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Sermon
without Words
A single gesture can have more
impact than a verbal argument.
By Diogenes
Last week I was on the road again, and when Sunday morning arrived I found myself in a small city on the East Coast. I took a walk around the neighborhood near my hotel, passed a Catholic church, noticed that Mass would begin in a half-hour, and went inside to wait, figuring that a few extra minutes of prayer wouldn’t hurt me.
Viewed from the outside, the church was an unremarkable structure: a large stone building, more or less Gothic in style, probably dating from around the turn of the century. (No, no; I mean the previous turn of the century.) But the interior showed evidence that the parish had suffered badly during the Iconoclast Controversy of the 1970s.
The altar was a small, square butcher-block table, set on a broad platform. Along the side walls there were little niches where vases of flowers stood on pedestals that had obviously been designed for statues of the saints .The windows were of frosted glass, except for one (in the back, behind the choir loft) that preserved the beautiful original stained glass—which, I feel sure, was once in all the windows.
As I looked around the church, I detected some signs of recent change. The carpeting in the sanctuary was a tasteful deep, dark red, and conspicuously new. (I’ll give odds that it replaced an industrial-strength green model, laid during the 1970s renovation.) There were only a few statues, but they were beautiful; and they, too, looked new. And the gleaming golden tabernacle—set on the side, below the altar—was magnificent.
Since I had some spare time, I had picked up a copy of the parish bulletin. I now read it, sitting in my pew, and learned that the pastor had been appointed just six months earlier. “Aha!” I thought, congratulating myself for my powers of observation. Those new improvements were, no doubt, the first steps in his campaign to restore the beauty of this old church. Good for him!
Symbols and signs
By now the parishioners were beginning to
arrive. Dozens of them came through the side door where I was sitting, in front
of the tabernacle, and I noticed a strange pattern of behavior. Most of the
people would walk blithely past the tabernacle, ignoring the presence of our
Lord in the Blessed Sacrament. But when they reached the center aisle they would
bow—some would even genuflect—toward the altar.
To tell the truth, I’ve observed the same pattern of behavior frequently in other parish churches. Still it is strange. These people are paying their respects to a symbol of Christ, but ignoring his Real Presence. When they bow to the altar they show a certain good will: to desire to act with decorum and reverence. So if the same people march past the tabernacle without so much as a nod, it must be because no one has ever taught them that they genuflect—or, more important, why they should genuflect.
As these thoughts flowed through my mind, I noticed that a tall young man in a clerical collar was giving some last-minute pointers to a group of altar boys. He showed them how to walk in procession, where to stop in front of the sanctuary, and when to bow toward the altar. Then, finished with his instruction, this young cleric bustled off toward the sacristy—passing directly in front of the tabernacle, without a gesture. Once again I said to myself: “Aha!”
One powerful image
When Mass began, I confess that I was relieved to see that young priest (if he
was a priest; he might have been a deacon or seminarian) was not presiding. A
somewhat older man, short and pudgy, was presiding; the choir director
introduced him as the pastor.
Almost as if he had read my mind, the pastor preached on the Eucharist. It was a
very good homily—absolutely solid in terms of doctrine, if not particularly
inspiring in terms of delivery. I was slightly disappointed that he said nothing
about the tabernacle; but you can’t have everything.
But just a few minutes later, this priest delivered a subtle message that was much more powerful than his homily. After he finished distributing Communion, the priest handed the ciborium to the attending deacon, to be put back in the tabernacle. As the deacon did so, the priest stood where he was, at the side of the altar, facing attentively toward the tabernacle. I couldn’t help noticing that his attitude was that of a young man in love.
As soon as the Mass ended, and the recessional hymn was finished, a young father brought his two small children to kneel on the floor in front of the tabernacle. Then he was joined by another young family, and another. For the third time I thought: “Aha!” This parish will be just fine, thank you.
In about a year, I’m due to visit the same city, and I’ll make a point of attending Mass at the same parish. I’m willing to bet that I’ll find a few more lovely statues, and a more parishioners genuflecting as they pass before the tabernacle. Would anyone out there care for a wager?