As we move forward in the Evangelization and Re-Evangelization of all people, part of the focus has been to change the focus of our Church's activities from filling an hour (or less) to fulfilling the hunger of the soul. For too long we have depended on a Christian culture to fill our pews, but once people were there all too often we simply filled their hour without filling their hearts. Our religious education programs came to the young with great intentions and trutful doctrine, but rarely achieved the level of evangelization possible as the hearts they reached out to were not fertile soil. Now we are left with several generations of people who barely know the basic fundamentals of their faith, have never experienced Christ in their lives, and who have no qualms ignoring the ethical and moral code of the Church.
With so many Catholic either only attending on Easter and Christmas (plus weddings, funerals and baptisms), we don't have time to preach even the most basic message of the Gospel, let alone the richness of its implications. Without the miracle of the Eucharist in the context of our beautiful and rich Sunday liturgy, how can we expect our flock's hearts to be a fertile soil in which to plant the seeds of truth? The competing message from society, not to mention the 24/7 news media is present every moment of the day. As a Church we're lucky if we see people for an hour once a week. If know we are seeing people once a week or even once a month, the Mass is our only chance to reach out to people. At my parish, the level of care and devotion putting into making the Mass rich and engaging without sacrificing the dignity of the liturgy is impressive and worthy of praise. Our pastor gives incredible homilies, full of passion and truth, but does so in a way that engages both the churched and the un-churched. Every weekend I get the pleasure of being challenged by his clear and truthful message. He doesn't pander to anyone. He tells it like it is but in such a way that it gives his message more traction in the hearts of even the most obstinate. Besides the pastor, we are blessed with passionate ministry leaders who represent the best of our love of tradition while using a fresh voice to express it. A fine example is our 9am music ministry. We have a praise and worship band who sing authentic praise the God, but without the shallowness we sometimes experience from that style. They are as comfortable leading us in English as they are in Latin and Greek, singing a new song along with the songs gifted us by our millenia old tradition. By the time we reach the true pinnacle of the Mass, the Eucharist, our hearts are expanded, ready to be stretched and challenged even more by the real presence of Christ in His Body and Blood. As a faithful lover of the weekday Mass at our parish, whose austerity can be excused as it feeds the hunger of those who crave to always be near to the Eucharist and to be ever consumed by Christ as they consume Him, I can say in all honesty that even our beautiful weekday Mass can't compare to our Sunday celebration. For me, weekday Mass is there to sustain me, whereas Sunday Mass is there to fill me to overflowing, to build me up, to form me, and to bring me close to the full community of the Church universal. On Sunday, unlike any other day of the week, the worldwide Church joins together in harmony with the eternal celebration of Heaven. From our earthly perspective, it is the one day of the week that the Body of Christ is the most complete as the most of us are together through the Eucharist at once. It is the day that I feel the closest to my earthly and my Heavenly family. I feel the enormity of the faithful as I become my small part in the Body of Christ. I am drawn beyond my own weak personal faith into an experience of Heaven, which will be an eternal communion of the faithful.
I think the first answer to our problem of drawing people closer to Christ would be to first draw them closer to His Church. It is impossible to ignore the presence of Christ in His Body when we give our hearts over to Him at the Sunday Mass. A people who have their hunger fed at Sunday Mass become a people open to being formed by the Spirit to accept the full truth of the Gospel. While God speaks to us always in the silence of our hearts, He becomes present in the community of the faithful, through our presence and through His Most Holy Eucharist. We approach Him as individuals, but He draws us into Him and gives us Himself through our community. The authentic message of Christ is not to self-determine our beliefs in a vacuum, but to be attentive to the truths He has already revealed with clarity through the Gospel. He undeniably calls us to community, as we are reminded that "Wherever two or three of you are gathered in My name, I am there". Once our hearts become seeped in the unique joy and love we find through our community, then we will crave to know more and better the God who we meet at Mass. All the education and knowledge in the world will fail to fill us if we aren't first set ablaze with a passion for God and His Church, but once we have that passion, we will forever crave to know Him more and to love Him more.
Showing posts with label Eucharist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eucharist. Show all posts
Monday, 18 February 2013
Monday, 17 December 2012
Light in the Darkness
I've been struggling with whether or not I wanted to write this post. I really don't want to, but of course I feel like I have to. I almost let my feelings slide into unspoken thoughts, then I read this beautiful post over at Mommy Miracles, and felt again the words bubbling to the top, demanding a voice. So here are my few words, the result of the desperate cry of my heart, imperfectly cobbled together in hopes of finding a little peace outside my own head.
On Friday, I did not lose a child, or a sister, or a parent. On Friday, my children did not lose their sense of safety. On Friday, my family did not become the center of media attention, or become the center of a debate on security, gun control, or support for mental health. My little world stayed very much the same. My children continued on in blissful ignorance. And yet here I am, my heart broken, tears rolling down my cheeks without warning, aching for the way the world felt on Thursday. I have been struggling to tear my eyes away from news media and have been escaping into silly movies, cuddles with my children, and fervent prayer. As a parent I keep finding myself drawn into the vacuum of grief so visible on the faces of the parents enduring a tragedy no parent should ever endure. Children the same age as my daughter should not know the terror these children endured.
What can I do when death knocks on the door, and leaves its cold streaks across my heart? I did the only thing I could for my own heart, and for the hearts of the families who are spending the end of Advent not preparing for the birth of Christ, but for the funeral of a loved one. I prayed. I prayed alone. I prayed with friends. I took my kids to the Church and we prayed.
At my parish, we have a Pro-Life Holy Hour the third Saturday of every month. As I tried to lead our prayers over the clatter and chatter of 5 little kids (4 of them mine of course), I could feel the veil lifting. Our chapel holds the Tabernacle, which is on a pedestal on a platform step higher than the rest of the room. The platform is big enough for an adult to have access to the ciborium holding Jesus in safety inside. This also means the platform is more than big enough for 5 kids aged 5 and under to crawl up and sit together. The kids were drawn to the Tabernacle, even the little 1 year olds. They didn't know what we were there for, or why some of the grown ups were crying. They just knew we were there to be with Jesus. So they went and hung out with Jesus, saying their little prayers and laughing together in perfect communion. At one point, I couldn't help but remark that this was what Heaven looked like on Saturday. A crowd of little kids, their cares washed away, looking down from the heights at their parents with happy smiles, in peace in the presence of God. We adults watched with a sense of joy and sadness, turning out prayers to those left behind, but comforted by the knowledge that their children and ours are welcome with God, that they are His beloved children too. Our kids only belong to us for their lifetime, but they are God's first and always.
Since Saturday morning, whenever I feel the darkness stealing its way back into my heart, I think back on that moment. A sweet taste of bliss and a comfort. My prayer today is that the families experience the real, unfathomable, heartbreaking loss of their children, sisters, and parents, can feel this grace that God gave me today. I pray He finds some way into their hearts to heal them.
On Friday, I did not lose a child, or a sister, or a parent. On Friday, my children did not lose their sense of safety. On Friday, my family did not become the center of media attention, or become the center of a debate on security, gun control, or support for mental health. My little world stayed very much the same. My children continued on in blissful ignorance. And yet here I am, my heart broken, tears rolling down my cheeks without warning, aching for the way the world felt on Thursday. I have been struggling to tear my eyes away from news media and have been escaping into silly movies, cuddles with my children, and fervent prayer. As a parent I keep finding myself drawn into the vacuum of grief so visible on the faces of the parents enduring a tragedy no parent should ever endure. Children the same age as my daughter should not know the terror these children endured.
What can I do when death knocks on the door, and leaves its cold streaks across my heart? I did the only thing I could for my own heart, and for the hearts of the families who are spending the end of Advent not preparing for the birth of Christ, but for the funeral of a loved one. I prayed. I prayed alone. I prayed with friends. I took my kids to the Church and we prayed.
At my parish, we have a Pro-Life Holy Hour the third Saturday of every month. As I tried to lead our prayers over the clatter and chatter of 5 little kids (4 of them mine of course), I could feel the veil lifting. Our chapel holds the Tabernacle, which is on a pedestal on a platform step higher than the rest of the room. The platform is big enough for an adult to have access to the ciborium holding Jesus in safety inside. This also means the platform is more than big enough for 5 kids aged 5 and under to crawl up and sit together. The kids were drawn to the Tabernacle, even the little 1 year olds. They didn't know what we were there for, or why some of the grown ups were crying. They just knew we were there to be with Jesus. So they went and hung out with Jesus, saying their little prayers and laughing together in perfect communion. At one point, I couldn't help but remark that this was what Heaven looked like on Saturday. A crowd of little kids, their cares washed away, looking down from the heights at their parents with happy smiles, in peace in the presence of God. We adults watched with a sense of joy and sadness, turning out prayers to those left behind, but comforted by the knowledge that their children and ours are welcome with God, that they are His beloved children too. Our kids only belong to us for their lifetime, but they are God's first and always.
Since Saturday morning, whenever I feel the darkness stealing its way back into my heart, I think back on that moment. A sweet taste of bliss and a comfort. My prayer today is that the families experience the real, unfathomable, heartbreaking loss of their children, sisters, and parents, can feel this grace that God gave me today. I pray He finds some way into their hearts to heal them.
Thursday, 22 November 2012
Church of Entitlement
I've been reading a lot about the Church lately that has me a little irked. The general reaction reminds me of the old saying "What have you done for ME lately?". The feeling of entitlement is just sickening. The issues spawn from what we think is our right, our due. Changes to the priesthood, change in worship styles, changes in sexual ethics, demanding sacraments on our own terms, viewing the Church as a pretty building for hire at the right price, wanting to have your pastor's personal line on speed dial, etc.
Every one of these issues find their root in our feeling of entitlement. We want the Church to serve our will, our desire, and our vision. The Church is there to serve us yes, but not because we deserve anything. Christ called us to serve the weak, the unworthy, and the sinners (of which most if not all of us fall into all three categories). The Church's service to us, however, does not mean that She is meant to bow down to our human knowledge, will, and societal demands. The Church is not a teenager bowing down to peer pressure. She is the Bride of Christ, and must, like her Heavenly Spouse, bear witness to the truths God has taught us through Holy Scripture and through our long Tradition. To change Her ways to appeal to current societal appeals is to deny Her dignity. Her duty is now and has always been to present Christ to us, through God's word, through the Sacraments He instituted in Her, especially through the Most Sacred Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist. Nothing else the world tells us we need can compare to the mystery and glory of the Eucharist.
The fact that I can even dare to approach the altar of God, for which I am eminently unworthy, is a miracle of unending mercy and grace. My worthiness comes not from my good deeds, my own time in devoted prayer, or even by nature of my humanity, even though I was made in God's image. I am fallen, spoiled, and broken. I am a distorted image of God. I can never rise on my own to a level of dignity high enough to deserve to even sit at the foot of the Altar to bask in the wonder of His Presence. The only reason I can even begin to approach the Lord, and even then with soul-rending humility, is because Christ has taken on my sin and allowed me to take upon myself His worthiness. I am alive in God on borrowed grace that I fight to continue to accept every day I live. My baptism has saved me and the Eucharist brings me into the body of Christ and sustains me. Despite my brokenness, Christ has given me mercy.
In that light, the Church owes me nothing. The Church has already given me more than I can ever deserve as She shares with me through Her anointed ministers the Sacraments of Christ. To come to Her with a sense of entitlement and demand She bend to my will is to throw back in Her face and that of Her Spouse the gift of the Cross. How can I say what She offers is too little when She is Christ to me as I await Heaven?
All I can ask of my Church is that Her ministers remain accountable, truthful, and that they do everything they can to maintain Her in the same dignity Christ gave to Her on Calvary. At times we may choose to adorn Her in different ways and delve more deeply into the truths She protects, but we must always strive to protect Her true beauty, which is the Sacraments. We must request them with great discernment and humility and accept them with a bowed heart and not a grasping hand. At times we must step back and realise we still cannot ask for the Sacraments because of our state of sinfulness or even the realisation that not all Sacraments are meant for us individually. Our Church is not a fast food chain. The altar is not a table. The Eucharist is not bread, but the Very Body and Blood of our Saviour, broken and poured out for us as a ransom from death. Let us treat the Church as holy ground, not as a place where we can place our order and expect it to be filled to the letter. Approach the Altar of Christ with sorrow and weeping as you would the Cross, and give thanks for what you have been given in the depths of your sinfulness and leave your self-entitled requests at the door. In doing that and accepting Christ in the Sacraments as God has ordained them for you, you will find great joy, peace, and fulfilment than any plan you could conceive for yourself.
Every one of these issues find their root in our feeling of entitlement. We want the Church to serve our will, our desire, and our vision. The Church is there to serve us yes, but not because we deserve anything. Christ called us to serve the weak, the unworthy, and the sinners (of which most if not all of us fall into all three categories). The Church's service to us, however, does not mean that She is meant to bow down to our human knowledge, will, and societal demands. The Church is not a teenager bowing down to peer pressure. She is the Bride of Christ, and must, like her Heavenly Spouse, bear witness to the truths God has taught us through Holy Scripture and through our long Tradition. To change Her ways to appeal to current societal appeals is to deny Her dignity. Her duty is now and has always been to present Christ to us, through God's word, through the Sacraments He instituted in Her, especially through the Most Sacred Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist. Nothing else the world tells us we need can compare to the mystery and glory of the Eucharist.
The fact that I can even dare to approach the altar of God, for which I am eminently unworthy, is a miracle of unending mercy and grace. My worthiness comes not from my good deeds, my own time in devoted prayer, or even by nature of my humanity, even though I was made in God's image. I am fallen, spoiled, and broken. I am a distorted image of God. I can never rise on my own to a level of dignity high enough to deserve to even sit at the foot of the Altar to bask in the wonder of His Presence. The only reason I can even begin to approach the Lord, and even then with soul-rending humility, is because Christ has taken on my sin and allowed me to take upon myself His worthiness. I am alive in God on borrowed grace that I fight to continue to accept every day I live. My baptism has saved me and the Eucharist brings me into the body of Christ and sustains me. Despite my brokenness, Christ has given me mercy.
In that light, the Church owes me nothing. The Church has already given me more than I can ever deserve as She shares with me through Her anointed ministers the Sacraments of Christ. To come to Her with a sense of entitlement and demand She bend to my will is to throw back in Her face and that of Her Spouse the gift of the Cross. How can I say what She offers is too little when She is Christ to me as I await Heaven?
All I can ask of my Church is that Her ministers remain accountable, truthful, and that they do everything they can to maintain Her in the same dignity Christ gave to Her on Calvary. At times we may choose to adorn Her in different ways and delve more deeply into the truths She protects, but we must always strive to protect Her true beauty, which is the Sacraments. We must request them with great discernment and humility and accept them with a bowed heart and not a grasping hand. At times we must step back and realise we still cannot ask for the Sacraments because of our state of sinfulness or even the realisation that not all Sacraments are meant for us individually. Our Church is not a fast food chain. The altar is not a table. The Eucharist is not bread, but the Very Body and Blood of our Saviour, broken and poured out for us as a ransom from death. Let us treat the Church as holy ground, not as a place where we can place our order and expect it to be filled to the letter. Approach the Altar of Christ with sorrow and weeping as you would the Cross, and give thanks for what you have been given in the depths of your sinfulness and leave your self-entitled requests at the door. In doing that and accepting Christ in the Sacraments as God has ordained them for you, you will find great joy, peace, and fulfilment than any plan you could conceive for yourself.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Raising Saints
I wrote a post a little while ago about the growing faith of my three oldest children. Knowing that they're our kids, my husband and I are rarely shocked by the sweet and faithful kids our things say. The truth of the matter is that their lives are deeply soaked in the stories of their faith, and everyday problems and duties are framed in light of service. (Or at least we're trying). Even now, the three oldest kids are watching the biographical film Therese, about one of my favourite Saints, St. Therese de Lisieux. They haven't yet asked to watch any of their other favourites, mostly from the Disney catalogue. My oldest daughter is especially in love with this movie, and keeps putting blankets on her head like a veil. The life of her faith, and that of her younger brothers, is growing before my eyes. We've started going to daily mass as we can, and I see through my own struggle to keep 4 little ones even mildly calm that somehow, some of this is getting through the fog of princesses and cowboys to have a firm place in their hearts.
This weekend was the first time my Dad was the Deacon at our regular Mass. He was ordained to the diaconate on the 8th at our Basilica, and even though it was a day of great spiritual joy, the Mass was later in the evening and the kids were tired and very cranky. A few days after his ordination, my eldest son was having a rough night, so I came in and cuddled with him in his bed for a few minutes in hopes of helping him relax. He and I got to talking, and something we ended up talking about Heaven. He really liked this idea and wanted to know what Heaven was. I told him that it was the place where we go when we die so we can be with Jesus. We talked about the fact that the people we loved who had died were in Heaven with Jesus. When I asked him what he thought Heaven was like, part of me expected him to say that it was like being on the playground all day or something sweet and childlike. To my surprise, he said: "Like Church for Poppi's ordination. (A pretty big word for a 3 year old!) We would have Jesus and our family. We would be happy. And we would eat cake and I would smile." This really warmed my heart. Of all the kids, he had been the wildest during the ordination, but through all his tiredness and crankiness, he had seen our time at the "big church" as something special, beautiful, and worth experiencing again. It was wonderful to see too that he felt Jesus was an important part of his Poppi's ordination.
Fast forward to this past weekend, we're sitting together, all in a good mood (shocking I know), attending my Dad's first Mass as a Deacon at our regular Sunday morning Mass. Even though I knew they didn't quite understand what Poppi was up to in the Sanctuary in that big green cape (aka dalmatic, haha), their eyes were on all the action more than ever before. While they were preparing the wine and bread to be consecrated, our oldest girl was watching intently. She turned and asked me what her Poppi was doing. I did my best to explain that he was helping prepare the wine and bread so that God could make it into his Body and Blood. She nodded sagely, noting that when Jesus was crucified he bled and it was sad. A few moments later, when the priest elevated the cup and recalled the words of Christ that before us was His blood given for us and our salvation, my sweet little 4 year old daughter turned to me in all earnestness and whispered: "Mommy, look at the cross. Look how Jesus is bleeding into the cup!" She then turned and stared intensely at the crucifix at the back of Sanctuary, which from her perspective was right above the uplifted chalice. I felt a shiver go through my whole body and tears spring to my eyes. I wished in that moment I could see so clearly what she was seeing, that my faith was as innocent and fearless as hers. I know that if I saw what it was she was seeing, I might be nervous to share it with anyone, but with her childlike faith, she assumed this was normal, and needed to be shared. The rest of the Mass went on as normal, which its share of giggling, pushing, smiles and tears, but I was struck by the depth of her words. Even now I'm still in shock at what she said.
I know as my children get older, they faith will grow in some ways, and possibly wither in other ways. They will be taught by others to suppress their innocent belief in favour of greater understanding. In some ways, it will be wonderful to watch them grow in knowledge about the facts of their faith, but I pray that they will be the lucky ones who will be able to maintain their complete trust, innocence, and vision.
This weekend was the first time my Dad was the Deacon at our regular Mass. He was ordained to the diaconate on the 8th at our Basilica, and even though it was a day of great spiritual joy, the Mass was later in the evening and the kids were tired and very cranky. A few days after his ordination, my eldest son was having a rough night, so I came in and cuddled with him in his bed for a few minutes in hopes of helping him relax. He and I got to talking, and something we ended up talking about Heaven. He really liked this idea and wanted to know what Heaven was. I told him that it was the place where we go when we die so we can be with Jesus. We talked about the fact that the people we loved who had died were in Heaven with Jesus. When I asked him what he thought Heaven was like, part of me expected him to say that it was like being on the playground all day or something sweet and childlike. To my surprise, he said: "Like Church for Poppi's ordination. (A pretty big word for a 3 year old!) We would have Jesus and our family. We would be happy. And we would eat cake and I would smile." This really warmed my heart. Of all the kids, he had been the wildest during the ordination, but through all his tiredness and crankiness, he had seen our time at the "big church" as something special, beautiful, and worth experiencing again. It was wonderful to see too that he felt Jesus was an important part of his Poppi's ordination.
Fast forward to this past weekend, we're sitting together, all in a good mood (shocking I know), attending my Dad's first Mass as a Deacon at our regular Sunday morning Mass. Even though I knew they didn't quite understand what Poppi was up to in the Sanctuary in that big green cape (aka dalmatic, haha), their eyes were on all the action more than ever before. While they were preparing the wine and bread to be consecrated, our oldest girl was watching intently. She turned and asked me what her Poppi was doing. I did my best to explain that he was helping prepare the wine and bread so that God could make it into his Body and Blood. She nodded sagely, noting that when Jesus was crucified he bled and it was sad. A few moments later, when the priest elevated the cup and recalled the words of Christ that before us was His blood given for us and our salvation, my sweet little 4 year old daughter turned to me in all earnestness and whispered: "Mommy, look at the cross. Look how Jesus is bleeding into the cup!" She then turned and stared intensely at the crucifix at the back of Sanctuary, which from her perspective was right above the uplifted chalice. I felt a shiver go through my whole body and tears spring to my eyes. I wished in that moment I could see so clearly what she was seeing, that my faith was as innocent and fearless as hers. I know that if I saw what it was she was seeing, I might be nervous to share it with anyone, but with her childlike faith, she assumed this was normal, and needed to be shared. The rest of the Mass went on as normal, which its share of giggling, pushing, smiles and tears, but I was struck by the depth of her words. Even now I'm still in shock at what she said.
I know as my children get older, they faith will grow in some ways, and possibly wither in other ways. They will be taught by others to suppress their innocent belief in favour of greater understanding. In some ways, it will be wonderful to watch them grow in knowledge about the facts of their faith, but I pray that they will be the lucky ones who will be able to maintain their complete trust, innocence, and vision.
Monday, 28 May 2012
A Question of Faith
This past little while, I've tried to get into the habit of taking the kids to daily Mass. It started out as a mere whim that we should go before attending the parent and tots group that meets on Monday in the basement of the Church. Before I had kids, I used to go to Mass every day if I could. Not out of some expectation or desire to look holy, but because I honestly find so much strength and beauty in Mass, and want to have that deep feeling of what my true foundation is not just Sunday, but every day that I can muster it. Taking kids can be kind of crazy, especially if you're alone with 4 little ones who seem to be auditioning for a part in a "Where the Wild Things Are" play or something.
One day last week when we went, I had what can be described as a challenging experience. I literally had 2 kids rolling in the aisles. And not with laughter. With impossibly loud tears. We were a true spectacle. I was, of course, flustered, flabbergasted, and simply done with it. We had to spend the bulk of Mass in the Foyer, watching through the glass all the action in the Sanctuary. For all the intense wildness that was my kids, when it was time to get in line for Communion, they calmed (slightly) and we managed to walk to the front so I could received the Eucharist. It was in that moment that I remembered why I come to Mass at all: To receive the body and blood of my Saviour, under the simple appearance of wine and little circles of unleavened bread. This little oasis of peace and grace and mystery helped me fumble my way through helping my kids calm down enough to make our way through the end of Mass.
On the walk home, we were stopped by a woman remarking upon the number of my kids. The usual "your hands are full" sorts of comments, followed by how good (and good looking) they are. She asked us where we were coming from and I simply said from church. One thing led to another, and this very kind woman revealed to me that she had been to visit our church for her grandson's first Communion. She was obviously moved by his excitement, but felt fundamentally that she was unnecessarily excluded from our Communion, and that that wasn't precisely fair. Assuming I didn't know, she went on to lecture me about the fact that the reason she couldn't receive the Eucharist was due to the fact that she wasn't Catholic, and didn't believe that our Sacrament was the true Body and Blood of Christ. Explaining that I was aware of this point of faith, I thanked her for her being respectful enough not to "sneak up" and receive as had been suggested by one of her friends there with her. I told her for the same reason I would not seek to receive Communion at her Church if I had an opportunity to attend a service. (I've attended services at many different denominations, and am always so pleased to praise Christ with other fellow believers.) She went on to tell me that her friend, who is a parishioner at my parish, told her that very few if any Catholics really believe that our Sacrament is truly the Body and Blood of Christ, and that we, like many other Christians, simply believe it to be a symbol. I was floored. Confused. I felt my mouth go dry and tears well up in my eyes (luckily I was wearing sunglasses). I managed to explain to her that while that may be true of some, it certainly wasn't true for me and many of my dear friends. I am entirely convicted that the Sacrament that I seek out every Sunday (and any other day I can wrangle 4 kids to go to daily Mass) is indeed Jesus, and not a symbol. Now it was her turn to be shocked. She clearly believed that I was a rare case. I was so overwhelmed by this moment as an opportunity to witness, but something really struck me as odd about the situation.
As I walked away from this incredible conversation, I couldn't help but wonder what had really bothered me about this conversation. I felt so much grace that I could represent my faith with kindness and conviction, and that both of us left with promises of prayers for each other.I think I've figured out what bothered me. It wasn't the woman, who was very kind and open with me. I'm sure many people wonder whether Catholics truly believe in transubstantiation, and I'm sure there are many Catholics that struggle with this mystery of mercy, but it pains me that people would say that Catholics in general outright don't believe. It makes me wonder where the failure lies. Is it in our lack of formation? Or that we fear to speak up lest we be ridiculed? Or that we don't feel like we need to speak up as it isn't important? Whatever the reason, I understood in that moment more than ever why we need a new evangelisation. We need to learn again what our Faith means, what it means to us. We need to be challenged to unafraid to believe with our whole hearts and souls, even if what we believe seems foolish to others.
I reflected on the mystery of the Eucharist, and was left with a feeling of deeper conviction. If God could humble Himself enough to become incarnate in human flesh, why couldn't He choose to incarnate His flesh and blood again in the appearance of bread and wine? In Isaiah 53:2, the prophet describes Jesus: "He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him." (NIV) God didn't desire that we should seek Him out because He was beautiful, but rather that His Godliness should attract us. This same magnificent mystery draws me to the Eucharist. Again we see God before our very eyes if we are able to see beyond the outward appearance.
One day last week when we went, I had what can be described as a challenging experience. I literally had 2 kids rolling in the aisles. And not with laughter. With impossibly loud tears. We were a true spectacle. I was, of course, flustered, flabbergasted, and simply done with it. We had to spend the bulk of Mass in the Foyer, watching through the glass all the action in the Sanctuary. For all the intense wildness that was my kids, when it was time to get in line for Communion, they calmed (slightly) and we managed to walk to the front so I could received the Eucharist. It was in that moment that I remembered why I come to Mass at all: To receive the body and blood of my Saviour, under the simple appearance of wine and little circles of unleavened bread. This little oasis of peace and grace and mystery helped me fumble my way through helping my kids calm down enough to make our way through the end of Mass.
On the walk home, we were stopped by a woman remarking upon the number of my kids. The usual "your hands are full" sorts of comments, followed by how good (and good looking) they are. She asked us where we were coming from and I simply said from church. One thing led to another, and this very kind woman revealed to me that she had been to visit our church for her grandson's first Communion. She was obviously moved by his excitement, but felt fundamentally that she was unnecessarily excluded from our Communion, and that that wasn't precisely fair. Assuming I didn't know, she went on to lecture me about the fact that the reason she couldn't receive the Eucharist was due to the fact that she wasn't Catholic, and didn't believe that our Sacrament was the true Body and Blood of Christ. Explaining that I was aware of this point of faith, I thanked her for her being respectful enough not to "sneak up" and receive as had been suggested by one of her friends there with her. I told her for the same reason I would not seek to receive Communion at her Church if I had an opportunity to attend a service. (I've attended services at many different denominations, and am always so pleased to praise Christ with other fellow believers.) She went on to tell me that her friend, who is a parishioner at my parish, told her that very few if any Catholics really believe that our Sacrament is truly the Body and Blood of Christ, and that we, like many other Christians, simply believe it to be a symbol. I was floored. Confused. I felt my mouth go dry and tears well up in my eyes (luckily I was wearing sunglasses). I managed to explain to her that while that may be true of some, it certainly wasn't true for me and many of my dear friends. I am entirely convicted that the Sacrament that I seek out every Sunday (and any other day I can wrangle 4 kids to go to daily Mass) is indeed Jesus, and not a symbol. Now it was her turn to be shocked. She clearly believed that I was a rare case. I was so overwhelmed by this moment as an opportunity to witness, but something really struck me as odd about the situation.
As I walked away from this incredible conversation, I couldn't help but wonder what had really bothered me about this conversation. I felt so much grace that I could represent my faith with kindness and conviction, and that both of us left with promises of prayers for each other.I think I've figured out what bothered me. It wasn't the woman, who was very kind and open with me. I'm sure many people wonder whether Catholics truly believe in transubstantiation, and I'm sure there are many Catholics that struggle with this mystery of mercy, but it pains me that people would say that Catholics in general outright don't believe. It makes me wonder where the failure lies. Is it in our lack of formation? Or that we fear to speak up lest we be ridiculed? Or that we don't feel like we need to speak up as it isn't important? Whatever the reason, I understood in that moment more than ever why we need a new evangelisation. We need to learn again what our Faith means, what it means to us. We need to be challenged to unafraid to believe with our whole hearts and souls, even if what we believe seems foolish to others.
I reflected on the mystery of the Eucharist, and was left with a feeling of deeper conviction. If God could humble Himself enough to become incarnate in human flesh, why couldn't He choose to incarnate His flesh and blood again in the appearance of bread and wine? In Isaiah 53:2, the prophet describes Jesus: "He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him." (NIV) God didn't desire that we should seek Him out because He was beautiful, but rather that His Godliness should attract us. This same magnificent mystery draws me to the Eucharist. Again we see God before our very eyes if we are able to see beyond the outward appearance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)