This past weekend, while visiting my wife’s extended family in Lebanon, Missouri, I had the opportunity to attend a local Catholic mass with her cousins Jeff and Sara, along with their kids. We shared an AirBnB with them, and when Sara mentioned going to a morning mass, I joined them. I’d attended a mass once before as a child, but I had never done so as an adult, and I was curious to experience a mass with a different set of eyes.

We attended a 9am mass at St. Francis de Sales in Lebanon, a brick church building that has been there since 1949. It stands beside another large brick building that was formerly an elementary school. The grounds were charming and picturesque, and we were greeted outside the door by several men and women who stood holding the doors for everyone, and then again by others who stood just inside the foyer. We sat very near the front, and I watched as my companions kneeled once toward a large cross before entering the pew.

Throughout the service, Jeff graciously directed me and made sure I knew what was happening, specifically through pulling out a book from the pew case that had the liturgy for that day, complete with all the readings, prayers, and hymns. I was delighted when the organ opened the service and the music director led the church in “Holy, Holy, Holy.” So far, so good, I thought to myself, and sang right along. I also recognized “Shepherd of Souls, Refresh and Bless,” and I was able to follow the others since the sheet music was printed out.

I was struck by two things about the singing: 1) The music was lovely, the hymns selected were all very singable, and they all had rich, poetic lyrics with heavy Scriptural language; 2) The singing overall, from where we stood at the front, was not very loud.

This was a bit sad for me—to hear such rich songs being sung so quietly. As it turns out, this was my feel of the whole service. The readings, hymns, prayers, and creedal recitations (we read the Nicene Creed) were all very filling from a theological standpoint. But the overall engagement with these rich offerings was very formal and restrained.

At one point, the priest encouraged everyone to give a blessing of peace to their neighbor. Beside me, Jeff leaned over and kissed his daughter’s head, then he turned and shook my hand. The three people in front of us (we were three pews from the front) turned and gave a peace sign with smiles. At another point, we said the Lord’s Prayer aloud, and Jeff leaned over, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and said, “We don’t say the last part until later.” I remembered an inside joke about his and Sara’s Catholic wedding, where all my wife’s Baptist in-laws went on reciting aloud, “For thine is the kingdom, and the power…”

The feast of Scripture was a highlight for me. Our church reads a good deal of Scripture every Sunday, typically in at least 4 places. But this service had a reading from the Old Testament (Jeremiah 38:4-6, 8-10), the Psalms (Psalm 40:2-4, 18), the New Testament (Hebrews 12:1-4), and the Gospels (an Alleluia with John 10:27, then a reading from Luke 12:49-53). That was a delight.

The priest, in his homily, delivered a sermon from his manuscript that took Jesus’ interaction with his disciples in Matthew 16 (where one of them says that some claim Jesus is Jeremiah in 16:14), and through the lens of suffering, he connected this with the reading from Jeremiah 38, along with the reading from Hebrews 12, both of which deal with the topic of suffering in their own way. In 10 minutes or less, he applied this theme to suffering and persecution that Christians have faced in the past and up to the present.

As expected, the Eucharist took center stage at the climax of the service. The priest prayed for the bread, lifted it high with his eyes fixed on it, and someone behind us rang a bell three times. This took place with the cup as well. The three people in front of us (who turned out to be Communion attendants) went forward and received the Eucharist, notably with the priest placing the bread in their mouth.

I watched the people in the pews across from us walk forward to receive the bread and wine, noticing that several had the bread placed in their mouths, while others took it and fed themselves. I wasn’t able to decipher the difference, and very soon it was our turn. I asked Jeff if it was alright for me to join them. He said I could either stay, or I could come and cross my arms (as in prayer) before receiving it. I was determined to watch everything he did.

There was an older man handing out the bread. When I came to him, he said, “The body of Christ,” and I raised my hands toward him, curious to see what would happen next. Nothing happened. He stood, waiting, and finally said, a bit briskly, “Amen?”

Amen, I said, smiling. Then he handed me the bread.

I then came to the woman who was holding the cup. She was a short woman, about a foot shorter than me. She said, “The blood of Christ,” and I said, “Amen,” determined not to have a repeat.

But yet again, nothing happened. She stood, waiting, as did I. I learned later after watching the others that I was supposed to take the cup from her. But I didn’t. Instead, recognizing my inaction, she awkwardly lifted the cup up to my mouth, tipped it forward, and my mouth filled with the taste of cold wine.

And she kept pouring. I took at least two big gulps before she pulled back. I guess she figured I needed extra. Perhaps I did.

I returned to my seat and sat while others around me kneeled on the kneeling benches. About halfway through the Communion, the woman with the cup stepped up onto the stage and watched as people took the bread then passed by her. I thought to myself, Did she run out?

Finally, a woman came by and looked up at her, and she made a motion to show that the cup was indeed empty. I watched curiously, with the lingering taste of wine in my mouth.

Once this was concluded, the priest carefully emptied and wiped clean the cups with the help and watching eyes of a young altar boy (who looked very solemn and perhaps a bit nervous) and an equally young altar girl (who had long curly hair, large front teeth, and a pleasant girlish smile that lingered throughout the entire service).

The service was soon over, and we left the building, shaking the priest’s hand briefly on our way out as he told everyone, “Have a good week.”

There were many aspects of the Catholic mass that were refreshing to me, namely the abundance of Scripture, the call and response readings, and the significant focus given to the Communion. At the same time, there was an undeniable feeling of rigidness and routine. My major reflection afterward was, “I can see how all the motions of that service would be deeply meaningful to a person with a genuine faith and love for the Lord. I can also see how all those same motions could become an adequate outward replacement for that same genuine faith and love.”

I think the same is abundantly true for those of us in Protestant circles. On one hand, I am continually enriched by the spontaneity and personal engagement found in many of our services. Yet the same spirit of routine can plague us just as severely.

As I reflect now on the experience, comparing it to my own experiences in various Protestant churches ranging from Churches of Christ, Southern Baptist, Presbyterian, Assemblies of God, and various non-denominational churches, I’m reminded of a line from A.W. Pink in his 1971 book Spiritual Growth:

“As the reception of one part of the Truth prepares us to take in another, so the admittance of error paves the way for the coming in of more. Moreover, the particular denomination to which we belong and the distinctive form of its “line of things” (2 Cor. 10:16), has a powerful effect in determining the type of Christians reared under its influences—just as the nature of the soil affects the plants growing in it. Not only are his theological views cast into a certain mold and his concept of the practical side of Christianity largely determined thereby, but his devotional life and even his personal demeanor are also considerably affected by the same. Consequently there is much similarity in the “experience” of the great majority belonging to that particular party. This is largely the case with all the principal evangelical denominations, as it is also with those who profess to be “outside all systems.”

Regardless of which church we find ourselves in, we will, over time, find ourselves being impacted and influenced by the forms and emphases of our particular stream or local congregational culture. We have all also been far more influenced by 2000 years of Christian history than we might readily admit.

I do not think the answer to this is to start a brand new church, or to visit a different church every Sunday, or else to give up the enterprise entirely. I sometimes imagine what it would’ve been like to have been a believer in the year 400, or 1600, or even today in one of the many countries that face a radically different religious landscape than we do in America. What would I do if all the forms that I have come to be familiar with were to become unknown, along with all the hymns I’ve come to love, and so on? It tells me that in my practice of faith in this particular place where I live, there is a focus that should be continually on my heart and mind: Do I truly know the Lord with an ever-deepening knowledge, and is His Spirit bearing His perfect fruit in my life to daily conform me to the image of Christ?

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