The Beauty of Bobo Doll Disciples

I’m not a pious person. I don’t know if that’s good or bad; it just is. I’m just a regular guy and I’m okay with that. Even so, I still listen when the spirit gives me a nudge.

Thanks to a change in my schedule, I’ve been able to attend daily Mass more often. Daily Mass is a lot different from Sunday Mass. Shorter, simpler, more peaceful. There’s often a greater sense of worship. And, of course, fewer people. But daily Mass is even more different for me. I am a liturgical musician. For about half my life, I have played guitar at nearly every Mass I’ve attended. It’s my ministry. It’s what I am called to do. And sitting with the choir, in the midst of that “beautiful noise,” is the closest thing I’ll find to heaven on earth.

But playing in the choir has its disadvantages, too. Instead of participating with the congregation, I’m actually “working.” Getting sheet music ready, communicating with the director and other musicians when needed, and waiting for cues are some of the distractions that keep choir members from participating fully in the Mass. That’s why daily Mass can be especially meaningful for me.

A recent weekday morning Mass at my home parish of St. Joseph’s in Jacksonville, Florida, turned out to be a wonderfully intimate, communal experience. There was no formal music; someone in the congregation took it upon herself to announce song titles and lead the congregation from her seat in a pew. Fr. Bernie Ahern’s homily was off the cuff and insightful, almost like a discussion in a living room. And when he realized there were more people in the communion line than he could handle himself, he called out, “Hey Bob,” so a Eucharistic minister in the congregation could jump in and help out. The entire experience was simple, informal and beautiful, like a family gathering.

I noticed one other thing about our “family.” It was a product of my distinct lack of piety.

I’ve always been a people watcher. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it comes from the same gene that led me to the news business. Maybe it’s my desire to understand people. Or maybe I’m just a little off. Whatever the reason, I have this tendency to watch people in the communion line. I try to read faces. I try to understand what might be going through their minds as they are just seconds away from a beautiful and intimate encounter with God. Who might be scared? Who might be awestruck? Who might be filled with joy?

On this particular Friday, I noticed something else as communicants returned to their pews. As usual, most people seemed to be lost in their own universe of two – themselves and the Lord. But that transcendent look highlighted a quality I had never realized before.

A significant number of these beautiful, faithful people looked like they had been – for lack of a better term – beaten up by life. I could see deep creases in grizzled, life-worn faces. A few more stooped shoulders than you would expect. Eyes inset deeply, some with dark circles, even among some of the younger adults. More people walking stiffly, or limping, than I had noticed before. And, undoubtedly, many unseen scars of life people keep to themselves.

These were people who had survived what life had dished out but still sought the table of the Lord. They were like bobo dolls, those resilient blow-up balloon creatures that take all sorts of beatings and immediately pop back up. Nothing could keep them away from the Eucharist.

I realized I was no longer simply celebrating Mass with other parishioners. I was suddenly witnessing a group of sanctified people with a holy aura, people who would not, could not, be separated from their God. This regular guy who couldn’t be pious if he were boiled in a vat of the stuff was being blessed with a foreshadowing of heaven.

Minutes later, after Mass had ended, that saintly aura had mostly receded. To me, they once again looked like “regular” people, some lingering to chat, others pulling out car keys to begin the business of the day. They were just like you. Just like me. That was comforting. Because, logically, that would mean heaven was intended for regular people. Just like you. And, with a lot of forgiveness, just like me. And that’s pretty cool.