| Aug262008 | On Mass |
I attended mass on Sunday.
I’m not Catholic, if you’ve forgotten. I’m probably not enough of anything to claim membership of any religious movement. I’m spiritual but I shy away from organized groups of anything. In addition to religious groups, I also avoid groups based on sports, hobbies, politics, geographic localities and the vast majority of blog networks. Given the choice, I would opt-out and unsubscribe from my marketing demographics too.
But the point is I attended the 5:30pm mass at Seattle’s St. James Cathedral because my girlfriend planned to attend and I joined her out of curiosity. We were a little late getting there and walked in at the start of the second gospel reading.
First off, the inside of the cathedral is freakin’ gorgeous. As soon as I entered and breathed in the huge space, I realized I’d never really set foot inside a “cathedral” before. It’s always been the humble-but-cosy churches in the suburbs.
I can’t remember the last time I attended mass. Probably some time in the sixth grade. Maybe seventh. Back then, it was like spectating. Like when your best friends go to their sports training or their music lessons and you’re just looking in at them, observing their rituals. Sitting here now in the last pew of the church, I felt a much greater distance. A gap that had grown far wider than time alone could have forged.
There were so many foreign things that I felt. The way the priest would sing parts of the service where I had only ever heard it spoken. The immensity of the space and the profound acoustics did magical things to the union of voices. The fact that we had fold-down cushions to kneel on rather than the floor itself. The various rituals that I had long forgotten or never learned in the first place.
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