How Much Less to Dwell in Me

Yesterday in our Diocese, the faithful were invited to receive Communion for the first time since St. Patrick's Day, when the last Mass took place and churches were closed in accordance with Government guidelines to prevent the spread of Covid 19.  I was surprised by the mix of emotions I had as we received Him in this unusual way.


In general I have been finding that this first relaxation of limits somehow makes living these days more painful than when we couldn't do anything.  With my family for example, being able to have only one bubble (one family that you see exclusively, and must be a mutual choice between the two of you), reminds me of all the others I long to be with but can't. There is so much consolation in spending time with our loved ones who are in our bubble without having to social distance and still, simultaneously, the sorrow that there are many others we'd like to be with in this way but can. It help us to appreciate so much more the time with those in our bubble, and look forward to the day when life and relationships can call resume their normal course with a deep longing.

This is how I felt coming to the Eucharist yesterday.  Our Cathedral offered a livestreamed Mass, and then invited parishioners to come to the Cathedral where clergy would distribute Communion, and so we took part in this.  It was striking to arrive at the Cathedral and see all the vehicles lined up.  Volunteers were ready to receive each vehicle and give instructions for how to receive (a limited number of parishioners were let into the church at a time, with masks, to receive Communion, and we all parked and waited to be instructed to go in).  And while I thought I would only come with joy at being able to once again receive the Lord with my whole family, there was also a pang of sorrow.  I was reminded how this gesture is simultaneously beautiful, but also, not normal.  It created an even deeper longing to be back in our churches, with our entire community, and to receive without all these barriers.  Don't get me wrong, I'm so SO grateful that we are even able to receive at all (it feels like a miracle, when all around us places are not even close to this).  But still, there is a longing.

My daughter is preparing for her First Communion, and this morning in her lessons she was learning about how God, who is so big, makes Himself so small to come to us. And again I had this image of yesterday.  Of Him coming to us in the form of a piece of bread so small that it can be put into our hands.  Penetrating every barrier that is still in place to come to us in whichever way He possibly can.  How many times have I come to the Eucharist and never truly contemplated this?  In a very real way, through our shared suffering and inconvenience, Christ penetrates every habit and mindless act of our hearts and turns everything on its head.

Why would we go to such lengths as we did yesterday? Why would priests scramble to organize outdoor Masses, with all the complicated logistics that entails? Why would volunteers stand in the cold and wind to direct traffic, and count people on their way into the church?  Why doesn't TV Mass suffice?  Because the Jesus we have been without for so long is truly present in the Eucharist that can be met in no other way.  I have found such grace in praying the Spiritual Act of Communion during this time, and I know Jesus has sustained me.  But even that pales in comparison to what we received yesterday, and in fact, what we have received every single time we attended Mass before there ever was a pandemic, but did not truly understand.  It is this pain, this suffering, these barriers, that make me understand how truly small Jesus makes Himself, what risks He takes and the lengths He's willing to go to, in order to be received by me.

I will not stop praying for the day when, as the Pope invites us to pray, "God will stretch out his all-powerful hand and free us from this terrible pandemic, so that life can serenely resume its normal course."  But until that day comes, I will give thanks for this sorrow and discomfort, that makes it truly apparent the lengths Jesus goes to in order to be close to us.

"All the Heavens cannot hold you Lord,
How much less to dwell in me?
I can only make my one desire 
Holding on to Thee." 
(Third Day)