesus freak. And I’m happy with that every other day of the year. So last year, I decided to do what made me happy on New Year’s: I went to Mass.

Oh, my kids thought I was lame. But for the first time ever, my New Year’s Eve lived up to my expectations.

I got all dressed up and headed out the door around 11 for some good prayer time before midnight Mass. There must have been a hundred people there. When we sang, it was a cappella Christmas carols and the congregation split into harmony. Father preached on the term theotokos! I was in heaven. And when half the East Coast was trying not to puke in the cab, I was savoring the Bread that has all sweetness within it and offering my life anew to the One who gave it to me.

When I was a kid, New Year’s Day was the only Holy Day of Obligation I knew about.2 I honestly thought that the Church had established it as a Holy Day so that people couldn’t get too drunk on New Year’s Eve.3 But the Solemnity of Mary the Mother of God isn’t on New Year’s so that you can’t have fun–it’s so that our year is consecrated to Christ through our Lady. It’s so that you start each year off at Mass. It’s so that there’s a chance you’ll reflect on your New Year’s resolutions in the sanctuary rather than the bar.

So why not skip it all for this?

If you’ve got a midnight Mass or an adoration chapel you can get to, might I suggest foregoing the lame evening that’s all about hype and spending your evening with the Lord instead? If you’re cool enough that your evening is usually fun,4 feel free to go out afterwards. But even the Kardashians can’t outdo the wedding feast of the Lamb. Come midnight, I’ll be surrounded by incense, my voice raised in praise of the One to whom all time belongs, preparing to receive him in the flesh. Watching a giant crystal ball drop very slowly on a television screen–without Dick Clark, no less–well, you’ll excuse me if I don’t think it compares.

P.S. Merry Christmas!!

  1. Which I hated []
  2. You know that, right? That you have to go tonight or drag yourself out of bed tomorrow morning? []
  3. Apparently I hadn’t heard of vigils…. []
  4. I’ve got no problem with parties. Seriously, if you enjoy New Year’s, that’s awesome. Hit up a different Mass. []

The Anglican Use Mass

**Note: this is a long one and probably only exciting if you’re kind of a nerd and want to know about rites and ordinariates and such. I find all this fascinating!**

My last post on the Church of England was, I know, not the usual for this blog. But the new ordinariates are just so complicated that I thought you’d want some background explaining the context from which this all arose. Now we all know that the Church of England came from the Catholic Church (didn’t they all?), that there is great beauty in their traditions and liturgies, that there have been divisions from the beginning, and that these divisions have recently become so significant that many members have been returning to Rome after nearly 500 years.

Because of the age and beauty of the CofE liturgy, because it is so similar to the Catholic liturgy, and because of pastoral sensitivity, the Church in her wisdom has determined that former Anglicans shouldn’t be expected just to dive in to the Catholic melting pot and lose their particularly Anglican culture. Instead, she’s established the option of entering via the ordinariate. Distinct ordinariates have been established in different countries; so far, there’s one in England, Scotland, and Wales, one in the US and Canada (although Canada will be establishing its own soon), and one in Australia. I’m going to go ahead and refer to all three as “the Ordinariate,” by which I’ll mean any one of the three–as far as I know, the only distinction is regional, each being headed by a different ordinary but without any other real differences.

For a little more background, let’s talk for a minute about different rites in the Church. The Catholic Church is divided into two arms, the Western and the Eastern. The vast majority of Catholics (98%) are Roman Catholics, members of the Western Church whose liturgical language is Latin. The other two percent belong to different Eastern rites of the Church. There are 22 different Eastern rites (check them out here–very cool information). Each of these rites is completely in union with Rome; they have all the same doctrine as Roman rite Catholics but different liturgies and some different rules. For example, Eastern rite priests are permitted to be married. On the other hand, many Eastern rite churches require that the faithful abstain from meat throughout all of Lent. Nothing huge and nothing doctrinal.

Eastern rite Catholics are not the same as the Eastern Orthodox. The Eastern Orthodox are not in union with Rome; they don’t recognize the authority of the Pope. So while Eastern rite Catholics may look much more like Eastern Orthodox (bearded clerics with their wives, ornate vestments worn by a priest behind an iconostasis), they’re totally different. As a Roman Catholic, you’re welcome to attend a Melkite Mass, receive communion, go to confession, even register at the parish. Because they’re Catholic. We are not welcome to receive Sacraments in the Orthodox Church (although they’re valid) because our two churches are not in communion with one another.

Got that? Okay, well, the Anglican use Mass celebrated by the Ordinariate is not a rite distinct from the Roman rite the way that the Melkite or Ruthenian is. In much the same way that the Extraordinary Form (Tridentine/”Latin” Mass) is a version of the Novus Ordo, the standard form of the Roman rite, the Anglican use is a version of the Roman rite. Because it’s not a distinct rite, it feels very similar to the Novus Ordo Mass that you’re used to attending every Sunday. It’s generally the same shape and many of the words are the same or similar. Eastern rite liturgies, on the other hand, can be dramatically different. I was once 20 minutes into a Ruthenian Mass before I realized that Mass had started!

Because it’s not a different rite, members of the Ordinariate don’t have any different rules from other Roman Catholics. Priests of the Ordinariate1 are permitted to be married if they had previously been CofE priests, but the norm will not be for married men to be ordained. Even those who have converted have to get permission from the pope to be dispensed of the obligation of celibacy. They use the same lectionary, a very similar liturgical calendar, and the same Code of Canon Law (as opposed to the Code of Canons of the Eastern Churches). What’s different is the liturgy, as I’ll explain below, and the fact that it’s possible through the Ordinariate for entire Anglican parishes to convert to Catholicism, as was the case this past Saturday with the Anglican Cathedral of the Incarnation. Although there have been many difficulties because of red tape and property ownership, a number of entire Anglican parishes have already come over to Rome, maintaining their traditions and community while receiving the fullness of the Truth.

The idea is not to establish a new rite in the Church but to serve the needs of people who are so accustomed to lofty, sacral language in their liturgy, who cherish their roots in 16th century English Catholicism, and who may have lived for 60 years in a parish of 300 souls, a community much smaller than your average Catholic parish.

The Ordinariate is similar to the Archdiocese of the Military in that it covers a large area that is divided into more traditional geographical dioceses; parishes belonging to the Ordinariate (or the Archdiocese of the Military) are not part of the dioceses in which they physically exist but report directly to their particular ordinary.

Yet while the Archdiocese of the Military is in fact a diocese, the Ordinariate is not, technically. In the case of the U.S. Ordinariate, for example, the Ordinary is a former Episcopal bishop but has not been ordained a Catholic bishop. Msgr. Steenson is married, and while there have been many married priests in the Catholic tradition, there have never been married bishops (nor are there in Eastern Orthodoxy). Not being headed by a bishop, the Ordinariate clearly isn’t a diocese, although it’s closer to a diocese, as far as I can tell, than it is to anything else. The website of the U.S. Ordinariate explains the distinction this way:

However, a diocese is “territorial”: its members live in a specific geographical area. An ordinariate is “personal”: its members may live anywhere the ordinariate is authorized to function. They belong to the ordinariate because of a shared attribute; in this case, because they are former members of Episcopal or Anglican churches who now are Catholic, but wish to retain elements of their Anglican heritage.

The reason this is so hard to explain is that a personal ordinariate is a totally new thing in our Church. That’s why it was so exciting when Benedict XVI explained that this was going to happen–a totally new type of institute within the Church established to respond to a particular modern need of a particular group of people. Talk about New Evangelization–talk about pastoral compassion! I just find this all so exciting.

I’m hoping that gives you enough of an idea of what the Ordinariate is (not a rite, kind of like a diocese, similar to a movement, but mostly just all its own) to hear about the Mass I went to last week.

I was invited to daily Mass at the parish of St. Gregory the Great in Mobile. Since there are so few members of the Ordinariate in Mobile, Fr. Venuti is the pastor of St. Gregory, a community that meets at St. Mary’s Catholic Church, as well as being in residence at St. Mary’s, saying the Novus Ordo Mass for the rest of us. This is often the case with Ordinariate priests, especially as the Ordinariate is so new.

When I say “so few members,” I’m not kidding. At daily Mass, there was one person outside of Father’s wife and son and the friends I brought with me. From what I hear, Sunday Mass isn’t much bigger, providing you with an intimate community, if not the ability to sit back and observe. Fortunately, Mrs. Venuti was in the front, so we all just followed her lead. If you want to read exactly what we did, check out the order of the Mass here.

The first thing you notice, of course, are Father’s old school vestments and the fact that he’s facing ad orientem (or “with the people,” as opposed to towards the people). The language is different but familiar somehow–a more beautiful version of the usual, I guess. It really made me grateful for our new translation but hungry for the language I was hearing here: “that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name,” for example–it just feels more glorious to me.

The first moment my jaw dropped was right at the beginning: before the Kyrie, Father read the greatest commandment:

Hear what our Lord Jesus Christ saith: Thou shalt love the LORD thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.

The rubrics said, though, that he could have chosen to read all 10 Commandments. A real examination of conscience, not just a second to think about our day. It made begging for mercy feel much more real.

When the Liturgy of the Word began,2 the different translation of Scripture (the Revised Standard Version or RSV) had that same foreign-yet-familiar feel. I can’t say that I prefer one or the other, but it certainly made me listen when the cadence was so different from the norm. The Mass had the standard form–first reading, psalm, Gospel acclamation, Gospel, homily–so familiar, I kept slipping and forgetting to say thou.

Father recited the petitions, filled with strong and poetic language like:

And to all thy people give thy heavenly grace, and especially to this congregation here present; that, with meek heart and due reverence, they may hear and receive thy holy Word, truly serving thee in holiness and righteousness all the days of their life.

And we most humbly beseech thee, of thy goodness, O Lord, to comfort and succor all those who, in this transitory life, are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity.

Now those are prayers! None of this “for Mary Sue on her birthday, that she would have a really fun day” nonsense that seems to creep into the Novus Ordo. The petitions seem to come only in four forms with no option to add specific intentions; they covered so much, though, that one wouldn’t really need to.

After the petitions, there was another penitential rite. I’m beginning to see why people talk about Catholic guilt–and yet I’m convinced that those who really humble themselves before God don’t drown in shame the way seculars often do. In any event, I found the placement beautiful; we’ve asked for blessings and we beg again for mercy before we approach the table:

Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, maker of all things, judge of all men: We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we from time to time most grievously have committed, by thought, word, and deed, against thy divine Majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us. We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; the remebrance of them is greivous unto us, the burden of them is intolerable.  Have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; for thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ’s sake, forgive us all that is past; and grant that we may ever hereafter serve and please thee in newness of life, to the honor and glory of thy Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

It’s hardcore, but it was followed by Father saying, “Come unto me, all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.” (Other consoling verses were possible there as well.) In case that wasn’t sensitive enough for you, it was followed by the sign of peace.

The placement of the kiss of peace was once of my favorite things about this liturgy. It followed an act of contrition, so the act of offering peace to our neighbor stemmed directly from expressing our sorrow to God. It made the handshakes feel more like an effort at reconciliation than a coffee break, the way they often do in the Novus Ordo. And this reconciliation is just as tied to approaching the altar when placed right before the consecration as it is right before communion. I think moving it earlier also helps me stay focused from the Sanctus all the way through communion, rather than taking a break from prayer to chat before the Agnus Dei.

The Offertory seemed (to my untrained eye) to be almost identical to the Novus Ordo. The Eucharistic prayer was very similar as well, albeit with that high sacral language that I love. It wasn’t until the Our Father that I saw another significant difference–we kept going! We didn’t stop after evil. You know that awkward moment that you always forget to warn your Protestant friends about and they say “for thine” loudly while everybody else is silent? It didn’t happen. No “deliver us, Lord,” just straight through to the end and moved on. If that’s not a concession to Protestant prayer, I don’t know what is.

“Lord I am not worthy” took on greater depth and humility when preceded by this prayer, recited by all the people:

We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy. Grant us therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the Flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his Blood, that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us. Amen.

We received communion kneeling at the altar rail–love it. And then prayer and blessing and dismissal. Like in the Extraordinary Form, the prologue to John’s Gospel is read at the end of Sunday Mass, a little throwback to the Tridentine Mass.

For most of the Mass, I pretty much knew what I was supposed to do and say, even if I didn’t know what was coming next. I had to remember to say “thee” and “thou” and keep my eyes on my missal for sudden divergences from the Novus Ordo, but it was much more familiar than the Eastern rite liturgies I’ve been to, much more accessible than the Extraordinary Form, and much more profound than the Novus Ordo.

Yup–I liked it better. Now, a lifelong Catholic can’t be a member of the Ordinariate–the purpose is to serve converts. I can, however, attend Anglican use Masses whenever I want to, and believe me, I will. The Latin of the Extraordinary Form is off-putting to me, but I’m beginning to understand when people lament the vernacular of the Novus Ordo. Maybe what we need, though, is a less vernacular vernacular–language that’s comprehensible but clearly sacred. That’s what the Anglican use Mass offers us, and that’s what I’ll be back for.

 

If you want to check it out for yourself, here are the American Ordinariate parishes, listed by state. If you’ve got more questions, check out the U.S. Ordinariate’s FAQ–very helpful. Fr. Venuti and some of his priest friends write for a blog on the Ordinariate, in case you’re a stalker like me and kind of obsessed with different liturgies.

  1. I met the first one ordained in the U.S., NBD []
  2. read by Father’s wife, standing at the ambo holding their baby []

The Church of England: A Brief (Catholic) History

If you’ve been around here for any length of time, you’ve probably figured out that I’m a grade-A nerd. I love old books and math jokes and I once consoled myself after a terrible football loss by reading a commentary on the Code of Canon Law (Bush Push 2005. I don’t want to talk about it.).

So I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I literally squealed with joy when I was invited to attend an Anglican use Catholic Mass on Thursday. By the (Catholic) priest’s wife, no less! I want to tell you all about the Mass, but I thought we might need some background first to clarify why this liturgy exists and how it connects to Anglicanism and to more mainstream Catholicism. So here you have a brief history of the Church of England1 (from a Catholic perspective, of course) from 1534 to Thursday at 1pm. Now, I’m not a historian, but I’ve studied this period some. I do think the background is necessary to understand the current situation, so I’m going to do my best. If you have to correct me, please be nice.

Courtesy of David M. Luebke

In the early 16th century, the Church was being torn apart like never before. Martin Luther began it all in 1517 by nailing his 95 Theses to the door of the cathedral in Wittenberg. That wasn’t in itself an act of rebellion,2 but it opened the door for the Protestant Reformation. Before long, most of Northern Europe had declared for Luther (or Calvin or Zwingli or anybody but Rome) and France was on the brink. England, though? England was strong. Often called Rome’s most faithful daughter, England had no interest in reformation. King Henry VIII was even declared a defender of the faith after St. Thomas More ghostwrote a tract for him that argued against Protestantism.

But then, tragedy. Henry wanted a divorce.3

Now, to be fair, this was rather a sketchy marriage. Henry had married the wife of his dead brother. Canon law forbids this. But Henry had gotten permission from Rome to marry her, so the marriage was valid. The Church can dispense from her rules,4 after all, just not from God’s rules.5

So Henry was married to a woman who “couldn’t give him a son.”6 Divorce is impossible,7 so Henry had to claim that the marriage had been invalid, that he couldn’t have married his late brother’s wife because the Pope didn’t have the authority to dispense him. Because the Pope didn’t have jurisdiction in England.

And so, because he wanted a male heir,8 Henry declared himself head of the Church in England.

But–and this seems ludicrous to Catholics today but it wasn’t as unreasonable before Vatican I reaffirmed papal infallibility–Henry still wanted to be Catholic. He wanted Mary and the Saints and Mass and Purgatory and really everything but, well, the Church. Henry was decidedly not a Protestant, so when he split, he created a church that was in schism, not a heretical sect.9

And throughout Henry’s lifetime, it stayed pretty darned Catholic. He considered himself an “English Catholic” and repeatedly condemned Protestantism. Without Rome, though, things can devolve rather quickly, and Englishmen were becoming Protestants in dramatic numbers. But the Church itself stayed fairly Catholic in “conservative” Henry’s lifetime.

When he seceded from Rome, Henry appointed Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury, the head bishop in his church. Unfortunately for Catholics, Cranmer had very Protestant sensibilities. He maintained much of the pomp and circumstance (and Catholic doctrine) during Henry’s lifetime, but when Edward VI took the throne in 1547, all bets were off.

Cranmer’s reforms were fairly gradual, beginning under Henry and continuing until Cranmer’s death in 1556. The great challenge he faced was developing a theology for one united church composed of every type of Christian, from the most traditional Catholics to the most radical Protestants. What resulted was a church defined by compromise and filled with language so vague as to allow for widely varying interpretations.

This is most evident in the gradual development of the language of the Eucharistic liturgy. In the 1549 liturgy, Cranmer changed the Roman “let this bread and wine become unto us the body and blood of Christ” to “let this bread and wine be unto us”—leaving room for physical or symbolic interpretation and widely regarded as a compromise between Catholics and Protestants. Three years later, the liturgy was changed to ask that those who receive the bread and wine “may be partakers of his most blessed body and blood,” language even less oriented toward the doctrine of transubstantiation, yet still without excluding it entirely from the language of the liturgy (although the rubrics very clearly deny it).10

Cranmer’s reforms were significant enough (rejecting purgatory, the Deuterocanonical books, and five of the Sacraments) to make the Church of England a decidedly Protestant church. The basic tenets of the CofE are expressed in the Thirty-Nine Articles, a document written after Cranmer’s execution11 but based largely on his writings.

Then follow a few centuries of great music, beautiful language, and some significant theological confusion (as some eras were more Catholic, others more Protestant). I’m going to skip over all that and jump to the twentieth century, where the Church of England’s roots in compromise begin to bear fruit.

Since its foundation, the CofE’s congregations have varied widely in their interpretation of church teaching. While the structure of services is generally the same, they can look dramatically different depending on how “high” or “low” the congregation is. It’s not just a matter of incense and statues, though, but of core beliefs. Some congregations, for example, believe in transubstantiation and sacramental absolution;12 others wouldn’t touch that popery with a ten foot pole. It’s even possible to find two priests in the same congregation with views on the Eucharist that are diametrically opposed, one saying it is actually Jesus, body, blood, soul, and divinity, the other saying it’s a piece of bread that symbolizes Jesus.

This spectrum of acceptable beliefs has increased divisions in the Church of England for centuries (sometimes but not always resulting in new denominations), but it came to a head in the late twentieth century with disagreement over the ordination of women. Different bishops’ conferences began ordaining women in the 1970s; the 1978 Lambeth conference allowed each region to determine its own policy on women’s ordination, saying, “…the holding together of diversity within a unity of faith and worship is part of the Anglican heritage.”13 The Church of England14 voted to allow women’s ordination (and got it signed off on by the Queen) in 1992.

Not surprisingly, all this didn’t go over so well with the more “Anglo-Catholic” communities, who agreed with Rome that women weren’t capable of holy orders. According to some reports,15 some 500 priests (and many more lay people) left the church over this development, most becoming Catholic.

In response to this mass exodus (and predating much of it), Rome issued a pastoral provision allowing that former Episcopalian priests might petition to be ordained as Catholic priests, even those who were married. Hundreds of priests have been ordained by virtue of this pastoral provision, issued in 1980. Many of these priests were permitted to celebrate the “Anglican use” of the Roman rite, a version of the Roman Catholic Mass that is heavily influenced by CofE language and traditions, based on the Roman Missal (Catholic) and the Book of Common Prayer (Anglican).

When this flow of converts slowed to a trickle, another controversy began to shake the Church of England: the question of homosexuality. Just as members differed widely on matters of faith, they disagreed vehemently on matters of morals. The issue came into the spotlight in 2003 when Gene Robinson was ordained a bishop despite being openly gay and living with his partner. Naturally, this event was extremely divisive in the Episcopal Church,16 with some entire congregations severing ties from the Episcopal Church and forming the Anglican Episcopal Church, a communion of traditional Church of England congregations in America.

In the years since, divisions between liberal and conservative members of the CofE have widened. I’ve been told that some of the more conservative congregations even use the Baltimore Catechism17 in their Sunday school classes. Those communities are far closer to Rome than they are to Canterbury, but their particularly Anglican traditions and liturgy and communities are rich and beautiful. Many have felt drawn to communion with Rome but are rightly reluctant to forsake their Anglican heritage.

Enter Benedict XVI.18 Since 1980, converted CofE priests had been permitted to “retain certain elements of the Anglican liturgy.”19 But this was a concession to a limited group and considered temporary. It allowed for the establishment of Anglican use parishes, but the understanding was that this was a temporary solution. In 2009, in a document called Anglicanorium Coenibus, the Holy Father announced the establishment of ordinariates, canonical groups with essentially the status of a diocese (think Archdiocese for the Military) formed to “allow Anglicans to enter into the full communion of the Catholic Church whilst retaining much of their heritage and traditions.”20 These ordinariates are permanent groups intended to preserve perpetually the Anglican use liturgy and the communities with Anglican roots.

So here we have a community of Christians–fully in union with Rome–with all the benefits of Canterbury and of Rome. But you’ll have to wait to hear all about their rules and liturgy and canonical status–my “brief” history of the Church of England is already too long, so the Ordinariate will get its own post. Get excited!

  1. I’m going to use this term or “CofE” throughout–Anglicans and Episcopalians are Church of England, but the words aren’t interchangeable. “Church of England” might not always be correct, either, but it’s the best I can do. []
  2. 91 of the Theses were perfectly fine. Even those that weren’t were his proposal for debate, not his rejection of the Church or the Pope, of whom he speaks very highly in the Theses. []
  3. It’s all so very much more complicated than this. Here’s the CliffsNotes version. []
  4. No meat on Fridays in Lent, you can’t be ordained until you’re 25, etc. []
  5. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not lie, etc. []
  6. She bore him daughters. When a man can’t father sons, that’s his fault, not his wife’s. Y-chromosome and all. []
  7. Lk 16:18 []
  8. Not just an heir–he had an heir. Women can inherit the throne in England and he had a daughter–“Bloody Mary.” []
  9. Schism: denial of Church authority without denying any Church doctrine, e.g. the Eastern Orthodox; heresy: denial of Church doctrine, e.g. Protestantism. “Heretic” is not a derogatory term. All it means is that you disagree with the Catholic Church on a central issue. Protestants disagree with Catholics on many central issues. This does not make them bad or stupid or damned. When I say “heretical,” I am not suggesting that we burn anyone at the stake. []
  10. Search for “partakers” on this page–very interesting. []
  11. He was executed under Queen Mary, the Catholic queen who followed Edward, for his Protestant beliefs. []
  12. The Catholic Church does not recognize these Sacraments as valid in the Church of England. Although their priests do have apostolic succession in theory, the changes to the prayer of ordination were significant enough to make the Sacrament invalid. Without valid Holy Orders, only baptism and marriage can be performed validly. []
  13. http://www.religioustolerance.org/femclrg3.htm []
  14. kind of but not really in charge of all members of the Anglican communion []
  15. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1032526/Church-England-plans-male-superbishops-rebel-clergy-refuse-led-women.html []
  16. the CofE in America []
  17. A traditional Catholic catechism. []
  18. and the point of this whole post []
  19. http://www.pastoralprovision.org/history []
  20. U.K. Ordinariate []

In Defense of Liturgy (With a Little Help from the Irish)

I read an essay a while back in which the author said that he never understood liturgy before he went to Notre Dame.1 It was the stadium, though, and not the Basilica that taught him about the importance of ritual. As he wandered the campus, he saw that there were certain things that must be done on a football Saturday: playing corn hole at a tailgate with a red solo cup full of cheap beer in one hand; eating a charred burger cooked by some student organization at a concession stand on God Quad; watching the band step off from the steps of Bond; lighting a candle at the Grotto.2 There was a certain dress code: jeans and an ND t-shirt (polos acceptable on men of a certain age). The game itself was filled with ritual, from the holler heralding kickoff to the keys jingling on third and long, from “we are ND” shouted like they meant it to the “pushups” on top of the crowd every time the Irish found the end zone. This completely unreligious experience was as liturgical as any the writer (an Evangelical, I think) had ever had.

In this supremely ritualized celebration, we begin to see that there is something liturgical about the human person, something that demands ritual and repeated actions. Just as game days and Christmas dinner and road trips take on the same shape each time, so must our worship. It’s unnatural to try to make worship “spontaneous,” as though resisting the urge to revel in what is familiar somehow makes the familiar less sacred, as though spontaneity is the ultimate value in worship, rather than faithfulness and truth.

There is, of course, an Evangelical Protestant inclination to reject “liturgy” because the “liturgical” becomes scripted, rote, stilted. To that I can only reply that all that is holy is liturgical, if by liturgical you mean ritualized and repeated. Every new mother  gazes at her baby with tears in her eyes and murmurs, “He’s beautiful.” Every groom looks on his bride with something like wonder as she walks down the aisle. And everyone watching at a deathbed holds his breath as the dying man takes his last. That our rituals become empty is our fault, not theirs. We coast through the Mass not because it is insufficiently passionate but because we are. If we could see it with new eyes, looking on the football festivities with the eyes of a freshman, not of a professor who’s had season tickets since Ara, we might begin to appreciate the liturgy that combines the passion of a thousand Saints into the unimpassioned droning of a twenty-first century congregation.

But the worse rejection of liturgy, I think, comes from within our own ranks, from those who want to cut some parts, embellish others, and add commentary throughout. Rather than lamenting the “vain repetition” of the Catholic Mass and moving on to their own (often more passionate but rarely less “liturgical”) services, as do our Protestant detractors, they try to change the liturgy that is cherished by so many. They sit during the fight song or drink milk at the tailgate or wear sundresses and pearls. There’s nothing wrong with those things–and yet, there really is.

One consequence of my new itinerant lifestyle is that I find myself at parishes as varied as American Catholics are, often with little advance warning of what I’m about to experience. In the past 6 weeks, I’ve been to Mass in 12 different states at about 35 difference churches, and let me tell you, there are as many ways of being Catholic as there are Catholics. And despite the joys of seeing Catholics of all shapes and sizes coming together for Mass, what’s struck me most has been the liturgical abuses: the Gospel proclaimed to a seated congregation, the Eucharist distributed to EMs before the priest has received, the hand-washing omitted, the precious blood consecrated in a pitcher and then poured into wooden chalices. And I just have to wonder: why?

I know that some of these priests or liturgy committees or parishes really feel that there’s a good reason to change the way Mass is celebrated. But I just go back to football Saturdays. If the band decided that they were going to skip the fight song and play instead a recently-deceased student’s favorite U2 song after every touchdown, that would be kind, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. The stadium would erupt in boos, letters would be written to the school newspaper, and sizable donations would be withdrawn. The fight song is sacred–you don’t mess with that, no matter how compelling the cause.

How much the worse if such a dramatic change was made arbitrarily–let’s say they decided to change from the traditional student-painted golden helmets to some half-black, leprechaun-emblazoned monstrosity for no apparent reason. The outrage would flood facebook like a clever new meme. Whether you loved football or not, you’d be shocked. When I asked my friend Steve if he’d seen the new uniforms, he shrugged: “You know I don’t care much about football.” Then I showed him the new helmet. “That’s not okay!” Because while the uniform itself may change, the helmets shouldn’t. Maybe the color of the helmets doesn’t matter, but the tradition does.

What makes the fight song or the helmet or “May I have your attention please” or pushups sacred isn’t their inherent value; the Irish are no less likely to win a championship with ugly helmets as they are with the lovely gold ones. What gives every moment of every fall Saturday meaning isn’t why we do it but that we do it. That 80,000 people put their arms around each other and sway to the Alma Mater, that we pump our fists like fighting Irishmen when a certain song is played (or keep our arms crossed in an X if we have the misfortune to live in Zahm), that we risk salmonella to eat an undercooked brat–we do that, together. We join as one body and in doing so give meaning to meaningless ritual.

Now, there’s nothing meaningless about the Mass. But there are steps and words and rites whose meaning we might not grasp–or whose meaning we think we understand to be patriarchal or misogynistic or whatnot. Yet there is a sanctity even to these, not because of what they mean, in this instance, but because seeming to mean nothing they mean obedience and unity and faithfulness. They mean that the Mass is home whether I’m in Jerusalem or Jersey. They mean that we have chosen our God and our Church over our own sensibilities. They mean, in an era of jumbotrons and snazzy uniforms, a tradition that goes back generations and honors those who’ve gone before, uniting us with our ancestors in a way that the latest trends in football or worship never could.

Of course, I’m not rejecting top-down innovations like the forward pass or Vatican II. I’m just begging stylists to leave the uniforms alone, players to stay classy, and fans to keep waving the coach’s initials during the 1812 Overture, whatever you think of his coaching abilities. And I’m not condemning anybody; I try really hard not to judge anybody, especially priests, for whom I have a particular love. I’m just begging priests to say what’s in black and do what’s in red, musicians to remember that this isn’t their show, and people in the pews to rejoice in your Church, even if you think you could do it better.

What makes the liturgy magical isn’t just the consecration or the proclamation of the Gospel; it’s the whole glorious game-day package. Chipping away at the parts we don’t like doesn’t do anything but cheapen it. So here’s to glorious football traditions and deep liturgies–may our rituals ever be mystery and our hearts ever rejoice to seek understanding.

  1. I have googled and googled to no avail. Anybody know where I read this? My apologies to the author for this attempt at paraphrase, but my memory of the essay is essential to the point I’m trying to make. []
  2. If you haven’t been to a home game at ND, you’re missing out. []

How to Pay Attention at Mass

I didn’t really grow up praying. I mean, my parents prayed. And I’m sure I joined in. But all prayer was to me was reciting the words I’d memorized. There was no relationship there.

Really–what’s not to love?

Mass was worse. I hardly even tried there, stand/sit/kneeling along with the congregation with my mind on My Little Ponies instead of my Lord.

I remember, on the day I made my first communion, whispering to my mother during the Eucharistic prayer, “What do you do after you have communion?”

My poor mother had no idea that the answer was “pray,” that I could possibly not realize that the silent kneeling was supposed to give me the opportunity to speak with the God I’d just received. She thought I was asking for things to say in prayer, so she answered, “Sometimes I thank God for the stained glass windows.”1

From there on out, when I was at my most “pious,” I spent my meditation time repeating, “Thank you for the stained glass windows thank you for the stained glass windows thank you for the stained glass windows thank you for the stained glass windows” ad infinitum until I’m sure God himself was annoyed.

“Child dies in tragic ugly shoe incident. Story at 10.”

When I wasn’t feeling pious (the better part of 1991-1997), I spent communion evaluating the shoes of the people walking by.  When I saw shoes I liked, I’d hold my breath until I saw another pair I liked. It was the 90s–I almost passed out a few times.

So believe me when I say that I don’t go to Mass because it’s fun.  I didn’t have some incredible conversion that inspired in me a love of silence or liturgy or contemplation or–God help us–sitting still and being quiet.  Nope–3000+ daily Masses later, I’m still bored.

When I make this confession, people are often shocked that I’m a real person, not some plaster Saint. I think “normal” people assume that those of us who are trying to be holy really enjoy prayer. And while there are some who do, many of us struggle just as much with paying attention in prayer as your average Catholic.

The difference, for those who take this God thing seriously, is that we actually struggle with it. We don’t just succumb to boredom and take the Mass as an opportunity to check out the latest fashion trends in our corner of suburbia. We pull our attention back every time it drifts, we prepare for Mass, we fight to treat the Mass as though it were the most important thing on the planet. Which, of course, it is.

So I thought I’d give some pointers to those of you who (like me) are struggling to pay attention. Not every suggestion will work for everyone, so look through the list and see if there isn’t something that might help you. Ignore the rest.2

  • Choose wisely. We don’t all have the luxury of choosing which Mass we’re going to attend, but if you do, be intentional. Figure out which music draws you deeper into prayer, which preaching inspires you, and which congregation is focused (or energetic or traditional or family-oriented) enough to strengthen your prayer. There’s something to be said for persevering through distractions, but no sense borrowing trouble.3
    .
  • Although this window mostly got me wondering if the shepherd in green thought he was on Arsenio Hall….

    Pick your poison. If you’re anything like me, you’re going to be distracted no matter how hard you try. There’s a big difference, though, between being distracted by counting cinder blocks or trying to figure out where that stain in the carpet came from and being distracted by sacred art. So I tend to go to churches with lots of representational art. If my mind’s going to wander, better it wander to the Nativity than to the Colbert Report.

  • Seat yourself. Once you’ve chosen a Mass, don’t just slide into the most convenient pew to exit from. Pray over where in the sanctuary you focus best. I need to sit in the front or I’ll spend the whole Mass looking at the people around me and trying to figure out their ages and marital statuses and relationship to the kids sitting with them and on and on. If I sit in front, I only do this after communion, which is a much shorter time to try to discipline myself. Other people need to be in the back where it’s quieter or in a darker spot or whatever. As they say in real estate, location, location, location! It can really make a difference.
    .
  • Be prepared. Take some time with Sunday’s readings (or the daily readings) before you go to Mass. Maybe read the upcoming Sunday’s Gospel every day or just spend Sunday morning looking over the readings. You’ll be surprised at how much more you get out of Mass.4
    .
  • Dress the part. There are some obvious rules about what clothing is appropriate to wear to church; clean, modest, and in good repair come to mind. What I’m saying is, leave the torn jeggings at home. But stepping up your game a little for Sunday Mass might make it easier for you to focus (and those around you as well). Wearing a tie or a skirt might feel so foreign to you that you automatically sit up straighter and focus more. If nothing else, it’s a nice gesture when you man up and wear pants instead of shorts, not because shorts are bad but because it shows that you find the Mass important.
    .
  • Offer it up. Not to be a cliché, but prayer is powerful. Not only do the graces of your Mass get poured out on the person you pray for, but it also helps you to focus when you’re doing it for someone. If your Mass is for your sick granny, you’re less likely to space out.
    .
  • Tweet it. Let me be very clear: I am NOT suggesting that you live tweet the Mass. Put your stupid phone away for an hour a week! But if you challenge yourself to come up with a 140-character summary of the Mass’s theme and tweet it,5 you’ll have to pay attention to the readings, the prayers, and the homily. Did you know that Sunday’s prayers actually connect to Sunday’s readings? And that the first reading is chosen specifically to connect to the Gospel? Commit to tweeting about the Mass every week and you’ll have to start paying attention just to have something to say.

    See?? This lady’s already doing it! Now I’m following her, although most of her texts are in what looks to me like Tagalog.
  • Play guessing games. Let’s say you don’t read up ahead of time–see if you can guess the theme of the readings just by listening to the opening prayer. Then listen to the first reading and see if you can predict the Gospel. During the Gospel, try to guess what point the priest will make in his homily. If you’re as competitive as I am, this’ll keep you on the edge of your pew.
    .
  • Get real. I think what makes Mass hardest is that it doesn’t feel relevant to our lives. But it is! You just have to open your eyes to realize that every moment of the Mass is just begging you to give yourself to God. I find this most powerful during the offertory. When the bread and wine are brought forward, I (try to) do a little examen. I pray about what I’m most grateful for at the moment and offer that as a sacrifice of thanksgiving to God when the bread is offered. When the wine is offered, I consider what “cup of suffering” I’m being asked to drink and I offer that to God as well. In doing this, I surrender my tight grip on my blessings and thank him for my suffering. Then I go deeper and recognize the crushed wheat that’s gone into the bread–what past suffering has made this current joy possible? I meditate on the fact that this wine of suffering will become the blood of Christ–how can my suffering be transformed for the good of the kingdom? Most days, I space out, but when I’m focused enough to pull this off, it can be really incredible.
    .
  • It’s the little things. A priest once recommended to me that rather than getting frustrated when I realized I’ve been tuning out at Mass, I should pay attention to what I tuned back in for. “Maybe,” he suggested, “that’s the Holy Spirit trying to get your attention.” So instead of giving up because it’s the Creed and you haven’t noticed a word since the Confiteor, see if there’s something in that line of the Creed that speaks to your heart. The thing is that the Mass is so replete with meaning that whatever six words you manage to focus on are more meaningful than everything else you’ll say all week.

Odds are good you’ll fail again and again and again. One of the consequences of the Fall is that worship no longer comes naturally to us and spending a solid hour not obsessing over yourself can be a little bit like hell. Don’t get discouraged that the Mass is still boring after you’ve been trying so hard for six weeks–it takes a lifetime. Besides, sometimes boring prayer is just what we need. So try to pray and focus at Mass but recognize that whether or not your prayer is good is ultimately up to God, not you. All you can do is the best you can. He’ll do the rest.

 

All right, peanut gallery. I’d love to hear any tips or tricks you’ve got to offer–Lord knows I need them. What works for you?

  1. Small, awful, abstract things so high up as to be barely visible. Definitely not something I’d normally thank God for. []
  2. Or, you know, spend 5 years wrangling babies at every single Mass, then go by yourself and have a blissful hour of peace. From what I’ve heard, it’s practically the beatific vision. []
  3. Note: there are some exceptions, but in general, you are canonically obligated to attend the parish in whose boundaries you reside. I’m not so much advocating that you enroll at a different parish as that you move to the parish you want to enroll at. []
  4. As an aside, the more you love Scripture, the more the Mass means to you. Get on that. []
  5. Can we get #todaysMass trending on twitter? That would pretty much make my life. []

Your Screaming Kids Are Distracting Me

Crying Cecilia 2I was at a holy hour the other night, totally focused and immersed in my thoughts, when from the back of the church came the sound of a wailing toddler.  Just like that, I lost it.  I was completely distracted by some kid who was far too young to be stuck sitting in a church.

And thank God for that.

See, I was totally focused on planning the rest of my night.  I was coming up with a packing list and deciding which posts I could update before I headed out in the morning.  I was thinking about the songs I have on my new smartphone and wondering if the USPS would forward the package I had shipped to the house I was staying at in time for me to get it at the house I was staying at next.  Yeah, I was focused, all right.  Focused on me.

Then that kid started screaming, and I snapped out of it.  I heard the dulcet tones of a toddler tantrum and couldn’t help but thank God for the luxury of silent prayer.  I heard footsteps and a door opening and offered a prayer for the patience of that poor parent.  I prayed for those who were really angry about the disturbance.  I prayed in thanksgiving for the gift of life.

Parents, I know all too well the frustration of taking little ones to Mass.  I calculated this evening (when I should have been praying) that I’ve taken little ones 4 and under to Mass by myself at least 200 times.  So while I’m not a parent, I know the frustration and awkwardness and even shame of that experience.

Case in point: John Paul isn’t so great at first person pronouns.  He refers to himself as “you.”  This was great when he was potty training and announced at the top of his lungs during the Eucharistic prayer, “You awe weawing undewweaw!!”  There were definitely panty line checks all around the sanctuary.

I’ve gotten plenty of dirty looks.  But more often, by God’s grace, I’ve gotten affirmation.  People thank me for bringing “my” kids and compliment me on their behavior.  Once after John Paul threw a particularly loud fit at Mass, an elderly man came up to me and told me it was the holiest sound he’d heard all day.  “He reminded me that I’m alive,” he said with a smile.

But more often than not you don’t notice the smiles.  You notice the rolled eyes and raised eyebrows and dirty looks and you think that at best you’re not making anyone angry.  But that’s not true–at best, you’re making the people around you saints.  You’re pulling them out of their self-obsession and reminding them that being at Church is about emptying ourselves for God and each other.

Prayer is so often just a veil for narcissism.  We talk and talk and talk about ourselves and then slap an “Amen” on the end and consider ourselves holy.  When your kids start screaming, it distracts us from ourselves.  We start praying for you.  Or for them.  We pray for single parents.  We pray in thanksgiving for our grown children or we beg for screaming children of our own.

I was visiting with my grandmother the other day and mentioned that Cecilia shouted stream-of-consciousness for the entire Mass today.  She said, “Oh, do they let children in the church?”  Needless to say, she’s not Catholic.  But it’s an attitude I’ve found from some Catholics.  “Until they’re old enough to sit quietly,” they say, “leave them at home.”  Or maybe “You know there’s a cry room, right?”  As if the Mass is their personal property and they get to decide who stays and who goes.

Jesus embraced children, folks, and so does our Church.  If you don’t want to hear them cry, the solution is not to remove the holy little ones from the church.  The solution is for you to go to the 7am quickie Mass or the solemn high Mass that takes 3 hours.  Find a Mass kids aren’t going to and shut yourself up in that one.

Or maybe offer up your distractions and frustrations for their parents, who are so much more distracted and frustrated than you.  Take this as a sign that God is calling you out of yourself.

Ooh look at her shoes! I wonder how many states have more vowels than consonants. How far is it from here to Maine? I should make a pie this afternoon. 3.14159. What would I even do with a giant mouse suit?

Because if the normal noises of normal children are going to distract me, I was going to be distracted anyway.  By cute clothes or cute men or split ends or whatever1.  And nobody’s suggesting that we wear burqas to Mass or segregate our congregations or require frequent trims.  Unlike most of the thoughts that grab my easily-distracted mind, the screams of your children are a distraction that draw me to deeper prayer.

So take them to the cry room if you want–or stay in the pew.  Lord knows that at many churches if you’re in the cry room you’re practically not at Mass, it’s such a circus in there.  Keep them as quiet as you can however you want to–I won’t judge.  They’re going to be ridiculous and you’re gong to be embarrassed, but taking them to Mass gives them grace, earns you years off of purgatory, and breaks my hardened heart just a little bit.

On behalf of those of us who don’t understand the sacrifices you make to bring your kids to the wedding feast, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for judging you and being annoyed at you and rolling my eyes and everything else that focuses on me instead of on us.  Your kids are a very important part of us, even–especially–when they won’t stop yelling.

Because yes, your kids are distracting me.  They’re distracting me from my narcissism.  They’re distracting me from the idol I’ve made of worship, making me encounter God as he really is, not as I want him to be.  They’re distracting me from the endless series of irrelevant thoughts that occupy my “praying” mind.

Your screaming kids are distracting me.  Thank you for that.

  1. I’m not kidding.  I seriously examine my hair for split ends during the penitential rite.  Really, your toddler is the least of my spiritual worries []