What I Love About the Mass (#1)

This is the first in a series of articles in which I will describe what I love about the Mass. While I begin with the Procession, the numbers assigned to the articles represent the order in which they are written. They are not intended to reflect a value assignment. What I love most about the Mass will always be cradling Christ in my hands and being in communion with Him and my brothers and sisters in Christ in a most intimate way through the Eucharist.

The Procession

I love the symbolism. From the very beginning I am drawn into the mystery by the image of the priest guiding the church toward the altar; a father escorting the Bride of Christ to the place where she will become one with the person she desires to be with not only for the rest of her life but for all eternity. Surrounded by family and friends it is a special celebration to be savored.

The largest Mass I have ever attended was a Catholic Youth Rally in the Verizon Center in Washington DC. It was a spectacle I will not soon forget. It was also the last year they didn’t ticket the March for Life event; more people showed up than could fit in the twenty-thousand seat stadium. Fortunately we found seats in the “nosebleed” section. It was a birds-eye view that gave me the feeling of flight.

If you’ve ever traveled with youth you know that one of the first things you must do is clothe them in the same brightly colored t-shirt. Looking out on the stadium, large sections were swathed in the colors of the rainbow, creating a living, breathing patchwork of people. Hundreds of groups from as far away as Wisconsin and Nebraska assembled into one beautiful body to celebrate the gift of life. Filled to capacity the place buzzed and hummed with more energy and enthusiasm than an athletic event. Scanning the scene was like watching a hummingbird in midflight. I was captivated.

Then came the procession.

You can imagine how many priests it takes to provide communion to tens of thousands of people.. Hundreds. It took more than five minutes just for them to process in, stopping first to kiss the altar. I wish I could remember the songs that accompanied them but the sight came at the expense of sound, as though my senses could only afford but so much beauty. A river of white streamed down the center aisle, slowly filling in the rows and rows of folding chairs on the floor in front of the altar. Gradually what was once dark became washed in white.

I don’t know that I have ever been more grateful for our priests, for the invaluable work they do for us at very real sacrifice to themselves. It is a father’s job. And this daughter is thrilled to be escorted by such wonderful role models. They are no more perfect, nor less loved and needed than our biological fathers.

Homework: