Visibilium Omnium et Invisibilium

Always to some degree, but especially in family-less college, it is difficult to not see a little kid in Mass and get pleasantly distracted. I grew up in a very large family with children spaced out in just such a way that there were always at least two below the age of six. This makes it extraordinarily strange to live in a world like college that is almost completely without them. It’s an experience like what I imagine suddenly waking up in a world without salt or definite articles would be. Thus, you can imagine, dear reader, that to see a kid in Mass is very distracting, much like how hearing someone say again, “pass me the salt” after a great deal of time would acutely attract the attention of a man suffering from the aforementioned example.

Being distracted in Mass in just such a way, on Sunday February fifth, I noticed a kid goofing off. His father saw him and pointed towards the altar. The kid, who was probably five, turned to look at where his father was pointing. I expected this to last less than a breath, but this little guy kept looking, entirely captured. It was during the preparation of the gifts, at the time where the priest incenses the altar, and these vast smoke clouds billowed out of the large thurible, coming down briefly over the gifts, flowing between and around them before turning and rising up towards the vaulted ceiling.

And then the smell of the incense came to that most anterior pew where I sat, the exact same smell as I have known all my life, the same I must have known as a baby with my mother in the ancient churches of Rome, the same I knew at the Ordinariate Parish on the day I received first Communion in Texas, the same that still hung in the air before the Bishop confirmed me in the Heartland of America—the same that one day will surround my coffin at my passing.

It seems to me that this is one of the great beauties of our faith. We have these timeless symbols, physical manifestations of deep mystery. That child sitting there, like children through the ages since the Israelites first started using incense, will not lightly forget what he saw; he will remember that something was happening far beyond the ordinary and that something was rising to the heavens from the altar. He will not forget, because humans are built to understand the world from sight and sound and smell, it’s simply how we are designed. We are body and soul, united in such a way that what our bodies do not only reflects, but is, in some senses, what our souls are doing. This is why praying on your knees with closed eyes and folded hands is so important.

For this reason, as you, dear reader, progress in your life, please remember this little child of Jesus who was so captivated by incense. Remember him when you take your children to Mass and point to the altar like that good father. Teach your child the meaning of the incense, the statues, and the bells. If some of you should be priests, I ask you to consider how helpful these signs are to the laity in Mass.

At the end of the day, we all are just the same as that kid in Mass, deeply affected by these visible signs of invisible realities, waiting for the day when we will see them as they truly are.