On Wednesday at noon I went to mass. A lot has been happening that I am grateful for.
I thought I was a little late, but it looked like I was early.
I peeked in the chapel and came back to the vestibule, and saw Father Ko (please call me Michael) a missionary from South Korea, in the sacristy, and gave him a big hello and a so nice to see you, and he beamed. He is a very happy man, always, it seems. Father Joseph, from India, smiled too and was happy to see our buoyant greeting. It was just perfect, the priests and me and all this love.
While Father Ko and I caught up, Father Joseph looked at his watch, and out the open door at the gravel parking lot, my lone Subaru, the fringe of lawn, the hedge, the two cherry trees toward busy Main Street.
I was the only one there.
And I am not Catholic.
You don’t have to say mass just for me, I said. Especially since I can’t have communion.
I’m fine just sitting in the church for a minute. Really, it’s okay, I said.
I dipped my fingers in holy water, crossed myself, lit a candle for my parents and knelt in my usual spot in the middle and breathed in the quiet.
I heard rustles and whispers behind the scenes.
A few minutes later, in full regalia, white robes and stoles, they entered, silently bowed low at the altar in unison, and began. They prayed quickly and with accented English that sounded like wind in the aspen leaves by the library. A pleasant patter.
Without anyone else there, I wasn’t sure when to stand, sit or kneel, so I stood, just in case.
The gospel was the story of when John the Baptist is named by God, rather than his parents. Angel Gabriel had made John’s father Zachariah mute during the pregnancy because he didn’t trust the Archangel’s word that he and his very elderly wife could possibly have a child. At the naming ceremony, Elizabeth said their son will be called Zachariah, after his father, but the old man shook his head No, and handed her a note that said his name is John. The one God picked. Instantly his tongue was freed to speak.
I assumed that they would skip the talking, or homily, today.
Both priests usually read from a prepared text, which is in English and can pose challenges to deliver, as it is not their first language. I cannot imagine writing or speaking in Korean, Hindi or any of the 120 languages spoken in India, much less composing a thought from my heart.
Today, Father Michael took the podium and motioned me to sit. He chose to ditch the script. I’d never seen him so comfortable up there. He leaned on the side of it and looked right at me. He said that our names are given to us by custom, by our parents, nicknames from friends and siblings, chosen in baptism, confirmation, marriage, ordination– but our true name, the one God knows, the name imprinted on our souls, essentially who we are—our identity, is known only to God. The challenge is to find out who we are meant to be. He said he has been thinking a lot about this. I am guessing that Michael is not the name Father was born with, or the one his family calls him at home in Korea. Father isn’t either.
It was the shortest and one of the most effective sermons I’ve ever heard.
Thomas Merton wrote: “Is it possible you could live your whole life and die without ever having met the person that lived your life?”
I used to read that and worry. Now, I see it as a kind of hopeful challenge. These big questions aren’t meant to scare us any more than angels are. They are meant to help us make this life, our one and only, mean something good. I also know that the kindness and generosity of two priests nudged me to ponder this, and that matters too.
