I went to Mass

An immersive experience in ancient liturgy

On Saturday evening I attended Mass for one of the first times. And my goodness, what an experience it was!

As a child, I had gone once or twice (at very random events, such as when I traveled to Ireland for Christmas at the age of 13). But, last night was the first time I had gone to Mass intending to attend a Catholic Mass. It was also the first time I had ever paid attention or given it any creed.

I picked out a long white dress and slipped on sandals, running out the door with my cousin, her husband, and two kids (ages two and almost one). We were running very late, as any person who has young children knows is all too common. The babies babbled while my cousin K informed them we headed to “God’s house.”

We pulled into a large parking lot and a large brick building came into view. It looked like something out of a movie to me, like an abbey. Nerves flooded my stomach unsure of what to expect.

We entered through a door quietly, walking through a long corridor adjacent to the oratory. The hairs on my arm stood up straight. Goosebumps painted my skin. Melodic, piercing music, a single voice, filled the halls and reverberated down the corridor. Each note seemed to weave through the building, transporting me to a place outside of my time, one many ages ago. I found myself unsure of what I was walking into, yet all too enthralled to question anything.

We exited outside, finding ourselves in a small garden, before re-entering through the main entrance. The lights were dim and low. My cousin's dipped their fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross, something I had seen before though not for many years. There was a sense of ancientness to the gesture, one that wrung of martry’s of old making their faith known. I thought to follow suit but then paused. Is this sacrilegious? I scurried after them before I could contemplate it further.

Entering the oratory, my eyes widened. The ceilings towered overhead, large wooden pews filling the room. But, it was what was on the wall in front of me that held my gaze. An image of Jesus was painted with a heavenly glow surrounding Him. Beneath Him were ( I assume) Mary and Joseph, and beneath them, some sort of Biblical or Catholic figures I couldn’t place. And below them, a large marble stone hedge (?) held engravings of the twelve disciples. It struck me that while many Protestants find these images idolatrous, instead these images brought me to my knees. An enrapturing reminder of my smallness and God’s greatness and majesty. My gaze refused to break from the image of my King.

Inside of Saint Benedict Catholic Church- Richmond, VA. Image from Saint Benedict Catholic Church Facebook

My cousins walked quickly but paused to genuflect towards the front of the church, before taking their place at the pew. I felt like an imposter. I considered pausing to genuflect as well but had not the singlest idea how to do so. And, even if I did, again I was left with the nagging voice of my Protestant ancestry. My ancestors threatened to scream from the grave. I was holding one of my baby cousins and decided, hopefully, anyone who questioned this outsider’s presence would simply think I didn’t want to bend over with a baby in my arms.

Once we were settled, I couldn’t help but look around like a lost child. So many of my senses were being affected at once. I wasn’t sure what there was to do but simply stare in awe and take it in. The singer’s voice continued to cascade against my ears, and every once in a while the people would pause to read something from the Bible. I wanted to laugh. Many of the ‘Bible-believing’ churches I had attended read less of the Bible in service than this. There commenced a series of sitting and standing that at first I was confused by, and still slightly am, but that I believe was in relation to the priest’s sitting and standing in part.

Eventually, the priest came and spoke the homily. His long green attire made him look all the part and he carried himself with strong reverance. The homily was only heard in part over the noise of a three-year-old’s noisy questions and a baby’s gurgling. Still, I found the rhythmic pace of events strange but calming.

A series of very strange things happened then (that I will likely say out of order), including: three bells ringing, a piece of bread being held up, a glass of wine being held up, some other things I was a bit confused about, and then the tabernacle (?) being brought out. At some point during the procession, we kneeled, an art form all too lost in Protestantism, and people bowed their heads forward. All I knew was that this had something to do with the eucharist. The real present body and blood of Christ according to the Church. The most holy mystery.

I was shocked to find many faces around me strained, hands leaned against their foreheads as they lifted prayers to the Lord. After years of hearing how Catholics have submitted to a ‘yoke of religion,’ all I saw was clear beloved devotion around me. It struck me to my core, faith as clear as day.

Finally, we got to the eucharist. I had been most nervous for this. My mind had flitted to it with anticipation the entire evening. This was something I was both conflicted and confused about, yet deeply eager to see and behold. I knew as a Protestant I was asked not to partake and so when I got in line, I crossed my arms across my chest feeling strange and out of place.

My cousin whispered to bow my head and then go up to receive a blessing. So, I did my best reverent nod before coming up to a woman who gave a half-hearted smile (her eyes connecting with the cross necklace I wore) and said something along the lines of “the peace of Christ be with you.” I nodded quickly and whispered the most half-awkward, half-panicked, “thank you,” that has ever passed my lips, before scurrying after my cousin.

We got back and kneeled again. This time I took a moment to end my wide eyed observance and instead partake. Perhaps it was that we had gotten past the part I was most nervous about, or maybe it was that I had grown more acclimated to the environment. Whatever the case was, I closed my eyes and said a prayer to the Lord most high, knowing He was listening. A prayer marked by request for guidance and assurance but also undeniably in awe of all that stood around me. A legacy of faith that had spanned two millennium.

The Mass concluded with closing words from the priest that were strangely alike that of my normal Christian home. Words about church affairs and events. Words about being a light to the world and sharing the gospel. The latter happily suprised me.

I shook the same priest’s hand on my way out of the chapel. My cousin K quickly introduced me and mentioned I was starting RCIA soon. He smiled widely and told me that was a great decision and with an unusual shyness I thanked him softly.

When it was all said and done, we piled into the car and a sense of calm washed over me. I had done it. I had finally made the big leap and gone to Mass. And despite much confusion, my, had I enjoyed it.

Inside Saint Benedict Catholic Church- Richmond, VA. Image from Saint Benedict Catholic Church Facebook Page