- Feb 5, 2002
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A sleepy morning Mass reveals the extravagance of God’s mercy.
“My dear God, how stupid we people are until You give us something. Even in praying it is You who have to pray in us.” — Flannery O’Connor
As usual, I’m late to a 7 a.m. weekday Mass, and I sneak into the last pew for the Gospel. It’s the one about God knowing every sparrow and counting all our hairs. I figure he must know, then, that I intended to get to church on time. “The Gospel of the Lord. Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” I yawn.
After the homily, Father Andrew launches into the liturgy of the Eucharist, and I’m starting to perk up a bit. The Preface, the Sanctus, and we drop to our knees. During the Canon, I become conscious of an irritation in my left eye — no doubt some leftover sleep crusties had eluded my morning splash of water. Just as I begin to rub it away, Father Andrew leans forward at the altar: “Do this in memory of me.” He raises the consecrated host; the server rings the bell; there’s God himself hovering just ahead, inviting my worship.
“Oh, God, forgive me,” I pray, miserably. “What a mess — totally distracted, fiddling with my face, and there you are.”
Continued below.
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“My dear God, how stupid we people are until You give us something. Even in praying it is You who have to pray in us.” — Flannery O’Connor
As usual, I’m late to a 7 a.m. weekday Mass, and I sneak into the last pew for the Gospel. It’s the one about God knowing every sparrow and counting all our hairs. I figure he must know, then, that I intended to get to church on time. “The Gospel of the Lord. Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” I yawn.
After the homily, Father Andrew launches into the liturgy of the Eucharist, and I’m starting to perk up a bit. The Preface, the Sanctus, and we drop to our knees. During the Canon, I become conscious of an irritation in my left eye — no doubt some leftover sleep crusties had eluded my morning splash of water. Just as I begin to rub it away, Father Andrew leans forward at the altar: “Do this in memory of me.” He raises the consecrated host; the server rings the bell; there’s God himself hovering just ahead, inviting my worship.
“Oh, God, forgive me,” I pray, miserably. “What a mess — totally distracted, fiddling with my face, and there you are.”
Continued below.
How to Meet Christ With Tired Eyes and a Hungry Soul
A sleepy morning Mass reveals the extravagance of God’s mercy.
