Catholic-Mass
I went to Catholic Mass After Over a Decade
There is a large thorn crown above the alter paired with a lifelike crucifix against the wall behind it. In the corner is a statue and stained glass window of Mary. The mosaics of stained glass surrounding the pews are so cool. Small, still beautiful up close, but a spectacular fable unfolded from afar. Like a Monet in a sense.
There is this palpable energy here. So many people believing in something. So many kids who are just… here. Only physically. Their bottoms sat in pews while every other part of them is dancing in the light shining through the multicolored windows. Do they feel any guilt when their daydreams take over? For not staying focused? For not being better? Do they even care? Is it even something they think about during the other six days of the week? Or is it more like how young babies lack any object permanence? When something is not placed directly in front of them, it ceases to exist.
A child groans to his mother, “how much longer?” before the service has even begun. Catholics love to wait. That is what I remember most from my childhood: waiting. Waiting for service to start, to take communion, for service to finish, for my parents to be done talking, to leave. The experience was divided into palatable chapters for me to digest. And all at once, I find myself lost in thought over how I need to go to Trader Joe’s afterwards and I am also that young boy whining, “how much longer?” But my mom is not here, and I came of my own free will.
I imagine I’m Carrie Bradshaw, and this is research for my next column. I must not jump ship- at least not yet.
It turns out that even in Spanish mass, the priest will still do that half talk/half singing thing while reciting scripture. I’m overcome with guilt; for sitting, while others, genuine parishioners are left to stand. As if I’m visiting a zoo, leeching off of the pageantry of their culture. Would I still have waves of guilt and shame if I had not grown up in the church? That is the other thing Catholics love: to make you feel bad. I never felt good enough in this world. One day I had to give up trying if I wanted to retain any amount of critical thinking and individuality.
The little boy in my pew is having a tantrum now. Scribbling his crayola red marker with frightening and frustrated vigor. He’s calmed himself down now and draws a Venn diagram-looking figure with short, sharp strokes poking through each circle. I wonder what it is. I can feel the fire in his blood; he deserves to run for hours, I bet he would feel so free. Like a wild stallion.
Everyone standing seems restless, does anyone actually want to be here? Is anyone enjoying themselves? I guess Catholicism doesn’t make itself easy to enjoy, per the second thing that Catholics love.
I don’t feel any hate in this room, but I do sense an all-consuming disinterest. Perhaps that is the secret ingredient in the incense they burn; the fragrance of my childhood. At least this Sunday, this Palm Sunday, everyone has something to fiddle with while they fight their instinct to daydream.
