Yesterday I missed mass at the Parish I regularly attend so I drove 20 minute to the south and attended an 11:oo Mass at a small white country church. Every time I enter it I am magically transported to a time and era when our country was young and churches were the heart of a community. The church is surrounded by a few homes, a small cemetery and an abandoned general store on a long straight away of the main county highway. I half expect to watch a girl in a floral dress with braids hanging down run across the aisle as her mother yells “Laura slow down” reminiscent of some scene from Little House On the Prairie. The Church is humble in its size and structure, a small wooden altar and unadorned pews. There are no grand statues of stone anywhere to be found. The aged building heaves and creaks when you walk upon the floor. Instead of an organ or a piano the music comes from a single violin, whose clear and solid tones resonate from the balcony above, floating forward towards the altar like a soft and gentle summer breeze. The message was clear and simple, “Life is What You Make It.” The priest emphasized that God can’t do everything so it’s up to us. Can God make a rock so heavy that he can not move it? Can God make a four-sided triangle? Can God give people free will and then not allow them to use it? Bad things happen and they are not always caused by the choice of God.
The message rang out all more powerfully as it was delivered in the modest and ascetic surroundings. The predominantly elderly congregation stood and kneeled, sat and sang at the required moments instinctively. I admired their devotion to a faith that seemed so pure. The procession of the mass was no different from the mass I attended in a large city with a grand cathedral, made of dark red stone. The cathedral was breath-taking in its magnitude, with two massive bell towers and arched ceilings that piqued towards the heavens, each station of the cross contained life-sized chiseled statues depicting each profound moment so important to our faith. The altar was large and ornate shining of gold and the preaching podium was only reached by climbing a small spiral case of stairs. The floor was marble and the choir of a dozen people were robed in white while their voices echoed through the vast open space. The power and wealth of the Catholic church is epitomized within that Cathedral. Yet, unadulterated by the glory of its surroundings, the power of the Mass resonated within me in the same way that the voices of the choir reverberated throughout the cathedral.
So, I am reminded that God doesn’t care where we pray. He simply cares that we do. The prayers of the devout congregation, in its poverty stricken surroundings are just as purposeful as those from the congregation in the affluent Cathedral. Attending mass is about sharing our faith together, remembering we are never alone. It is about joining ourselves with others and raising our voices in unison in the same manner that Christ and his Apostles did millenniums ago. We gather together out of discipline and practice, showing our devotion to our faith. It does not matter whether this practice occurs in a grand cathedral whose magnitude and beauty epitomizes the might of God or whether it occurs in a pious country church with a small hand carved wooden altar. While the sound of the music emanating from that single violin may be different from the sound of the massive organ, the notes remain the same.
As I ponder this I look around my home and see the possessions I have collected through the course of life. I look at the bowls of pottery, the stone fire-place, the large and comfortable couch and wonder whether I need them at all? Not a single one has brought me happiness. My morning coffee tastes the same from the mug purchased from Wal-Mart as it does in the hand forged cup I bought from an elegant boutique. The mug does not change the coffee, it simply contains it. I sit and wonder, why do I need these things? Can I live with out them, should I “de-clutter” my life? For so long I believed I’d find happiness through the comfort of the material things that surround me, but yet its never come from them. I think of those decorative signs that remind us to “live simply” and I reflect upon the contrast of the country Church and the Cathedral. One simple and one complex, one grand with possessions and one modest and ascetic, yet congregants kneel for the same prayers, and follow the same traditions of the Church that have withstood the test of time. I recognize that simplicity, like complexity won’t bring me happiness either. Perhaps instead of trying to figure how to live I should simply do it. Instead of living “simply” I should aspire to “simply live.” To embrace all that life has to offer, its beauty and its ugliness, its blessings and its pains…just simply live life to the fullest.
leighcannon 