I missed Mass yesterday morning. My two youngest children, ages 1 and 3, were hit by a nasty stomach bug, and it would seem that nobody cleans up puking boys quite as well as mom does.
As my husband slipped out the front door for Mass with the 4 eldest children, I was cuddled under the covers on my bed with two fitfully sleeping sickies. They snoozed while I watched a televised Mass. I'm grateful that it exists, but the pain of not actually being there was real. The priest elevated the Host at the Consecration and my heart clenched. There He was, and I felt so far away.
When my great-grandparents arrived in what was then the frontier, they had no idea when they would again be able to sit in the physical presence of Christ. The only priest they saw was a traveling priest. They were lucky if they saw him once every 3 months. ( I can't even imagine Mass only 4 times a year.) This was a part of the reason priests were held in such esteem and the vocation was so respected. Father would arrive in town and bring the Miracle of the Mass with him.
Perhaps we have lost something with our rapid transportation, ease of finding a Church, and our ability to take our Faith for granted. It is so easy for us to find Him that we no longer go looking. We never have to feel the ache of absence for more than a day or two, and our ease of access has bred complacency.
The constant noise from the media drowns out the sound our of souls crying out for Him. The busyness of life gives us no time for reflection. Our poor catechesis hasn't taught us that there is anything for which we should yearn. We are a people too spoiled, too busy, too distracted to see the wonder of the miracle which is before us every Sunday. How unfortunate we are in our good fortune.
It is only in the moments of forced silence and forced absence that I notice my hunger for my Lord. It saddens me that this is true, but it is. I spent all yesterday listening to the crying out of my soul. When was the last time you listened to yours?
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