Mass

Massiversary

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I was running late this morning, and wondered if I should even try to make it to the 9am Mass. Since it’s Tuesday during Lent (the last Tuesday in fact) there is another mass in the evening. I thought a moment more or two about which one to choose, and then decided to go to the first one.

I was glad I chose that one. Today is my Massiversary, so it was really important for me to be in attendance then.

When I first started showing up at this church, it was random. If I got the urge that I should stop in, I did. I’d find a pew, also randomly, and read that day’s readings from the Missal. Often, they were right on target for what I was feeling or what I needed to hear at that moment. I was going through a lot at that time, and all I wanted was a quiet place where no one would bother me and I could sit quietly. Somewhere I could be anonymous.

I wouldn’t describe it as a perfect solution to what I was feeling, but it was peaceful and what I wanted; what I needed when I needed it. I did this for a couple of weeks, probably closer to almost four. It wasn’t everyday; It was perhaps ten times in total but they were important to me. They centered me and got me ready for my recovery. I hadn’t realized what else I had to look forward to, but all that was on my mind in these first few moments was evening out my mental health. I still call it recovery.

I had been talking about my depression on Facebook and talking about my church visits and receiving encouragement from a small group of close friends who knew what was going on as I started my medication and therapy. One of these friends, T was a college student in Nebraska. He talked about going to the seminary, but was in college for a different major. He was an incredible friend during this time, posting encouragement on his own page that really resonated with me. Scriptures, Antiphons, quotations from saints and holy people. He sent me a very nice, personal note that I still look at on occasion and it gives me abundant feels. Another friend, B, loves choir music and he would also post a variety of encouraging things unbeknownst to him until I mentioned that I found the posts and the music encouraging.

On one of these days, T suggested that I attend an actual Mass, telling me that the Easter week masses were really quite beautiful and he thought I would enjoy them.

I took his suggestion to heart, and showed up on the Tuesday of Holy. Week. A woman was sitting at the end of a middle pew in the church. I noticed her because of her jacket. It was black with multi-colored flowers and stems and leaves embroidered on it. She was also wearing a light colored straw pill box hat. She would wear a hat every day. I loved the embroidery, so I sat two seats behind her. I stood when she stood, and sat when she sat. I didn’t kneel or cross myself, but I followed along as best I could.

The service really affected me, the priest’s homily hit on things that I, again, needed to hear,  and I went back the next day and the day after that. The day after was not a Mass, but a prayer service. At the end of Holy Week the masses are in the evening. We went to visit my mother in law and I borrowed one of the missals for the weekend. I read it every day that we were away.

That was the start. Over the course of that first year, I’d either sit directly behind that woman or two rows back, depending on when the other women arrived. We’d switch back and forth until one of the women sat right next to me. We still sit together.

Today when I arrived, an elderly man was in my usual seat. I sat behind him and about halfway through I realized that this was my original seat that first day, two rows behind my first church friend with the embroidered jacket who’s not here anymore.

I hadn’t intended to make such a memorable statement on this morning, but it was nice that it randomly happened that way.

It was nice remembering that first time. Every day, it’s like the first mass. Except I know what I’m doing. I pray, I cross myself; it all came in its own time, and each different ritual when I was ready. I hadn’t told myself that I was ready; I just did something and realized after that fact that I’d participated in some aspect of the mass.

The rebirth and renewal of Easter is the perfect time to remind me of my beginning with the church. I was baptized two Easters ago even though I’ve attended since 2012. This week is full of those anniversaries, but that first Tuesday will always be a special one for me.

From Death into Life

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There is a line in a hymn, I think it’s sung at funerals or as they’re called in the Catholic church, Mass of Christian Burial. It goes, “from death into life.”

I began attending this celebration of life by accident in one of my early days of attending Mass. I was there, and I couldn’t leave without drawing unnecessary attention to myself, so I remained, hidden in plain sight, in one of the back pews, wishing I was invisible, feeling as though I didn’t belong in such an intimate family gathering. I was, however, wrong – this mass invites the community members, the congregation; to be in communion with the family, to send their loved one on their next journey. I followed the program, I sang along, I prayed, and I found something in that service. I think my first funeral service was for a woman named Dottie. I still have her program in my church papers that I’ve collected and saved.

After that first time, I continued to go to the Rite of Christian Burial when it occurred during the daily mass time. I almost never knew until I arrived at church, and after one or two more, I found great comfort in this Mass.

But I still didn’t get it – that death into life bit.

I could never understand that phrase. How can you go from death into life?

It wasn’t until after my spiritual conversion, and after passing this tree, always on my way to my writing workshop.

On the way to the library, I passed the church adjacent to this tree, and the cemetery that surrounds this tree, and one spring day it was gloriously sunny and bright, and the green leaves had sprouted and grown.

I could see them bright against the white of the siding on the church building; this delicate new growth rising from the fallen tree, its life long thought buried and gone.

This was when I could grasp death into life, life from death, the infinite from finite, everlasting life from our journey on earth.

Now, when I sing the hymn, I picture this tree when I sing death into life.

Retreat, Day 2: Anointing Mass

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My church has a twice yearly Anointing Mass for anointing the sick. It is also called a Healing Mass. Everyone is welcome whether for a physical or a mental ailment. Many of the neighboring nursing homes and assisted living centers bring in their residents for this special mass. This was my third one. I go for both my depression and my knee pain.

Obviously this is for people of the Catholic faith, but belief or not I still think it is a wonderful experience of community and sharing our joy which halves our pain*. Seating is every other pew so the priests can move through to anoint and offer the Eucharist.

There is music and singing; there are prayers and scripture reading. It’s a Mass so it includes the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist.

The Mass is followed by lunch. I usually attend alone, so it’s always a surprise who I will be sitting with. So many people go to so much trouble, cooking, setting everything up, decorating. There are prayer cards and a favor to take home. One of the volunteers makes them. They are so thoughtful and creative; it makes me want to go home and create something.

In yesterday’s writing, I mentioned having an object to help with meditation and contemplation. Today we were given a small medal with a cutout of a cross. I have been given this week’s object, I see.

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I encourage you to look up today’s readings. They are always a link from the past history to our daily lives. One of the things I enjoy about going to Mass so often (usually four times a week) is that despite the words being thousands of years old, they still speak to me. I relate to them on a regular, almost daily, basis.

First Reading: Lamentations 3:17-23

Second Reading: James 5:13-16

Gospel: Mark 7:31-37

My prayer

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Julian of Norwich is one of my favorite mystics. Her work is said to be the first one written in English by a woman (1395).

One of my favorite of her quotations struck me when I first heard it. Ironically, when I am in a pessimistic mood, I will still often say that everything will work out; it will be okay.
Her words:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”

is so close to my own sentiment that I did a double take the first time I heard it, which was appropriately at my first healing mass.

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[Borrowed and paraphrased with permission from Dumbledore’s Army and the Year of Darkness.]

Lost and Found in the Homily

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Today’s homily was all about being lost, and being lost sheep, and the everyday ways we are lost and find ourselves again. I don’t know why, but my first visit to the UK kept popping up in my mind throughout my pastor’s talk. Not just the visit or the trip itself, but all the little times that I was lost there. I don’t think we were ever truly lost,  but those moments seemed so big at the time, and even now they stand out in a seemingly unrelated homily that included my pastor being lost in the snowy woods with his dog.

My first thought of being lost in England was standing in the rain. I don’t think we had umbrellas, but we were looking at a map and it was raining. It was a cold, poking kind of rain that covered my glasses  We were years away from little wipers on your eyeglasses.

At that time, we stayed at youth hostels and you can’t spend the daylight hours at a hostel, even in the cold, winter months, so we were up and out every morning. I don’t remember where we were heading on this day, just that we didn’t know where we were, and we needed to look at our map.

We were surprised when an older woman came out of her house and across the street with an umbrella and showed us where we were, and how to get to where we were going. She said to go across the field we were standing next to – it was faster if a bit muddy. We weren’t sure about going across someone’s property, but she said it would be alright. We took it.

It was definitely a shortcut.

When we crossed the border into Wales, I hadn’t realized that I was lost, but I knew that I had been found. I talk about this aspect of my trip often, so I won’t be redundant, but it is a significant thought of being lost even if I hadn’t known it at the time. It was, and continues to be a sacred place for me.

We also found ourselves lost on Craigower Hill just above Pitlochry in Scotland. We kept climbing up and up and up. We didn’t quite make it to the summit, but we made it pretty close. We slid down and had to start again about halfway up, and then it started snowing.

Luckily we found ourselves at the bottom eventually at The Moulin Inn for some fabulous lasagna and cider.

We became stuck in the Cotswolds having planned on leaving on Sunday, and not knowing that the buses don’t run on Sunday. The hostel warden took pity on us and let us in earlier than their usual evening opening. He also loaned us books and told us some of the history of the town, Stow-on-the-Wold.

Being lost in Edinburgh, in the snow, at two o’clock in the morning was better with a new friend than alone.

This was a three week trip in January with my college roommate, and these are only a handful of memories that popped up during the homily on lost sheep.

Being lost isn’t so bad. I know I’m never alone and what all of these anecdotes remind me is that no matter how long you’re lost or where, there is always a way out, a way to be found, a way to find yourself and that trip was one of those places and times that I did.

(Reading: Jeremiah 23:1-6)

Monday’s Good for the Soul – Mass Returns

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With much less fanfare than General MacArthur, I returned to church this morning. The door was heavy, and the air conditioning was cool. I crossed myself at the font of holy water, and took my regular seat. There was no one there who I usually sit with but there were the many familiar faces of the “regulars”.

Flipping through the missalette to today’s date, I waited for the hymn number to be announced.

Number 39. Humbly, Lord, we worship you. Good tempo, not terribly long, simple, serene, and lovely, and then the mass began.

It was as if I hadn’t missed a day.

As much as I might have wanted there to be something acknowledged for me in my head, petting my feelings, there was nothing to make me think that that any time had passed or that I had somehow was gone too long. In fact, I didn’t feel as though I was absent or that I was coming back, I was simply home again.

I hadn’t been to the physical church building, but I hadn’t been ignoring my faith; G-d was still everywhere with me.

I look forward to tomorrow and the rest of the week’s Masses.

Missing Mass

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I’ve been trying to put these words to paper for days now. The last time I attended Mass was on Father’s Day, just over two weeks ago. I look forward to Mass, whether it’s daily or Sunday. They each have their own style, their rhythm of worship, their benefit, their own spirituality. There is more laughter during a daily mass. I suppose it is the more informal of the two. Sunday is more musical.

I hadn’t expected to miss so many Masses. The first week I had two sons graduating, one from the fifth grade and one from high school. My brother came up for a visit. The end of that week brought relief, the stress floated away. I meant to go Saturday night, and I don’t remember why I wasn’t able to. I think there was a conflict of time, and I slept through both of Sunday’s services. I felt a twinge of guilt, but not too badly. It happens. I read my Bible, my Lectionary. I prayed the Rosary.

I’ve never gone to Mass out of obligation. For me, it’s always been a want-to-be-there; not a “hafta“. I enjoy being there. I get there before the opening psalm and I know my parts as well as my priest’s by heart. One would think that would make it boring, but it’s a comfort to be that close to the Word. I find joy in every moment.

I listen carefully to the Scripture readings and the Gospel and while I don’t really put myself in the place of the Scripture story or message, I do bring the message to my life: how does it fit? How does it relate to what’s going on for me? Does it give me more questions? Does it give me a word or phrase to think about, to pray on? Does it give me comfort and a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I thought perhaps that the joyful Friday, the Supreme Court’s decision for marriage equality, the reminder to everyone that I already knew that “gay” rights are civil rights unconsciously kept me from going. I knew this was only the beginning of the celebration and the ongoing march forward. I’m still rainbow festooned on all of my social media. I’m not ready to go back to the blandness of regular life.

I’m proud of my stand on equality. I can explain my position and unlike many other good people I have no qualms about my stand, and my beliefs. I do not have a crisis of faith. I find it easy, in fact to reconcile my LGBT+ beliefs and my Catholic faith.

It’s possible that subconsciously I was afraid to go to church where surely people more conservative than I would be discussing their views.

I decided at the end of that weekend that I would return to the Daily Mass the very next day.

I didn’t make it.

And I didn’t make it five more times.

It wasn’t until reading today’s email from my online Ignatian Spirituality Retreat that a series of words clicked for me.

“Unfortunately, we can’t change others, but we can be attentive and make sure that the good spirit is driving our choices.”

I read that, and it gave me pause. I went about my morning, but finally I came back to it this afternoon, and thought about what was keeping me from my worship services that I loved; that I missed.

For the last two weeks, my church (and many others) have participated in a Fortnight for Freedom. According to my research for this, it is “freedom to bear witness” to the truth of the Gospel.”

That’s not what I thought it was. At least that’s not what it seemed in looking at what our community prays about (when prayers are aloud).
Perhaps it’s that sometimes our preachers get too hung up on how Christians are perceived in the US. I’ve heard from friends who feel that this country doesn’t respect our freedom of religion.

That is truly a ridiculous notion. I don’t mean to offend anyone who does feel that way, but my question for you would be: how is your freedom of religion impeded in any way, shape, or form?

My answer is: it isn’t.

You aren’t persecuted or prosecuted. No one forces you to take or not to take holy sacraments. Not being able to inflict your religion on others against their will, and against their own religious beliefs is not actually your freedom being denied. In fact, it is you denying someone else their freedom.

I did not want to go to church lately, and pray for freedom of religion in this country. It’s hypocritical. What we’re really praying for is for others to kowtow to our beliefs; to force them to follow our doctrines. And I won’t have that.

When I read that statement in my email this morning: “we can’t change others” and “make sure that the good spirit is driving our choices,” I realized that I didn’t have to pray what others pray. I could pray for people and places that are truly under persecution; places where freedom of religion isn’t free.

I can pray for the ideals of this country and that they carry on for all its citizens, regardless of what they believe or don’t believe.

Baking a cake for someone who doesn’t believe what you believe isn’t standing up for your religion; it’s bigoted, and it makes a mockery of truly faithful people, who believe in and follow Jesus’ words and deeds.

Bake the cake, and pray for them. Do you bake cakes for divorced couples? For couples who live together? Adulterers? People on diets? Isn’t cheating on a diet lying? What about the fifty-year old person who wanted the icing to read: Happy 29th Birthday Again. If your business was a grocery store, would you refuse to sell gay couples milk for their baby because you don’t approve of their “lifestyle”?

It’s only in the ludicrous examples that show how ridiculous many of these people are acting. This doesn’t change what you believe, what you pray, what you support. It’s simply good manners. I think we should all pray for that.

I don’t know when I’ll return to church. I want to. It’s not the attending; it’s the going, the getting there, but I will.

I haven’t lost my faith; just my transportation.

Palm Sunday

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In reading one of today’s reflections in Give Us This Day, I was reminded of something that has often bothered me throughout the years. Who killed Jesus?

Growing up Jewish I was always offended by the notion that Jesus was betrayed and that the blame always fell to the Jews.

My response has been that that was all there was. There were no Christians. You were Jewish or you were Roman and the Romans crucified everyone. How could the blame not fall to the Romans? Even Jesus’ followers considered themselves Jewish.

It was very confusing to me as a young person.

In reading and understanding the Gospel of the Passion, it is a little clearer, at least enough for me to speak on.

It also helps that the Church seems to have embraced Jesus’ Jewishness, something that surprised me when I first came to my parish.

Today’s Palm Sunday Mass opened in our parish hall where our palms were blessed, we were sprinkled with holy water and we walked out into the cold air under a bright sunny sky to the Church for the rest of the mass.

Most services have their own beauty, but these during Holy Week really do a good job of bringing us back in time, and letting us relive the original Passion, in addition to gaining the perspective of two thousand years.

Today begins the holiest of weeks for Christians. My first one as a Christian. I’m looking forward to growing and learning more as a Christian and seeing how different my views are from when I was growing up.

I grow every day.

My First Anointing Mass

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Last week I attended my first Anointing Mass. I actually considered not going. My sick doesn’t seem as serious as other people’s sick. I have chronic health problems and a new one that has cropped up recently; something I need to think on, talk about, weigh pros and cons, and make decisions on, but because it has all of those steps it feels more like a business decision or planning a vacation rather than an illness.

I don’t know at what point I dismissed that as bullshit. That ridiculous my problems aren’t worth mentioning that so many of us do without thinking. We should not need to be beat over the head to take care of ourselves, both mentally and physically.

The anointing mass is for anyone who wants G-d’s help with whatever medical problem they’re having.

Even before I became as religious as I am now, I understood how important positive thinking is for health and curing illness. Studies have shown that even patients who didn’t know that they were being prayed for still did better than those that weren’t prayed for. Certainly, even non-believers can’t argue that prayer couldn’t hurt.

Still, it was very last minute that I decided to go. I needed to sign up since there would be lunch following the mass and they needed a head count.

Everyone I spoke to had told me how spiritual, how lovely, how beautiful this mass was. It hadn’t prepared me for the truly comforting feelings that the mass held and filled me with.

It was very similar to a Sunday Mass with the music ministry in attendance. However, we were seated in every other pew. People were helped to their seats so I ended up sitting with people I’d never met before. There were many elderly and wheelchair bound in attendance, several coming from the two nearby nursing homes and rehabilitation centers. There were many people from different parishes who come solely for this healing mass.

The Father went around the entire chapel and greeted everyone already sitting. He asked the woman next to me if they came with me to which we both replied, no, we’ve just met.

There were special readings that were incredibly moving. There wasn’t so much a homily as an encouragement to rely on G-d and to trust that all will be well. He quoted that from Julian of Norwich, and I found the simple words a necessary mantra for the rest of my week:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”

It didn’t take long that I discovered why we were seated in alternating rows. That way, we didn’t need to leave our seats to receive the anointing and the Eucharist. It was a very kind gesture for so many of the attendees would have had trouble processing to the altar for the traditional communion.

First, one Father came through the aisle in front of us. He anointed our foreheads with the cross (similar to receiving ashes) and then also the palms of our hands. He spoke quietly and despite saying the same blessing to everyone, it sounded personal and more meaningful than I’d expected.

I didn’t feel better per se, although of course, I hadn’t expected to, but I did feel as if I’d received a shield; an additional protection, not only for the illness, but for the ability to make the decisions to move towards wellness.

After everyone was anointed and after the Eucharist was prepared, the second Father came to our side to give us the body of Christ with a Eucharistic minister following with the blood. I received a large pizza shaped piece and I carefully broke it, ate a piece, broke it again, ate a second piece, and placed the last piece on my tongue when I was offered the cup. I like to keep a bit of host in my mouth and swirl the wine with it. There’s no real reason for this – the host practically melts on your tongue, but I think, for me, there is something sacred about combining the body and blood and as it glides down my throat, there is a warm feeling. It is not a burning, but it remains and fades slowly as I meditate or pray while the host is replaced in the tabernacle.

After this, we all walked over the parish center together, steadying non-cane arms, pushing wheelchairs, holding doors open and lending a hand wherever needed. At first, I sat alone as I usually do when I know no one, but Anne Marie, the woman who was randomly put next to me for the mass came over and invited me to their table. I was glad for the company and even gladder that they were strangers. It made the day that much more distinct from the regular daily mass.

It was really a beautiful experience and if I need a boost of strength to carry on with my health decisions and getting well, I can think back on this day and reflect on it.

I have comfort in the prayers, in the fellowship of those of us joining together to combine our strengths and share them. It was very encouraging and I will rely on it in the upcoming months to support me in the trying times that are ahead.

An (Extra) Ordinary Wednesday

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I thought today’hts Mass was going to be a typical, ordinary Wednesday Mass.

I was surprised and when it began it was clear that it was going to be anything but ordinary.

There is a routine to each daily Mass. Everything follows along its familiar path, although each day brings with it a new reading, a new Gospel, and a new chance to experience a reenactment of the Resurrection through the Eucharist. (Note: I don’t participate in this yet, but I will after my baptism.) It doesn’t exactly run by clockwork, but there is a sameness that is the ritual of the Mass. However, that sameness doesn’t diminish from the traditions and the priest’s interpretations. I will often find guidance and solace as many of my morning’s questions are answered through those readings and interpretations.

Usually my mind is full, but calm as I wait to see which readings are prepared in the Missal and how much they will relate to my life.

For anyone not familiar with Catholic Mass, it begins with the Sign of the Cross, penance for our sins, opening prayer and then the readings and Gospel followed by the Homily and the Eucharist and a closing prayer and dismissal blessing.

The words change daily, the sins change, it’s all different and yet it is that sameness that we find comfortable and comforting.

Most days after the sign of the cross, there is a kind of preview. We’re told who the dead are that we are remembering at this Mass, if there are any crosses to be returned to families (on the anniversary of a family member’s death), any special visitors or what I like to call housekeeping (if there are schedule changes, an occasional weather report, etc.)

I try to fill my mind with what I’m looking for in the Mass, what I need for that day, and about whom I’ll be praying for. We pray as a community. The priest lists who we’re praying for and we ask G-d to hear our prayer. For me, I add my own, not always silently, but quietly:  for the religious community, I add L, A, and F. For the sick, I think of who is ill in my life and whisper their names. For the dead, I’ve been adding my church friend, and I always add Brittany. I don’t know when I began to add Brittany, it’s been a long time, but I think of her every day when I pray. For the military, I add C and M. Sometimes, I’ll include C’s wife and family depending on if I think they need extra prayers. During the silence of our hearts, where we pray individually, I always include A and add anyone else who seems to be going through a rough time.

This morning before we thought on our own sins and ask for G-d’s forgiveness, Father J said that we had two special men in our midst and they would receive a special blessing today. They were Sal F and Tom S and they were two of the three local people who were Marines, members of the battalion that took Iwo Jima sixty-nine years ago today.

In looking around, we found them easily enough. They appeared older than anyone else at our Mass, and that’s saying something since at forty-seven, I’m one of the youngest people there. Both were bent over, unsteady on their feet, slow, even with the help of canes, and one of the men was wearing his red Marines baseball cap. From the back, he looked a bit like Winston Churchill.

When it was time for the special blessing, we all extended our hands to be part of the blessing over them. It was moving. And when it was over, as they walked back to their seats, we all stood up and applauded.

They were swamped by parishioners when Mass was over, everyone wanting to shake their hands and say hello. One person even took a photo.

I thought I’d want to say hello, but I felt funny approaching them. I went to my car, and when I saw that they were late in leaving, I decided to go over to where they were parked. This was a big deal for me; very much out of character. I never know what to say to people, but the more I thought about it, the more I steeled myself to ignore my anxiety and do it. If I hadn’t, I would have regretted it.

I waited and when they arrived at their cars, I got out of mine, and walked over to them. It had begun to snow a little harder and we were getting pelted with a wet hard rain-like snow.

I introduced myself and put out my hand to shake theirs. I said I wanted to say hello and thank them for everything they had done. Sal, who was closest to me, asked for a hug. We hugged tightly, and he thanked me and said G-d Bless you, and then I repeated it with Tom, who also wanted to hug me.

It was one of the most moving moments I think I’ve ever experienced. I would have continued to stand there even in the snow if that was what they wanted.

They both wanted to thank me. I remember Tom’s words: “Thank you so much, dear. It was a long time ago. Thank you.”

Thank me?!

I hadn’t done anything; certainly nothing to warrant a thank you from two Marines.

It’s amazing how things happen in our lives with people we meet and how they affect our lives. People we might not have ever met if not for those circumstances. A crazy, random circumstance often initiated by someone else and it seems insignificant to us; until it’s not.

I’ve since had the opportunity to read about them. As it turned out, they were both on the cover of Our Hometowne, a local penny-saver newspaper, which was sitting on my side table. I saw it when it came, but didn’t pay it much mind, and then remembered it this afternoon.

When they enlisted, Sal was 18 and Tom was 20. They were not lifelong friends. They were part of two separate battalions that were joined at Saipan. They served together, but I don’t know if they had ever met on the island. Sal was wounded and according to the accompanying story, he was rescued by a tank driving over him and opening a trap door to pull him in. The trap door was coincidentally repaired by Tom. They both survived, received Purple Hearts among other decorations, and eventually met in the local Walmart years and years later.

Once again, my visit to Mass has given me more than I could have expected when I set out this morning.

Info on the Memorial: http://wwiimemorial.com/