One of my earliest memories is Mass. I am no older than two. My Grandmother and Aunt and I sit near the back of a long nave, the muted cold grays and whites of the church in San Leandro amplifying the echo of the celebrant's voice. My attention, of course, is not focused on the organist, who begins to lead the congregation in a hymn. Aunt Norma beckons me to quietly sit down. Her pink and frilly dress contrasts sharply next to the dark wood of the pew.
Why should I sit?, I ask myself. I rush to the arm of the pew to get a better glimpse of the action. A guitar takes the place of the organ and a small group of people walk jubilantly down the long and wide center aisle. I am attracted to their bouncy gait, their smiles and, most of all, the baskets of food and drink in their arms. “Look!” I whisper loudly to my Grandmother, pulling her hand so she can see what I see. It is obvious to me what this is- food, music, families, a happy-looking man dressed in fancy clothes; we are at a party.
“Anthony, you have to sit down and stop talking,” hisses my aunt. My frustration is unutterable at that moment. Not only am I disallowed to join that procession of joyful people and revel in the food they're bringing, but I seem to be the only one who understands what kind of event we're at. I want to dance, to jump and enjoy. Grandma and Aunt Norma could not be more serious, could not be less fun.
This first memory of church didn't seem significant or interesting to me until fairly recently. Now I suspect it is a grace-filled gift that reveals the deepest and strongest portion of myself and, perhaps, of all people. This memory never left me, always coloring my view of church and religion in a specific way: confusing, mysterious, joyful, exciting, festive, frustrating. As a toddler, I was able to react genuinely to the liturgy constructed for me to attend with my family. The movement from speaking to music, from distant preaching to wordless participation, the simple presence of food- these things stoked excitement in me. Almost like an illness, I unconsciously caught the feeling of the Mass. As a two year-old, I had no concept of appropriate expression. I didn't know that my Aunt's gravity was her way of honoring the holy. All I knew then is that it stifled me and kept me from eating with the rest of the people.
It is obvious to even a two year-old that Mass is a celebration. But, how often do we find a spirit of celebration at our liturgies? In a world of noise, busyness, tasks and pain, silence is a respectful and healing response to the Holy. But it is the response of a wounded people, a people who find a humiliating chasm of sin when they approach God. Today, I find myself more comfortable in the silence of a chapel than in a noisy room. But, the two year-old Anthony wants nothing more than to turn the echoing silence into a feast, to dance and sing and jump and shout about how fun it all is. My experience of Christ, a God who becomes man to cross that chasm of sin, emboldens this desire. This desire is who I am, a creature made to rejoice and praise. It also reveals how much closer to my purpose I was 21 years ago. But, just as this memory never left me, neither has the deep sense of longing, restlessness, frustration, joy. And neither has it left anyone else, not completely.
