By Randall Smith
I often feel annoyed and frustrated at Mass. Not with the Mass itself, mind you. When I became Catholic, I used to get quite irritated by the way Mass was celebrated. But some of those extravagances from years past seem to have diminished a bit. Or perhaps I’m just lucky to attend places today where it’s celebrated better. For the most part, I’m simply grateful to be able to go to Mass. Many people don’t have that privilege, or they risk their lives to attend.
No, what annoys and frustrates me is myself, because my mind wanders. That strikes me as strange and disturbing. Strange, because it is Christ himself who is present. Disturbing, because if I can’t manage to listen to God, who am I going to listen to then?
I mean: if Christ were present not under the appearances of bread and wine, but as he appeared to the disciples in the upper room after the crucifixion, would my mind wander then? Would I be thinking: “Wow, it’s Jesus, but what am I going to have for lunch?” or “These are words of life, but did I remember to send that email to my students?” Would I have to say: “What did you say, Lord? What was that? Sorry, my mind wandered”? That would be, at the very least, quite embarrassing.
The Scriptures are God’s own inspired words, and yet my mind wanders when I hear them. If God appeared to me in a vision and said to me, as he did to St. John the Apostle: “Listen and write this down!”, would I be half-listening and have to ask him to repeat it? Did St. John say: “Hold on, God, what was that? I lost the thread. I just remembered a funny joke Matthew used to tell”?
What does my mind wander to? Well, one day I was kneeling during the consecration and, as my mind wandered, I thought: “Maybe I should write an article about how my mind wanders at Mass.” That’s already perverse. I think the other day I heard something about staying awake and “watching.” But it’s fuzzy, because my mind went off to think about what I’m going to put in the program for next semester.
One thing (among many) that I admire about the Byzantine liturgy, and that we in the West should consider, is that before the Scripture readings the priest proclaims: “Wisdom! Let us attend!” I love that. It’s an excellent reminder.
Perhaps in the Western Church we need more of a “warm-up” before the readings—something that liturgically indicates: “Alright, everyone, take a deep breath, shake off the cobwebs, and get your brain in gear. This is the Word of God, so… pay attention!” Maybe that’s the purpose of preparatory seasons like Advent and Lent.
Likewise, it would be good if the homily helped us remember the readings. My wife has a point system for homilies, and the priest earns extra points if he mentions all the readings—tons of points if he mentions the psalm of the day in the homily, which, curiously, almost no one ever does. This is strange, because the psalms are always magnificent and are part of one of the most commented-on books in the entire Bible.
But for me, reverence at Mass consists in remembering that the Lord is here, and therefore, paying attention. This is important. This is the key to my entire life. Without this, I’m lost. Everything else is, to a large extent, secondary.
So, what can I say? It’s frustrating and annoying. Mass could be celebrated better; that might help. But a lesson from the Scriptures seems to be that, even if Jesus is up on a hillside, or in a boat, or walking among the crowd on the street, I should sharpen my ear and soul to listen. But I don’t.
Perhaps the problem is, as T. S. Eliot says, that “humankind cannot bear very much reality.” It’s true; there are days when it leaves me breathless to think that the God of all Creation cares enough to speak to us, and that feels almost excessive. Wait, he did what? God incarnate touched someone? Wept? Died on a Cross? Sometimes, it just blows all my circuits.
But as much as I’d like to say that the problem is always tied to some deep metaphysical awe, the truth is that I don’t listen very well to my neighbors either, and that certainly isn’t due to any metaphysical awe. It’s simply mental laziness and lack of concentration. I wish I could get my brain to “speak less and listen more,” and to “seek first to understand and then to be understood,” as they often advise. But my brain is notoriously uncooperative.
In his work The Journey of the Mind into God, St. Bonaventure wonders why not everyone recognizes at every moment that God is present in Creation. His answer is that our minds are drawn to other things. What we need, says Bonaventure, is humility. And he’s undoubtedly right.
So I suppose I should go to Mass and say a prayer, something like this:
Lord, here I am, waiting and praying that the Holy Spirit will pray in me and through me; hoping that my desire to please you pleases you; hoping that if, during the long parts of the Eucharistic Prayer, I start wondering if that Amazon package will be at the door when I get home, you won’t take it the wrong way. I just have a hard time turning off all the noise in my head. But I’m working on it. Even though my mind wanders, and even when I don’t pay careful attention to everything you’ve said, I hope you understand: you’re still Number One and the most important thing in my life.
And then I’m left trying to convince my wife of the same.
About the author
Randall B. Smith is a professor of Theology at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, Texas. His most recent book is From Here to Eternity: Reflections on Death, Immortality, and the Resurrection of the Body.