I had forgotten. I am not one of those, as is my wife, who look forward to going to church for Mass. Much of it is boring repetition, but there is a kick for me in the Catholic version that never once stopped, even when I was anti- Catholic. I have written of it many times before: the “kick” is in the moments before the Eucharist, and the moment right after. It is there when time seems to stop and something soothing and mysterious and inviting comes across the mind like a welcome breeze. Sometimes revelations come then and sometimes not, but it is always a special time. For me, it was probably this time that brought me back to the fold, hardened critic of culture that I am.
As I sat in church yesterday with mask at the ready and properly socially distanced, the memory of that special time came back. How could it have been lost to my memory in only two and one half months? We were not celebrating Mass that day, not yet, but praying the rosary with a man from Minnesota who was going back home to be closer to what remains of his family. He had moved to Wisconsin about ten years ago to take care of his brother who was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. His brother had recently died, and now it was time to move on. In the church, with the memory of that special time come back, all of it was natural. All was calm, part of the plan, so unlike the past several months have seemed to be.
We were not supposed to meet afterwards in the opening hall, but we did, masks discarded by most when it was realized that almost everyone was wearing them for others and not for themselves, even though the bulk of the people could be classified as seniors – some even senior seniors, like Barbara. If you have kept up with this blog over the past year, you might remember that Barbara was the 85-year-old who had gone with our group to Israel last year, and who had seen the faces in the Dead Sea scrolls. I could not at first, but then could, and very clearly, too. No one else could. It was an odd but not uncomfortable experience. As far as I’m concerned, bring the miracles on.
Anyway…It was she I talked to as we were leaving the church, lodged between the outer and inner glass doors. As we moved to go outside, I slid around to the outer door to open it for her, saying, “This door should work as a shield against Corona.” Said she, “Oh, you’re worried about my spit getting on you when I talk?” Said I, somewhat startled, “Why no, I was thinking of you.” I was – she is, after all, 85 or maybe now, 86.
“No,” she said, probably with a little shrug; “We have to understand that this thing will be with us for a long time. We have to get used to it and get back to our lives.” She paused. “Read psalm 91. Don’t forget that number: 91. It will help you understand.” I promised that I would remember, and in fact would have my wife look it up on her IPhone as soon as we got to the car.
Fat chance. I forget about it as soon as I pushed the starter button and did not remember it until an hour ago. I looked it up to find that, along with most others, I already knew much of it from the song “On Eagle’s Wings.” It is simply a statement that claims that as long as one cleaves to the Lord of the Jews – and now Christians – no tragedy can befall one. “…You shall not fear the terror of the night/ nor the arrow that flies by day;/ Not the pestilence that roams in the darkness/ nor the devastating plague at noon….”
Easier said than done, as usual, but spot-on. What we demonstrate by our current panic is both our lack of purpose and our lack of faith. In purpose, why else would we cling to strategies that are proven to not work, or are impossible to continue if we are to go back to work? What else is driving us to embrace such things besides a lack of spiritual purpose in our lives? And faith: the truly faithful fear nothing. Yes, I fear a whole hell of a lot, but my and other’s weaknesses are not the point. Rather, calmness in the face of challenge and danger should be encouraged through the idea of faith, rather than panic, for our lives are ultimately and irredeemably perishable. This moment in time, we should understand, is our opportunity to find our purpose and increase our faith, something scarcely thought of in happy or secure times. It is, like the sacrifice of Christ, a gift wrapped in suffering, as the greatest spiritual gifts often are.
Faith, yes, it came back a bit yesterday as if on eagles wings, as light as the caress of moving air. I remember it now, that touch that touches much more than our skin or even our senses. There is in it the mystery of faith that gives us courage that is distinctly not the courage of a warrior, so much NOT so that it does not seem like courage at all. It is, like Barbara’s faith, a courage that acknowledges our transience in the face of our eternal existence. This is what that “kick” is: an introduction to what is at the base of everything, forever and for always. It is intertwined with the power of St Peter, the rock on which the Church – meaning much more than the physical structure – is built. It is there not to bore us or scold us, but to remind us of what really is and what is only passing. I was forgetting, slowly drifting without the rock.
Psalm 92 adds: “Though the wicked flourish like grass/ and all evil doers thrive/ They are destined for eternal destruction; while you, O Lord, are the Most High forever….how just is the Lord, my Rock, in whom there is no wrong.” By which I do not mean that “we” are holier than thou, the chosen few, but rather that those who live by perishable things will come to believe that they are as perishable as those things. I thank the rock and the gentle breeze that flows from it and over it for reminding me of my – our - true and proper place in this world that is embraced by the spiritual, the foundation in us all that continues forever.
I had forgotten. I am not one of those, as is my wife, who look forward to going to church for Mass. Much of it is boring repetition, but there is a kick for me in the Catholic version that never once stopped, even when I was anti- Catholic. I have written of it many times before: the “kick” is in the moments before the Eucharist, and the moment right after. It is there when time seems to stop and something soothing and mysterious and inviting comes across the mind like a welcome breeze. Sometimes revelations come then and sometimes not, but it is always a special time. For me, it was probably this time that brought me back to the fold, hardened critic of culture that I am.
As I sat in church yesterday with mask at the ready and properly socially distanced, the memory of that special time came back. How could it have been lost to my memory in only two and one half months? We were not celebrating Mass that day, not yet, but praying the rosary with a man from Minnesota who was going back home to be closer to what remains of his family. He had moved to Wisconsin about ten years ago to take care of his brother who was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. His brother had recently died, and now it was time to move on. In the church, with the memory of that special time come back, all of it was natural. All was calm, part of the plan, so unlike the past several months have seemed to be.
We were not supposed to meet afterwards in the opening hall, but we did, masks discarded by most when it was realized that almost everyone was wearing them for others and not for themselves, even though the bulk of the people could be classified as seniors – some even senior seniors, like Barbara. If you have kept up with this blog over the past year, you might remember that Barbara was the 85-year-old who had gone with our group to Israel last year, and who had seen the faces in the Dead Sea scrolls. I could not at first, but then could, and very clearly, too. No one else could. It was an odd but not uncomfortable experience. As far as I’m concerned, bring the miracles on.
Anyway…It was she I talked to as we were leaving the church, lodged between the outer and inner glass doors. As we moved to go outside, I slid around to the outer door to open it for her, saying, “This door should work as a shield against Corona.” Said she, “Oh, you’re worried about my spit getting on you when I talk?” Said I, somewhat startled, “Why no, I was thinking of you.” I was – she is, after all, 85 or maybe now, 86.
“No,” she said, probably with a little shrug; “We have to understand that this thing will be with us for a long time. We have to get used to it and get back to our lives.” She paused. “Read psalm 91. Don’t forget that number: 91. It will help you understand.” I promised that I would remember, and in fact would have my wife look it up on her IPhone as soon as we got to the car.
Fat chance. I forget about it as soon as I pushed the starter button and did not remember it until an hour ago. I looked it up to find that, along with most others, I already knew much of it from the song “On Eagle’s Wings.” It is simply a statement that claims that as long as one cleaves to the Lord of the Jews – and now Christians – no tragedy can befall one. “…You shall not fear the terror of the night/ nor the arrow that flies by day;/ Not the pestilence that roams in the darkness/ nor the devastating plague at noon….”
Easier said than done, as usual, but spot-on. What we demonstrate by our current panic is both our lack of purpose and our lack of faith. In purpose, why else would we cling to strategies that are proven to not work, or are impossible to continue if we are to go back to work? What else is driving us to embrace such things besides a lack of spiritual purpose in our lives? And faith: the truly faithful fear nothing. Yes, I fear a whole hell of a lot, but my and other’s weaknesses are not the point. Rather, calmness in the face of challenge and danger should be encouraged through the idea of faith, rather than panic, for our lives are ultimately and irredeemably perishable. This moment in time, we should understand, is our opportunity to find our purpose and increase our faith, something scarcely thought of in happy or secure times. It is, like the sacrifice of Christ, a gift wrapped in suffering, as the greatest spiritual gifts often are.
Faith, yes, it came back a bit yesterday as if on eagles wings, as light as the caress of moving air. I remember it now, that touch that touches much more than our skin or even our senses. There is in it the mystery of faith that gives us courage that is distinctly not the courage of a warrior, so much NOT so that it does not seem like courage at all. It is, like Barbara’s faith, a courage that acknowledges our transience in the face of our eternal existence. This is what that “kick” is: an introduction to what is at the base of everything, forever and for always. It is intertwined with the power of St Peter, the rock on which the Church – meaning much more than the physical structure – is built. It is there not to bore us or scold us, but to remind us of what really is and what is only passing. I was forgetting, slowly drifting without the rock.
Psalm 92 adds: “Though the wicked flourish like grass/ and all evil doers thrive/ They are destined for eternal destruction; while you, O Lord, are the Most High forever….how just is the Lord, my Rock, in whom there is no wrong.” By which I do not mean that “we” are holier than thou, the chosen few, but rather that those who live by perishable things will come to believe that they are as perishable as those things. I thank the rock and the gentle breeze that flows from it and over it for reminding me of my – our - true and proper place in this world that is embraced by the spiritual, the foundation in us all that continues forever.
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