I’ve been slacking on my mass attendance lately, only having gone a handful of times in the past six months.  I’ve felt bad about not going, and considering it’s now Lent, the Catholic guilt has been extra strong the past months.  I went to mass this morning, and it felt good.  Sitting there, as the church filled up, I thought about why I haven’t been going lately, why I felt guilty about not going yet chose not to go anyway, and why I had chosen to go to mass in the past.

I first went through a mass attendance drought when I first moved to Tallahassee in 2003.  The first two years I was in Florida, I lived right down the street from a church.  Literally, it was a block away.  But I didn’t really go much on Sundays.  There was something about the parish and about the space that didn’t sit well with me.  I guess I was thinking too much about my churchgoing experience in Chicago, which was nothing short of amazing.  The masses we had at Loyola at the campus chapel were great: I sang with great friends under the direction of an amazing musician (Miss you, Rudy!), the preaching was excellent (Miss you, too, Fr. Jerry!), and the space was great (Ah, Madonna della Strada).  So, I was comparing my Florida mass experience with my Chicago experience, and that just wasn’t fair: the life I started in Tallahassee was the next stage in my professional and personal lives, and so I (eventually) realized that it was unrealistic of me to have the same church experience in Florida as I did in Chicago.  Once I got over that, I found a parish in Tallahassee (Good Shepherd Catholic Church) and had a great experience there.

I went through a similar mode of thought here in Lowell.  It took a me a couple of months to find a parish that suited me.  I was delighted when eventually found St. Michael Parish last fall.  The priests are extraordinarily friendly and give wonderful sermons, the community seems very cohesive, and the music ministry is pretty good and has potential to be even better.  But, for reasons I just now discovered, I only went to mass consistently for about a month, then let my attendance fall by the wayside.  I’m not proud to admit this, but the main reason I didn’t go was because I was lazy.  No sugar-coating it, the dancing around that fact.  It was cold, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed, and just plain didn’t want to go.  Not surprisingly, being raised in the Catholic tradition, the guilt about not going to mass–especially since I no longer had the “I-haven’t-found-the-right-parish” excuse–was always there.  Despite that guilt, I didn’t go regularly.  Maybe once a month, if that.  The laziness, I think, stemmed from a bout of selfishness.  I didn’t want to make paltry the sacrifice of a hour and a half every week, getting up (relatively) early, and driving through the snow.  Also, mentally and emotionally, I was so focused on myself and what was going on in my life (school, relationships, the fact that was I pretty lonely) that I couldn’t muster the energy or the discipline to go to mass.

But I found that energy this morning.  And it felt good.  I had forgotten that going to mass helps keep me centered.  The way I see it, it helps me put things into perspective; the preaching is good for me.  I don’t necessarily agree with everything that’s said in the homily, buy for the most part, lessons contained in the readings and sermons hit home, either directly or indirectly.  Going to mass also provides a bit of structure to my weekly schedule.  My personality is the type that needs structure and discipline otherwise I’d get nothing done; I actually do better when I’m busier because I don’t have the spare time to sit around.  Having lots of spare time inevitably leads me to wasting most of it doing nothing.  In addition to the structure, going to mass helps give me a sense of belonging, a sense of community.  I’ve struggled with that since I’ve moved up to Massachusetts because I don’t have many friends up here yet.  St. Michael is very welcoming, giving me a little of that sense of community.