Catholicism in a Nutshell: Why We “Have” to Go to Mass
by Catherine Fata
Our God is loving, and forgiving, and certainly isn’t holding any sort of gun to my head as I lazily slap the snooze button on Sunday morning. My roommates are dead asleep. In fact, my entire building is probably asleep, with the exception of a few morning exercise fanatics and those who haven’t yet gone to bed.
But I digress. I consider myself a practicing Catholic, yet I have missed Mass. I missed Mass in third grade when I had the chicken pox, in sixth grade while on vacation with a friend, and most recently, this past Easter when I slept through the last service. My parents don’t exactly know about this last faux pas, but God does. And He forgave me. God and I are still close—even though I blew Him off for a late-night party with people I didn’t even know.
Now that I have identified myself as an imperfect creature, hard as that may be to accept, I shall attempt to explain exactly why I (almost always) go to Mass on Sunday—and it’s not guilt. I have never felt that Catholicism inspires guilt. I’ve felt remorse when I’ve done wrong, but not one iota of this so-called Catholic guilt.
Relationships take work. I have a relationship with God, not in quite the same way that I have a relationship with my mother, or my best friend, but it is not entirely different either. If I blow my friend off every time she calls, or don’t bother to show up if we’ve made plans, our relationship is bound to get a bit rocky. If I skip a party she’s throwing, I’m not doing my part as a friend.
To Catholics, Mass is a celebration. Just as people celebrate birthdays, the signing of the Declaration of Independence, or the intense relationship between a groundhog and its shadow, Catholics celebrate the Resurrection of our Savior, and the gift of our eternal life. As Christ’s Resurrection led to salvation, this event is slightly more important than Groundhog Day.
Dropping a card in the mail may be an appropriate way to commemorate the birthday or retirement of a relative, but that is probably not going to cut it with a good friend. Although I can pray anytime, Sunday morning Mass is a celebration. More than anything, it is a celebration that God wants me to attend. He also wants the old lady with the blue hair and leopard handbag, the single mother and her two children, gay couples, straight couples, tall people, short people, small people, all people, to attend. He has that in common with Dr. Seuss. God is an equal opportunity lover. He invites everyone to His celebration. But since He also gave us the gift of free will, He can’t make us go. But what could possibly be more important than spending time with your Creator?
God created the rain that nourishes the entire universe, and yet, He cares about a single tear that makes its way down my cheek. How can I reject that for a mind-numbing job or a cranky professor?
Mass is only one hour out of my week. God knows that I have a busy life; He created it for me. He only wants a little bit of time back, out of the twenty-four hours a day or the 168 hours in a week that He has given me. Do I always want to go? No, admittedly, I don’t. But there is a certain comfort in taking part in the rituals that make up a Mass.
When I go to church in the Village, I know that my parents are hearing the same Gospel in Indiana, my favorite aunt in California, and the Pope in Vatican City. God doesn’t expect anything superhuman of us when we attend Mass. All He wants is our attention for a little while. God inspires the rituals and the songs and the messages, but the Mass is a human creation. Does that make it imperfect? Of course. Is it still worth my time? Absolutely.
