I haven't been to church in person in a long while. There have been a few funerals, and I did brave one visit on Ash Wednesday, but outside of that I have been streaming from a safe distance. I decided it was time, so off I went in person to Saint Cecilia's Church in Boston with Himself and I was overwhelmed.
This is the Mass I've been watching on line for the past two and a half years, and the pastor is an amazing man, so when someone else came onto the altar I was disappointed at first. Then it was announced that the pastor had had a sudden death in his family the night before, which was certainly a good reason to not be there. The homily was wonderful, and Father Peter was just what I needed to hear today. But before Mass began, a street person, with a knit hat and a shaggy white beard, and all his belongings in a backpack, stopped and decided to join us in our row. I was less than thrilled. I was afraid he would smell, (he didn't) and then I felt guilty for the thought. Jesus was expecting better of me, I'm sure.
During the homily he started rustling something with cellophane, and I was not outraged, but distracted and a little annoyed. About three minutes later my husband was poking me. The gentleman in question had unwrapped one long-stem red rose and passed it to my husband to give to me. I motioned "For me?" in confusion, and he nodded, so I nodded back in thanks. He stood up, went past us and I whispered my thanks again as he headed to the back of the church. Then I began to think.
Saint Therese of Lisieux has never been one of my favorites. She died at the age of twenty-four of tuberculosis, but not before she complained about all she had to put up with from her fellow nuns in the convent. This one fell asleep during prayer or that one snored, and another chewed with her mouth open. Whatever. I got the distinct impression, saint or not, I would not have wanted her as a roommate. She is often known as "The Little Flower" and her signature flower is the rose. I'm told she makes them pop up in the strangest places. I wondered if she was in the building. I was feeling challenged in all my not so deeply hidden prejudices.
Being there in person "cracked me open" in ways I wasn't expecting. The welcome, the people, but most of all the power of being in the Presence was heavy stuff. There's been a lot I've been missing while dealing with the remnants of the pandemic. So I'll be back again (still wearing my mask, of course) and trying to be more open to new thoughts and feelings and the odd rose that comes my way. Life is full of surprises.
This is the Mass I've been watching on line for the past two and a half years, and the pastor is an amazing man, so when someone else came onto the altar I was disappointed at first. Then it was announced that the pastor had had a sudden death in his family the night before, which was certainly a good reason to not be there. The homily was wonderful, and Father Peter was just what I needed to hear today. But before Mass began, a street person, with a knit hat and a shaggy white beard, and all his belongings in a backpack, stopped and decided to join us in our row. I was less than thrilled. I was afraid he would smell, (he didn't) and then I felt guilty for the thought. Jesus was expecting better of me, I'm sure.
During the homily he started rustling something with cellophane, and I was not outraged, but distracted and a little annoyed. About three minutes later my husband was poking me. The gentleman in question had unwrapped one long-stem red rose and passed it to my husband to give to me. I motioned "For me?" in confusion, and he nodded, so I nodded back in thanks. He stood up, went past us and I whispered my thanks again as he headed to the back of the church. Then I began to think.
Saint Therese of Lisieux has never been one of my favorites. She died at the age of twenty-four of tuberculosis, but not before she complained about all she had to put up with from her fellow nuns in the convent. This one fell asleep during prayer or that one snored, and another chewed with her mouth open. Whatever. I got the distinct impression, saint or not, I would not have wanted her as a roommate. She is often known as "The Little Flower" and her signature flower is the rose. I'm told she makes them pop up in the strangest places. I wondered if she was in the building. I was feeling challenged in all my not so deeply hidden prejudices.
Being there in person "cracked me open" in ways I wasn't expecting. The welcome, the people, but most of all the power of being in the Presence was heavy stuff. There's been a lot I've been missing while dealing with the remnants of the pandemic. So I'll be back again (still wearing my mask, of course) and trying to be more open to new thoughts and feelings and the odd rose that comes my way. Life is full of surprises.
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