Attention Tension

The lector goes up to the ambo this morning and starts to announce the First Reading. It's Easter, so we're in the meat of the book of Acts of Apostles. I know my Gospels and the greatest hits of the Old Testament lectionary selections fairly well, but I'm not as strong with Acts and Paul. So I'm trying to key in a bit more.

Then the baby behind lets loose. Without turning my head, my attention immediately shifts. I hear the baby rustling through the worship aid, turning and tearing. I hear a parent reach to extract the rustling paper, and then the baby decides that's it. The screams and tears come next, and the parents live in that indecision for the first moments, trying to discern if this outbreak will merit the take-a-walk reaction.

Meanwhile, I have whiffed on the whole first reading. The tumult behind me had abated, but the reading was basically over. I got none of it.

Initially, I was kind of miffed. C'mon, man, I'm just trying to be good, get my fill of Word and Sacrament, get some renewal before an action-packed week ahead. And then the first foray into Scripture gets detoured by the calamity behind me.

Then I switched gears - stop making excuses, I thought. I got an excellent night's sleep, got to bed early, and slept in late. I had breakfast, made my shopping list, and got a parking spot in the lot. I was here on time in a good spot in the pews. I even kind of hoped for a quicker Mass - so I could get on with my lazy Sunday sentiment - and there was our dear Polish priest ready to get us in and out in under an hour (actually, 50 minutes today).

Plus, I deeply value our parish for the vitality our families bring to it. I appreciate that every week brings a healthy mix of young people, young couples, and families with young children. I hope that if and when my wife and I have kids that we can bring them to a parish with such quality family life. And frankly, I'd rather that a family be present with crying kids than have them stay home and not make the effort. At my heart, I'm patient and frankly enjoy the kids' screaming at Mass. So shut up, me!, I thought.

At my heart, I miss some of the ignorance I had toward Mass. I treasure my education and formation in theology and ministry, but all my classes, my years, in choir, and my professional life that has made into a liturgist have made it hard to simply be present at Mass. I kind of wish I could bracket off parts of my liturgical awareness that make me think about logistics and planning rather than staying more grounded in the spiritual practices of Mass.

Anywho, there's something funny about my instincts in sharing with others following Mass. Maybe some of you are similar. I find myself more likely to comment on the music selections, on some mistake or misstep by someone ministering at Mass, on someone we saw or something they did, or on the length of the Mass. Why not on the message of the homily? Why not on something I thought about or prayed about? Why not on something I noticed or felt during Mass?

I tried doing our parish's "Mass journal" idea to compile take-aways from Mass, but it didn't get me any momentum. There's some disconnect here that I have to reassemble. I think I can be more proactive in asking others about their Mass experience and trying to have even simple conversations about our take-aways.

Growing up, my brothers, dad, and I would often be waiting in our van in the church parking lot while my mom would be talking to people after Mass. Then she'd finally get in the car so that we could head to breakfast, and she'd be humming the tune to the closing song from Mass. Maybe those two habits would be a good place to start.