It was the nineteenth Sunday in ordinary time (the liturgical year is divided into several segments), and what follows are my experiences from Mass that day. By the way, the unusual date reference is an antiquated and complicated method used to express the seventeenth day of August, two thousand eleven. Customs!
Adjacent to my left, the ambo (podium) loomed not far in the distance. It was like a giant tower lying in wait to fall upon my shoulders. With each step closer I became slightly more filled with anxiety. Wobbly legs that felt like jelly (perhaps, pudding). Sweaty and trembling hands. And, a mind that was entertaining thoughts of flight before humiliation. See, I was approaching the ambo to conduct the first reading and responsorial psalm (scriptural passages which signify the beginning of the liturgy). Before committing myself before the assembly, I silently offered a humble prayer that my performance would go without a hitch ... that focus would be on the message, not me or any of my stumbles.
Undoubtedly, this behavior possesses every appearance of being pious and responsible; however, such reverence emerged from a comical lesson (perhaps sacrilegious, depending on your take).
As it so happens, my previous experience of being a lector (one of a couple individuals selected to perform readings) was a car wreck. I had been filled with pride and a little cocky because of my ability to read, speak, and present well. Plus, like this day, I had also spent considerable time preparing: familiarizing myself with the meaning of the story, its cadence, and unfamiliar words. I was confident ... over confidant. Low and behold, as if response to my self-admiration, I was walloped by a force seemingly bigger than my ego. Apparently, God found it necessary to give my smugness a few lumps. Lesson learned, I hope. Hence, the humble prayer that I emerge from this experience unscathed.
The passage for the first reading was from Kings. The short of this scripture can be compactly summed up by the following: Elijah was hiding in a cave from the wrath of Jezebel when God encouraged this righteous prophet to leave his shelter in order to see the Lord pass by. Abiding God's request, Elijah encountered uncharacteristically harsh environmental conditions. Heavy winds. An earthquake. And, fire. Ultimately, this inclement weather was dismissed. In spite of giving little heed to the intense blowing, shaking earth, and curtain of flame, Elijah associated a mere whispering sound to that of God (1 Kings 19:90, 11-130).
Initially, Elijah's saga did not resonate with me. There was nothing illuminating or exciting in these historical accounts. Big deal! That is, until I read the eight verses from Kings leading up to the passages chosen for the liturgy. Though, the importance of this reading had yet to hit home; I was left wanting. Thus, it was annoyingly obvious that I would need to dig deeper, but procrastination won out. In that it is meant: I knew.... I simply knew that the essence of the first reading would reveal itself prior to Mass if I twiddled my thumbs. Ah, yes, relying on one's laurels, having complete confidence in fancies and whims. Well, as it so happened, my laziness kept me in the dark. This notwithstanding, I did my best to deliver a genuine and impassioned reading. Instead of accepting defeat, I placed more emphasis on time worn and proven edicts. Making eye contact, minding my cadence and not rushing. Simply seeking to maintain a natural feeling. Yet, when returning to my seat, I continued to question the significance of the first reading. Hopefully I did not convey these doubts to the assembly.
Frustratingly, the relevance of this passage did not register until after the service. Well after. It was not until I backtracked to the beginning of chapter seventeen and poured over what turned out to be an uncharacteristically unknown but epic story that made the text come to life. Oh, how this insight would have assisted greatly in the authenticity of my liturgical delivery. Once again, this revelation has caused me to realize that I was not sufficiently ready. That my actions were little more than mechanical, a trait that I abhor in other people.
Should I be granted the privilege to be a lector again, I hope this failure will remind me to prepare more thoroughly.
August 2011
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