Celebrant: A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Luke.
Congregation: Glory to you, Lord.
Celebrant: Jesus spoke this parable addressed to those who
believed in their own
self-righteousness while holding everyone else in
contempt: “Two men went up to
the temple to pray: one was a Pharisee, the other
a tax collector. The Pharisee
with head unbowed prayed in this fashion: ‘I give
you thanks, O God, that I am
not like the rest of men—grasping, crooked,
adulterous—or even like this tax
collector. I fast twice a week. I pay tithes
on all I possess.’ The other man,
however, kept his distance, not even daring
to raise his eyes to heaven. All he
did was beat his breast and say, ‘O God, be
merciful to me, a sinner.’ Believe me,
this man went home from the temple
justified but the other did not. For everyone
who exalts himself shall be
humbled, while he who humbles himself shall be exalted.”
Celebrant: The Gospel of the Lord.
Congregation: Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.
And blessed be those who humble themselves. And blessed be the
poor, and everyone who gives life to kindness and to sharing. I find church
very peaceful. I like to sit as close to the priest as possible so I can hear
the Gospel and the sermon clearly. Sometimes I listen intently; but there are
times when my mind wanders.
When I was a child Mass was celebrated in Latin. It was beautiful and I can
remember being annoyed when it changed. Suddenly I was hearing the English
words, and with that an obligation to comprehend had presented itself. I was so
accustomed to hearing the beauty of the Liturgy in a language that was pleasing
to the ear, that hearing the Liturgy in English seemed terribly abrasive and
distracting. It was a long time before I accepted the service without cringing.
Actually, I had to mature first. Nevertheless, there was a certain something
about the Latin Mass—a feeling that I have not felt since. Perhaps it’s a
feeling only a child gives life to; born of innocence; maintaining its life for
as long as we are wide-eyed and bushy-tailed; dissolving quickly into the
pubescent air that hits us like a ton of bricks when we are twelve or thirteen
or fourteen years old.
I think as children we are a steady current flowing with the
stream; little ripples of activity asking only innocent questions. In
adolescence we get caught up in the wake of our special time, and it feels good
to rock with the overpowering current flowing across our path. We ask no
questions since we know it all. As adults we are thrashing waves—turbulent
activity, searching and trying to hold on to those beliefs we were fastened to
as children. We get caught up in our adult lives; our adult cravings; our money
matters and tales of woe. This stuff of our reality can monopolize our emotions
and give credence to our unacceptable behavior, and, worse yet, it numbs us to
the unacceptable behavior of our fellow man; we can very easily displace our
compassion.
When I was a teenager I still went to Mass every Sunday; primarily
because my parents directed me to go, but I was not assimilating as I did
before. There was too much going on around me that needed my undivided
attention. The teenage soul begins the trek through radio frequency, peer
groups and confusion. It runs along this path for about four or five years, barely
settling long enough to do the required homework and studying that will ensure
a high school diploma. At least this was true for me. Music was a big part of
that time. There are certain songs I hear now and then on the radio, and I get
an instantaneous rush of youthfulness, as if I were thirteen years old at that
very moment At thirteen I felt things so profoundly. I didn’t just listen to
music; I inhaled it like sweet, fresh air on a spring day. It filtered through
every pore of my body, keeping vigil while I slept…keeping my adolescent mind
and heart in protective custody.
Every so often the choir sings in Latin and my mind flashes back
to those early days in church when all of us “little kids” were directed to sit
up in front, Indian style, on the floor. Mass was so crowded in those days, and
all of the older kids and adults sat in folding chairs. This was before our
church was built and Mass was celebrated in the grammar school. But most
clearly is the memory of feeling crowded in; people all around me, listening
intently; babies whimpering and my friends and I being good because the Nuns
were watching; the Latin Liturgy of Ave Maria and O Sanctissima, O Piisima,
Dulcis Virgo Maria! Materamata intemerata. Ora, ora pronobis! And I wonder,
where have all the faithful gone.
I admire the young people who have held on to their faith while
only dabbling in stupidity. They have consistently been there—come hell or high
water—listening to their Priest or their Pastor or their Rabbi, and fully
realizing the comfort it brings. As for me, when was in my late teens and early
twenties, I never took seriously the faith I was born into; yet I was a good
kid in many respects, and I was kind to others and goodhearted because it was
in my nature to be that way. But the church-going and the spiritual part of it
was always kept on the back shelf, to be taken down during the holidays, like
the ornaments we use to decorate our homes. I would go to midnight Mass and
then state adamantly that I would start going to church on a regular basis, and
maybe a month or two later it would all be on the back shelf again.
I can see exactly where it was that I lost myself in idleness. It
was a time of Saturday night parties and Sunday afternoon softball games, and
church didn’t stand a chance of filling any space on my social calendar. I said
and I did what I wanted—with all due respect to my elders, of course, but I
accomplished very little during those years. As for the present; I’m not going
to lament over decisions I could have made and paths I could have taken. What
purpose would that serve? Of all the words my mother bombarded me with, “you
can’t cry over spilt milk” stood out in the spectrum of opinions and words of
wisdom so lovingly offered. I am living the life that was intended for me, and
the loitering of my soul during my younger years has brought me to where I am
today. Each day—each minute of my life thus far, has had its purpose. Every
soul that I have encountered, each one that I have known, loved, admired,
envied and even despised has shed a special light on my own strengths and
weaknesses, as well as my fears. And one day I realized that God was speaking
to me clearly and lovingly through others, and I felt safe.
So, as concerns my little life; I have come full circle from those
innocent days of my childhood, through the care free, occasionally obnoxious
and confused days of my adolescence, through the young adult tunnel of urgent
pursuits and “isn’t everything great”, out into the vast ocean of
disappointment, and “hey, it wasn’t supposed to be like this“, finally resting
on the shore of humility, contentment and “you know, I think I can deal with
this”. For me, personally, my spirituality is the most important part of my
life. I feel it so profoundly, like the music of my youth, and in turn it has
refreshed my soul. I am once again like the steady current flowing with the
stream—still rippling, but with knowledgeable and purposeful activity; still
getting caught up in the wake of time and circumstance, but putting those currents
in place when I let go and let God. And, like the tax collector in the Gospel
of the Lord, I know I’m a sinner, so church has found its place on my calendar.
But occasionally I’ll sit on the sandy beach and look back out into the ocean,
and, when I catch a glimpse of someone nearing the shore, I wave my lighted
torch.
