I stumbled into Ash Wednesday Mass yesterday frazzled from studying and rushing into the building after fighting the traffic to get in. The church was filled, people lined up against the wall, and the latecomers packed the lobby. I squeezed myself into the main sanctuary so I could get a glimpse of what was going on. I found the last pew and bashfully gestered to those sitting there so I could squeeze in. I've been to a mass before and I knew I better grab a seat.
I found myself sitting between an old woman with a walking cane and a young teenage girl who was mentally and physically challenged and blind in one eye. I also found myself mumbling nonsense under my breath when everyone else knew how to respond with a "Praise Be To God" or "And To You", or having delayed reactions to lifting of hands or kneeling. I tried to blend in as best as possible, but I felt a thousand pairs of eyes staring at me. I felt like a foreigner and so deathly out of place.
The priest spoke on the season of Lent and how we can get wrapped up in what to give up in this season. What should our alms be? How about chocolate? Or smoking? I felt convicted as I too was consumed in my thoughts this week of what I needed to give up to make this a true Lent season of misery and torchure. But, he spoke about the Lenten season as a time to be healed of our brokeness and where we can find true wholeness in God. I sat there overwhelmed with emotion.
I looked around me. The room was filled with men and women, young and old, newborns and grandparents, those who were broken on the outside and those broken on the inside. I looked again at the old woman with her walking cane to my left and the blind and handicapped girl on my right. I felt at home between the two.
We all were there seeking after the healing and wholeness for our bodies and our spirits for this season of Lent. We were all hoping that maybe this Lenten season a miracle of the body and spirit will happen. We stood up for the last prayer before the communion was handed out. Hands were raised and the young girl took hold of my hand. At that moment, I was reminded that Jesus came for the hurting, the broken, the destitute, the lonely, the outcast and marginalized.
He came for me.
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2 comments:
Powerful, and beautifully written. Thanks for sharing that.
I didn't make it to a service. I did try to look one up, but didn't find one that was A) at a time I could make it, B) in a language I speak, but not C) prohibitively far away.
C) is the state of my heart probably shows up most, isn't it?
::sigh:: Oh well. Two down, 38 to go.
At least you tried to look up a service Andrew, I didn't even have that good intention.
This teaching season is consuming large chunks of my life. I need to release some things and remember the grace of God. I feel like I'm spending too much time at a keyboard or with a red pen, grading papers.
In addition to TV, Maybe I need to lent feeling guilty too.
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