Several years ago, once my boys were old enough not to need the steadying presence of my husband and me in the pew, I joined my church choir. I had sung in my middle school and high school choruses, and in my home parish alongside my mom, who has been gone 17 years now. So, returning to choral singing meant returning to a different time, before marriage and children, when I lifted my voice for me, mostly.
Singing delighted me—it still does—and made Mass go by more quickly. Singing was the thing, the star, the Mass a backdrop I did not pay very close attention to as a young person and a young artist. There was the opening hymn and communion hymn. Somewhere in there, we shook hands and received communion, and then there was the closing hymn, like a curtain falling to the stage. End of scene, end of show.
But in the years since I have come to understand: The Mass is not a show. The Mass is a miracle. But that miracle is part of a drama, one of communion and sacrifice, conducted in the language and form of ritual. The dramatic elements make a scaffolding on which the art—the mystery, wonder, glory and awe—is hung.
For me, art has purpose beyond entertainment. And what could have more meaning than the story we tell through the traditions and beauty we participate in at Mass? Art is about growth and the development of knowledge or relationships. I want to go somewhere novel or deeper in the art I experience, and the Mass points us to that higher power, that greater glory. Beginning to middle to end.
The Mass is not a fiction, but it follows a format many successful fictional plots follow. In fiction-writing we talk about an inciting event leading to the rising action and the story’s climax followed by falling action and resolution—or dénouement, from the French dénouer, meaning to untie. So, we are talking about an untying of a plot or a resolving of a mystery at the story’s end.
Some fiction writers will argue that there are other ways to design a story, that this traditional story arc is old fashioned. Yet, most stories still follow this pattern. Why? We humans are programmed to find excitement in action and conflict and release in resolution. It is ingrained in us.
Try telling an exciting story to your child, but leave off the satisfying conclusion. “Come on,” they’ll press. “Tell me what happened!”
It was not until I became a Mass cantor with responsibility for leading the congregation through the sung Mass parts that I began to appreciate the structure of the Mass. Each part feels like a scene coming to life. But to be a Mass cantor is more about entreating than performing. It is about knowing what is coming next. It is about paying close attention to what is happening on the altar to my left and the organ to my right. And on really good days, it is about paying close attention to what is happening to my relationship with God, everywhere.
The sung Mass parts mark my way like the beats in a plot, each with their own meaning and tone: the Gloria—“Glory to God in the highest”—is a prayer of high praise often called the “angelic hymn” because it recalls the angels at Christ’s birth.
The Gloria takes place in the Liturgy of the Word, which is followed by the Liturgy of the Eucharist, like acts follow one after the other in a play.
The offertory hymn is followed by the Eucharistic Prayer, which includes the Sanctus, (“Holy, holy, holy.”) This acclamation should be performed in a most joyous, cheerful shout.
The Memorial Acclamation, (“When we eat this Bread and drink this Cup”;) the Great Amen; and the Lamb of God, (“you take away the sins of the world,”) are dialogues—call and response—that demonstrate our living relationship with God.
Learning the structure of the Mass, knowing the parts and their purpose, has freed me up for prayer and nourishment. It has freed me up to revel in the miracle of the Mass because I know where this story is leading, uniting us congregants with God and with each other through the Holy Eucharist, every single time.
The Mass’s bookends are the aptly named Introductory Rites, which prepare us to fully experience the Holy Eucharist, and the Concluding Rites, which send us back out into the world: “Thanks be to God.” And you will find no “saggy middle” to this story. As a kid who knew a good story, I would have said the climax of the Mass is the Consecration, because the moment is singular and drama-filled. Indeed, the catechism uses similar language, calling the Eucharist the “source and summit” of the Christian life. But for me, the emotional high point of the Mass is communion, a coming-together, for one glorious purpose.
The greatest gift of being a Mass cantor comes from my vantage point in the front of the church, which allows me to see the full breadth and feel the full weight of all the congregants coming forward for Holy Communion. The smallest of us are carried. The young come with arms crossed, preparing to be blessed. The old sometimes come in pairs, leaning on each other along the way.
It is the most miraculous of ensembles—a corps, a chorus—a body so much stronger than the sum of its parts.
If you have a beginning, you expect to have an ending (and, if you are a believer, another beginning). The drama of the Mass shows us the way to communion here on Earth and in God’s heavenly glory. Structure, often assumed to be restricting, in fact can be a comfort. In this miraculous structure of the Mass we find one of our most potent memento mori, a reminder that we will come to the end of our human stories only to begin our second acts with God.
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