The Shore of Humility

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.