BOOK REVIEW - Bored Again Catholic: Journey to the Center of the Mass

Timothy O'Malley and I come from two very different generations. I'm a baby boomer grandma with a pastoral studies degree and 30 years practical experience in liturgy and catechesis, working in diocesan ministry. He's a millennial with a young family, a doctorate, and an academic directorship in addition to a teaching career at Notre Dame. However, he can certainly speak wisdom to someone my age... actually to people of any age.  

When I started reading his latest book, Bored Again Catholic: How the Mass Could Save Your Life, a little voice in my head kept telling me that Tim lives in a different reality than I do. Although he has much to say to young adults, especially to students in college (and campus ministers), who are his intended main audience, he acknowledges in his introduction that this book might  offer the rest of us, who struggle to convince young people to go to Mass "something that will revive your weary souls." OK, I thought. We'll see. 

For the first few chapters, I read through my teaching lens, thinking about the catechetical potential of the book and what I could recommend in it for others who minister in parish life with teens and young adults. Since I work primarily with directors of children's religious education, I was mentally including young adult parents of children in faith formation programs. I pretty much distanced myself from the book and honestly underestimated its effect on me personally. 

I will admit that from the first I was aware that going back and really exploring the questions and suggested practices at the end of each chapter could take me much deeper and that this book had great potential that would not yield itself up to a first quick reading, but I shelved those thoughts for later exploration.

Today, at the first Mass I participated in since reading the book, God had other ideas about how to upset my carefully cultivated distance from this book. It started at the "Gloria." Yes, I was the cantor - and of course it's Easter Time and I usually can lead this with joy, but today, the comparison from Chapter 6 of the "Gloria" to a "fight song" such as we sing for our favorite team at an athletic event hit me. I felt a burst of great energy and delight as I led the people in the singing. In fact, I felt renewed and refreshed.  

At the Gospel, which was today about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, I immediately recalled the reference to this same Gospel reading in Chapter 12 "The Homily", where Jesus' interchange with the two disciples is referred to as "the Gospel of Luke's most famous homily."  The goal of the homily, O'Malley says, "is not to report on the most recent findings in historical-critical scholarship. It is instead to show us the coherence of God's narrative of love."  That's a theme in this book: the love of God shown through the sacrifice of Jesus is at the heart of the Mass. I felt it as the Mass continued, and I as able to offer myself unreservedly, to join in the sacrifice more wholeheartedly than I had been of late. In short, this book affected me more than I initially thought it would. 

Bored Again Catholic is much more than an explanation of why one should not succumb to boredom at Mass. Instead, it is an extended meditation on the connection between liturgy and life, a virtual journey to the center of the Mass. It is at one and the same time revelation, information and an engaging tale of how one man has found ways to enter into "full, conscious and active participation" in the Mass and how to truly offer himself in sacrificial love (the theme of his previous book, Liturgy and the New Evangelization: Practicing the Art of Self-Giving Love. Tim may not be everyone, but he offers himself, exposed in his humanity, as a model, showing us how his inner journey with elements of the Mass can serve as an example. 

A significant treasure in this book is the author's personal witness to his own struggles and how he has let the graces of word and sacrament shape his interior life. He shows us how engaging faithfully in the repetition of listening, praying, responding, and offering one's life as part of the sacrifice of the Mass can bear fruit. Tim is not shy about sharing his and his wife's battle with infertility - or his joy in adoption, which, as he tells it, became possible because of the work he engaged in during the liturgy. Again, he models a faithful response to Christ's sacrifice of love and our work in re-echoing that in our own lives as we continue to grow spiritually through faithful openness to God's work in us.

And no, it's not all about struggle. Tim shares with us charming moments of family joy, silliness and triumph. The antics of his toddler son at home and at Mass are a welcome dose of little things from real life that echo the imperfections of human life and the mission of love on which the Mass sends us. 

His explanations of the meaning and structure of the Eucharistic Prayers and the Lord's Prayer are joyful catechesis at its best. It is clear he loves these words and wants others to do the same. Indeed, it is clear throughout the book that what O'Malley really offers is an invitation to a life in which the Mass has a primary role. This is the invitation we want young adults to receive and take to heart: that the Mass has the power to uplift and change them, to send them forth to be people of sacrificial love.  

There is plenty of additional treasure to be discovered in the questions and suggested practices at the ends of each chapter.  I would urge you to take  time with them, I plan to. In fact, this is a book to be savored and studied, marked up and revisited - by adults of any age. 

Good Friday: We Come to the Cross as We Are

Our Good Friday Passion Service ended about an hour ago. It was marked by solemn, beautiful silence and reverence. Not exactly a full house, but our English celebrations often aren't in my mostly Spanish-speaking parish. But the community gathered there to hear the Passion and venerate the Cross was just enough.  Everyone who was meant to be there was.

During the Veneration of the Cross, I watched as Father, one of our deacons-in-training and the two Eucharistic Ministers carefully raised the cross to a position where most of us could reach it, nearly upright. I came forward, gave the cross a bit of an embrace before I kissed it. Then I wound my way back to my seat.

As I looked up, I saw her. One of our parishioners has severe disabilities that keep her confined to a motorized wheelchair. She inched her way forward in the line, pulled her chair up next to the cross, but was still unable to reach it. As she started to struggle to her feet, our pastor and one of the ministers instantly, as if synchronized, reached out and supported her by the arms, pulling her up so she could kiss the wood of the cross. As she sat back down and shifted her chair to move away, I found myself in tears.

We each come as we are to the cross. When we do it as a community, when we help one another, it speaks of the wondrous love of God who came among us to suffer and die on that Cross. Tonight I have another Triduum snapshot to add to my memory scrapbook.

Paschal Mystery: How the Easter Triuduum Helps Us Walk With Grief

It's Holy Thursday morning, and once again, we stand at the brink of the celebration of the Easter mysteries. In fact, what we will experience from tonight through Easter day is the heart of what we pray at Mass every time: "The Mystery of Faith" - the very death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, which we call the Paschal Mystery.

Paschal Mystery symbol in Freising Cathedral, Bavaria

Meanwhile, real people are suffering their own versions of paschal mystery. In a conversation this morning on social media, a friend whose wife died of cancer a while back reminded me that he had learned his wife was losing her battle with the disease from a phone call while on his way to the celebration of Good Friday. I am conscious that another friend learned a few days ago that his wife's cancer has metastasized and is now inoperable. 

Almost eight years ago, I suffered a major loss when the man I had intended to marry died suddenly. Most of us, if we have lived long enough, are, like Jesus, men/women of sorrow, well-acquainted with grief. Grief and suffering are very real and inevitably a part of the human life in which Jesus came to earth to share with us.

This is where deeply surrendering to the experience of the Easter Triduum and walking through the Paschal Mystery can be restorative. If we are open and ready to accept the message that the love of God for us is so strong that Jesus, by his dying and rising changed human death forever, we can receive healing of those deep wounds that grief impresses on the heart.

As usual, what we pray in the liturgy throughout the church year, especially in the celebration of funerals, is what we believe.

In him the hope of blessed resurrection has dawned,
that those saddened by the certainty of dying,
might be consoled by the promise of immortality to come.
Indeed for your faithful, Lord,
life is changed not ended,
and, when this earthly dwelling turns to dust,
an eternal dwelling is made ready for them in heaven.
(Preface for Christian Death I)

For as one alone he accepted death,
so that we might all escape from dying;
as one man he chose to die,
so that in your sight we all might live for ever.
(Preface for Christian Death II)

Even more impressively, in Preface V, we have this:

For even though by our own fault we perish,
yet by your compassion and your grace,
when seized by death according to our sins,
we are redeemed through Christ's great victory,
and with him called back into life.

We don't even have to go to a funeral or memorial Mass to hear this reassurance of eternal life. It is, of course, embedded in the prayers of every Mass. However, at the Masses of Easter we will hear it reemphasized:

For he is the true Lamb
who has taken away the sins of the world;
by dying he has destroyed our death,
and by rising, restored our life. (Preface I of Easter)

Through him the children of light rise to eternal life
and the halls of the heavenly Kingdom
are thrown open to the faithful;
for his Death is our ransom from death,
and in his rising the life of all has risen.  (Preface II of Easter)

What is the message? HOPE. In the midst of the suffering of this world, we have the promise that this earthly life is not all there is. Hearing this message over and over again, for all the years necessary until we each are ready to let go of tears for our beloved dead and can instead manage to see their faces as "the children of light" and feel their presence around the altar at every Mass - this is the power of the Eucharist to heal the effects of grief. 

Each person heals from a great loss at his/her own rate. I cannot pretend that grief ever really goes away. Anyone who has walked its dark corridors will tell you it's a myth that time heals it all. Grief always lurks behind that closed door of the heart, waiting to ambush us when we are "triggered" into remembering, as Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote so perceptively:

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

For me, preparing to enter the great mystery of the Three Days is a reflective time for emptying myself and reaffirming that the reason we can find joy in celebrating these intense days of walking with Jesus Christ through suffering and death is that he has indeed risen from the dead and offered our deceased loved ones - and us - the gateway to eternal life with God. 

When the words of the Easter Proclamation (Exsultet) ring out in the darkness at the beginning of the Easter Vigil, I will be there trembling with barely suppressed joy because I truly believe that  "This is the night, when Christ broke the prison-bars of death and rose victorious from the underworld."  Because of what Jesus did, death can no longer conquer us. It is not the end. Our loved ones are alive in him.

As Christians, we must each, whenever we are ready, climb out of our personal despair from grief at the death of those we love. We can, through faith, join them around God's altar when the earthly liturgy meets the heavenly liturgy at every celebration of the Mass, knowing that someday, we too will be rejoicing around God's throne, united with them in him, for all eternity. 

Today, I pray for all who grieve and for all those facing the certainty of the death of those they love, that they may receive the gift of faith that I have been granted, and through the power of the liturgies of the Three Days, come to know the truth that for their beloved ones, that "life is changed, not ended."

Easter Triduum: Opening the Mystery

The following is something I wrote that has just been published in our diocesan magazine, Christ is Our Hope.

In 1987, I experienced my first Easter Vigil when I came into Full Communion with the Catholic Church. My main memories are of my family being there, of the large brass image of a descending dove on the canopy above the altar, of receiving communion for the first time. Thirty Easter Vigils later, I must say, that “night of all nights” never gets old for me. Each year I experience anticipation, excitement, and joy in a different way. It’s been like Forrest Gump’s famous box of chocolates. You never know just what you’re going to get!

As I have experienced the Easter Triduum (the “Three Days”) in the years since, as a music minister, liturgist and catechist, I have come to love the Vigil on Holy Saturday night as the climax of those special days. I’d like to share some of my own spirituality, impressions and experiences, hoping to invite others to a deeper celebration of the Easter mysteries.

Each Holy Thursday I take the day off from work to prepare, sometimes helping at my parish to set up the Altar of Repose for the evening liturgy.  I run any personal errands that would have occupied my weekend and quiet myself in anticipation. If I am to serve as a cantor, I rehearse my music. As evening approaches, I begin to consciously observe the Triduum fast – turning off the TV to better focus myself. I arrive at church early, and as the Mass of the Lord’s Supper begins, I slip into a familiar groove – a mix of excitement and contentment. I feel “at home” in the celebration.

Over the years, I have had Holy Thursday “moments.” Watching the holy oils, blessed by the bishop at the Chrism Mass, be presented for use in the parish. The time I had my feet washed.  The beauty and joy of watching others wash and be washed, in the image of Jesus and his disciples. The singing of songs with texts that speak of the love of Christ and our love for one another. But always, the final, beautiful solemn procession honoring the Eucharist, accompanied by the ancient chant “Tantum ergo.”  The silent departure, without formal dismissal, always seems to say we are not yet finished – we must come back because there’s more. For those who choose to stay, the silence and candle-lit beauty of the Eucharistic vigil is a true invitation into Jesus’ Passion. 

Good Friday should be for all of us, a quiet day of fasting and penance. (I find it truly sad that some people must work these days.) The reading of the Passion is, for me, always an emotional experience – because it is hard not to visualize Jesus’ betrayal and suffering. The long, formal intercessions and the starkness of a simple Communion service instead of a Mass remind us that this day is different from all others. Christ has died. The rest is yet to come.

In the years when I had a garden, I used to spend the afternoon after the Good Friday liturgy hand-tilling the soil with a spade for new planting. The achingly hard work and silence were a way for me to be in solidarity with Christ’s suffering. These days, since I now live in an apartment, I simply go home and fast from the television and internet – which for me, is true sacrifice!

Holy Saturday morning is a special time: Jesus is still in the tomb and all Creation holds its breath. If we are keeping the Triduum fast, focusing more on “being” in the Three Days, this is the time to begin preparation for Easter. At home, this might be cooking and cleaning, perhaps going to church for the blessing of the Easter foods.  In churches all over the world, this is when many helpers prepare the worship space and catechumens and candidates who will be initiated are in final retreat and rehearsal for the night’s liturgy. Flowers are arranged, altars are dressed, the people’s candles and the new paschal candle are prepared.  When all is ready, all go home to await the setting of the sun.

As darkness falls, it gets exciting. At St. John’s, we gather in a circle around a large outdoor bonfire in the middle of the courtyard, to bless the new paschal candle. One year, as our pastor recited the words “Christ, the Alpha and Omega…” as he pressed the incense nails into the candle, I saw something astonishing. Across the circle from me, her wrinkled face lit by firelight, was an elderly Hispanic woman, with tears streaming down her cheeks.  I found myself overwhelmed and grateful for her simple, open emotion.

The procession into the church with the candle, the lighting of the people’s candles from its flame, and the chanting of the Exsultet – the great song of praise to the candle, the light of the Risen Christ and the proclamation of the Resurrection, when we are invited to rejoice with all the powers of heaven – is the most beautiful moment of the year:

This is the night,
when once you led our forebears, Israel's children,
from slavery in Egypt
and made them pass dry-shod through the Red Sea.

This is the night
that with a pillar of fire
banished the darkness of sin.

This is the night
that even now, throughout the world,
sets Christian believers apart from worldly vices
and from the gloom of sin,
leading them to grace
and joining them to his holy ones.

This is the night,
when Christ broke the prison-bars of death
and rose victorious from the underworld.

               (The Exsultet, from the Roman Missal)

As we sit down and extinguish our candles,  we listen to the readings of the Vigil, the story of our salvation, from Creation to the coming of Christ. We sing once again the “Glory to God,” silenced since the beginning of Lent, then, we hear from St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans that the Resurrection of Christ makes all the difference. The triumphant return of the “Alleluia” and the Gospel proclamation of the Resurrection lift us into the presence of the living Christ.

How fitting it is, that after the homily, those coming into the Church through baptism and Confirmation are initiated, joining us for the first time at the table of the Lord. I have had the privilege of preparing some of these RCIA candidates over the years, and it is always an occasion for joy. 

One of my favorite memories is of Jose, who approached the font with the casual expression of a typical young man, but who emerged from the baptismal waters with a beautiful smile and an obvious quiet joy that made me want to shout: “IT’S IN THERE!” He had met Christ in the water of new life.

After the baptisms, the entire assembly renews its baptismal promises, ending with “This is our faith. We are proud to profess it in Christ Jesus.” Renewed as a people and ready to resume our places in the Body of Christ, refreshed in the light of his Resurrection, we prepare and partake of communion, as at any regular Sunday Mass. Everything is now familiar, but I am convinced we cannot be the same as we were before the Three Days. If we have fully surrendered to the experience, we have truly walked with Christ.  

Wednesday of Holy Week: Standing on Tiptoe

It's a sunny afternoon as I write this. By this time tomorrow, I will be in final preparation for the start of Easter Triduum. In the background, I'm listening to the CD of music for Triduum prepared by our parish music director. It's bilingual music, often rhythmic and heartfelt, other times lyrical and sometimes almost sensuous, like this version of Psalm 51

One gift of being in a parish where the majority of my fellow members are Hispanic is that the music and style of worship often really speaks more directly to that part of my heart where the joy lives, rather than first to the head. It's the gift of a simple, less complicated faith, which is what speaks to me most clearly right now. I need to shed the layers of formality and go directly to the joy.

So it is, that I stand on tiptoe this Wednesday afternoon, leaning forward in joyous anticipation of the mysteries of the Easter Triduum.

Macrina Wiederkehr captures my feelings this afternoon perfectly in this delightful poem:

"Standing on Tiptoe"
On tiptoe we stand, Lord Jesus
eagerly awaiting
your full revelation
always expecting you
to come some more.

Our hands and hearts
are open to your grace.
Our lives are still waiting for
the fullness of your presence.
We are those who have been promised
a Kingdom, and we can never forget
Yet we have a foot in both worlds
and we stumble.

But still we stand
on tiptoe
owning our kingdom-loving hearts
and our earth-eyes
We lean forward
and hope.