Morning mass is a beautiful thing- cleansing your soul and getting yourself ready for the day can be a great way to start off a non-Sunday. I would do it every day if I could, but we have to be at school before 8:00 a.m. and that just happens to be when mass starts. I'd do it and be late all the time, but I'm pretty sure I only have a certain number of excused tardies to my name and my math teacher would never forgive me if I always missed first period. And when Saturday rolls around, I'm too tired from the week to wake up at 7:30 to get ready. Vicious cycle? Yeah, I guess you can say that. All I know is that I'm glad God decided to put mass on Sunday because I'm a little more rested from Saturday when it comes time to get up.
Today, I agreed with my dad (who goes to mass every day) that we would go together if I was up in time. He said he wouldn't wake me, but he'd be glad to take me if Monday through Friday didn't come crashing down on me Saturday morning. But of course, it did, and I only missed it by a few minutes. I woke up and the clock read 7:55... So I'm stuck in my room, blogging at 8:30 on a Saturday morning, having missed mass by five minutes.
Now, you're probably asking if I logged on this morning to complain about the fact that I didn't get up as early as I wanted to, I'm not. The thing is: I made the bill last week. Last Saturday, my good ol' alarm clock read 7:20 when I woke up- just enough time to drag myself out of bed and possibly remember to change out of my pajamas to meet my dad downstairs.
Skipping forward to arriving at church, I realized the lack of servers after we walked in and of course, found myself suiting up with an alb from the server-christened, "tall person closet" and a purple rope, then making my way to the Eucharistic chapel to wait for Father Ted, a routine I had gotten myself used to over the past few summers but had since begun to slip my mind. So that left me, clueless on the pew, praying to the holy spirit for the second day in a row (this story takes place the day after my last post) that I wouldn't have to do anything having to do with pants or come down with a sudden case of hiccups. That and actually look like I remember what to do. I'll save you the suspense right here and tell you that nothing went wrong thanks to the help of our friendly neighborhood sacristan and Father Ted. I had a few little mistakes here and there, but for not doing this for seven months, well, I could have done worse.
Now you're wondering where I'm going with this- and I'm getting there. Speaking of some mistakes I made, the biggest was probably getting stranded on the altar: more of an unfortunate instance than a mistake, but a learning experience nonetheless.
So here goes: After they receive communion, one server goes up to the altar and puts the sacramentary and the little plastic stand for it back on the table beside the priest's chair, and since there was only one server, I won the honor by default. I followed the regular protocol, this is a step done in both Sunday and weekday mass, stepping up onto the altar after receiving the precious blood and placing the sacramentary back where it belongs. But the trouble started afterward: I had to get off the altar to go back to my pew and pray, but I couldn't- the line for the precious blood on the side of the altar closest to our pew was completely full. And that was a problem. On a regular Sunday, the line is patchy and there's always a space between the Eucharistic minister giving out the precious body and the end of the precious blood's line that we servers always cut through. But that time, the line extended almost into the precious body's line, leaving no little hole for me to squeeze through. And that brings us back to "being stranded on the altar". Of course, I could think of worse places to be stranded, but if I stayed there any longer, I'd call attention to myself or have to be rude and push through the poor, unsuspecting, prayerful precious blood recipients. So my last option was to balance on the tiny area between the priest's chair and the floor, about a eight-inch stretch of land that, if I sucked in my breath and tiptoed off of, would lead me to the promised land. So considering that, I accomplished what I set out to do, squeezing behind the Eucharistic minister and finally making it back to my pew to pray.
So the story's out. What now? The thing is, I really noticed how intent the blood recipients were on all its glory- heads bowed, hands folded, and eyes fixated on the ground in total humility. It was an inspiring sight, seeing these people so reverently focused on God's true presence that they didn't notice the very tall altar girl standing over them, frazzled as to how she planned to make her escape. I mean this in no disrespect to them, more so awe at the fact that they were so fixated on God. It was a good thing. And then another question presented itself: Why doesn't this ever happen on Sunday? I've served too many times to count during Sunday mass, and I've never been stuck on the altar, so why today? And I knew it: The people at daily mass were, as our parish music director calls them, Varsity Catholics. On busier Sundays when the line is longer, people's heads are up and they'll let us through, and I'm willing to bet that a few of their minds are wandering and thinking "okay, mass is almost over". These are the guys who leave right after communion, but I'll get into that on another day. My point is, we're called to keep Sunday holy, but a lot of people do it because they have to. You know it's the real deal is when you want to- morning mass is by no means obligatory, but there's those 50 or so faithful parishoners that show their faces every day and capitalize on their time there by bowing their heads in reverence and prayer.
3/13/11
Bad Hiccups, Baggy Jeans, and The True Duty of the Cross Bearer
Oh, lent. A time for fasting, sacrifice, prayer, and preparing your soul to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus on Easter Sunday, something that's coming a little late this year. So that leaves lent only to have started last Wednesday, and consequently, my family's first stations of the cross outing last Friday.
It's a tradition for us to tour the area, scanning for new and exciting fish fries and stations services, and of course, pay visits to our favorites from last year. That being said, we always start the road at our home parish's fish fry and stations, this time not only because of tradition, but because I got drafted to serve at the last minute.
This brought back echoes of last year, when I had to serve stations (carry the processional crucifix for 40 minutes) with a healing wrist injury. Of course, this definitely wasn't the most comfortable experience in my life, but I was able to push through and draw a blog post out of it to put on my mom's blog: http://catholicbakery.blogspot.com/. Although I was perfectly healthy, this year's station service brought a whole new front of challenges, the foremost being a severe case of hiccups. I tried to hold my breath, close my mouth, push the hiccups back, even my dad was in on the action, sneaking up behind me every six seconds and saying "boo", but nothing seemed to help. So there I was, clothed in white, sitting in the back room, waiting for Deacon Dan to show up and hiccuping all the while. I dreaded the moment I had to step out and carry that processional cross during a sad, solemn service recalling the passion of Christ, and having a hiccup escape every five seconds. Way to ruin the moment. So I did the last thing I knew to do: I prayed. I BEGGED. Just for that small window of time, God, get rid of my hiccups, so that I may better serve the stations.
And guess what?
It worked.
After about five minutes after my prayer, I realized that I hadn't hiccuped. Not once. And not a moment too soon, because right then, Deacon Dan swept into the room and led me out to the top of the aisle, cross in hand, where I was flanked by John the Usher and my Aunt Diane, who he had drafted to be the acolytes in the absence of more servers. When the music started and I led the small procession down the aisle, I felt confident, at peace, like nothing could go wrong due to my cured hiccups. So in that rendition of "what could possibly go wrong?" something just HAD TO. The first, say, five stations, I was fine, other than the weight of the crucifix held high over my head that started to pull on my arms. But as soon as Veronica wiped the face of Jesus, I felt my pants starting to fall down.
You have to know that I am not one for skinny jeans, or anything tight for that matter. So I like my pants a little looser, and the particular pair were too big on top of it.
So what was I to do? I could make do with holding the cross with one hand while I wiped a sweaty palm on my alb, but hiking up my pants in front of a congregation of at least five dozen? No way. First, there was the total impropriety of the situation, then there was the impropriety of pulling your pants up in public, THEN there was the impropriety of not holding the cross still in the first place! But what was even more improper was having your pants fall down in the middle of stations of the cross. I really didn't think prayer was going to help in this instance, what would God do about this? Send an angel from heaven to come pull up my pants?? But I sent up a little plea anyway, in hopes that they would at least stop at my knees if they did fall down.
But through my pantish plight, I tried my hardest to focus on why I was really here: to relive the passion of Christ and to reflect in prayer on what it really meant. What I was doing here really meant. I was the cross bearer. The priest didn't lead the procession in and out of the church, I did. The ushers didn't lead the bread and wine down the aisle for offertory, I did. So how in the world would one kid be placed in front of the man through whose hands comes the miracle of transubstantiation? Because it wasn't me, it was the cross.
When Jesus walked on the way to Calvary, he was looked on in shame by all of the bystanders and soldiers. They laughed, they spat, the coated him in dishonor as he walked those miles only to be brutally killed. But when he rose, people believed. The cross was no longer a symbol of death, but of life, and that's what it is today. It's a symbol of Christ's glorious resurrection and the ultimate price he paid for us to open the gates of heaven and give us eternal life. And it's not me, or any cross bearer, that's leading everyone down the aisle, it's the cross itself. So that makes us cross bearers the lucky ones that get to carry the symbol that has come to stand for our redemption.
It's a tradition for us to tour the area, scanning for new and exciting fish fries and stations services, and of course, pay visits to our favorites from last year. That being said, we always start the road at our home parish's fish fry and stations, this time not only because of tradition, but because I got drafted to serve at the last minute.
This brought back echoes of last year, when I had to serve stations (carry the processional crucifix for 40 minutes) with a healing wrist injury. Of course, this definitely wasn't the most comfortable experience in my life, but I was able to push through and draw a blog post out of it to put on my mom's blog: http://catholicbakery.blogspot.com/. Although I was perfectly healthy, this year's station service brought a whole new front of challenges, the foremost being a severe case of hiccups. I tried to hold my breath, close my mouth, push the hiccups back, even my dad was in on the action, sneaking up behind me every six seconds and saying "boo", but nothing seemed to help. So there I was, clothed in white, sitting in the back room, waiting for Deacon Dan to show up and hiccuping all the while. I dreaded the moment I had to step out and carry that processional cross during a sad, solemn service recalling the passion of Christ, and having a hiccup escape every five seconds. Way to ruin the moment. So I did the last thing I knew to do: I prayed. I BEGGED. Just for that small window of time, God, get rid of my hiccups, so that I may better serve the stations.
And guess what?
It worked.
After about five minutes after my prayer, I realized that I hadn't hiccuped. Not once. And not a moment too soon, because right then, Deacon Dan swept into the room and led me out to the top of the aisle, cross in hand, where I was flanked by John the Usher and my Aunt Diane, who he had drafted to be the acolytes in the absence of more servers. When the music started and I led the small procession down the aisle, I felt confident, at peace, like nothing could go wrong due to my cured hiccups. So in that rendition of "what could possibly go wrong?" something just HAD TO. The first, say, five stations, I was fine, other than the weight of the crucifix held high over my head that started to pull on my arms. But as soon as Veronica wiped the face of Jesus, I felt my pants starting to fall down.
You have to know that I am not one for skinny jeans, or anything tight for that matter. So I like my pants a little looser, and the particular pair were too big on top of it.
So what was I to do? I could make do with holding the cross with one hand while I wiped a sweaty palm on my alb, but hiking up my pants in front of a congregation of at least five dozen? No way. First, there was the total impropriety of the situation, then there was the impropriety of pulling your pants up in public, THEN there was the impropriety of not holding the cross still in the first place! But what was even more improper was having your pants fall down in the middle of stations of the cross. I really didn't think prayer was going to help in this instance, what would God do about this? Send an angel from heaven to come pull up my pants?? But I sent up a little plea anyway, in hopes that they would at least stop at my knees if they did fall down.
But through my pantish plight, I tried my hardest to focus on why I was really here: to relive the passion of Christ and to reflect in prayer on what it really meant. What I was doing here really meant. I was the cross bearer. The priest didn't lead the procession in and out of the church, I did. The ushers didn't lead the bread and wine down the aisle for offertory, I did. So how in the world would one kid be placed in front of the man through whose hands comes the miracle of transubstantiation? Because it wasn't me, it was the cross.
When Jesus walked on the way to Calvary, he was looked on in shame by all of the bystanders and soldiers. They laughed, they spat, the coated him in dishonor as he walked those miles only to be brutally killed. But when he rose, people believed. The cross was no longer a symbol of death, but of life, and that's what it is today. It's a symbol of Christ's glorious resurrection and the ultimate price he paid for us to open the gates of heaven and give us eternal life. And it's not me, or any cross bearer, that's leading everyone down the aisle, it's the cross itself. So that makes us cross bearers the lucky ones that get to carry the symbol that has come to stand for our redemption.
WELCOME!
A big hello to all of the church-goers of the world!
Are you here looking for fulfillment? Insight? TRUE ENLIGHTENMENT??
If you are, then you came to the wrong place.
I'm not here to give deep manifestos on the history of church teaching and the meaning of God's word, rather, the little lessons that I somehow come to know from my crazy experiences on the altar. I've been through lots of mess-ups, many mistakes, and too many calamities to count, most of which were my fault, but somehow, God finds a way to help me learn from my mistakes... and probably not do them too many times more.
Are you here looking for fulfillment? Insight? TRUE ENLIGHTENMENT??
If you are, then you came to the wrong place.
I'm not here to give deep manifestos on the history of church teaching and the meaning of God's word, rather, the little lessons that I somehow come to know from my crazy experiences on the altar. I've been through lots of mess-ups, many mistakes, and too many calamities to count, most of which were my fault, but somehow, God finds a way to help me learn from my mistakes... and probably not do them too many times more.
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