During the Liturgy of the Eucharist (stated another way, the preparation of the Host), much time is spent kneeling in obeisance. As our chapel employs individual metal chairs in lieu of pews with padded knee rests, we plummet all the way to the floor ... a hard floor. Oh, how I miss those padded thingamabobs on the back of pews. Not only are those buggers six inches off the floor, they are attached to a backrest which doubly functions as a grab hold to aid in getting up and down.
Due to the instability of the chairs (plus, due to space being at a premium, we are smooshed in close proximity to one another), a goodly portion of the assembly elect to remain seated. However, where the greater number of congregants reverently bow their heads with eyes closed during this time, I am usually alert, bug eyed, and observing the priest perform the epiclesis (invoking the power of the Holy Spirit) and anamnesis (preparation of the eucharistic sacrament).
My visual approach is not borne out of disdain. To the contrary. I am in such awe during the gestation of the Holy Sacrament that I feel compelled to watch, to breathe in the energy surrounding transubstantiation. Mind you, at that particular point in the consecration when the words of Christ are spoken, "Take this, all of you. Eat, drink.... " (Matthew 26:26-28, cf. Mark 14:2224, Luke 22:19-20, John 6:22-58), etiquette suggests that I close my eyes in order to fully immerse myself in the mystery. And, I did.
In like fashion, for reasons that continue to be unclear, I bowed my head with lids clamped tightly shut during the entire narrative of the Last Supper. Interestingly, I experienced that fuzzy, floating, supernatural sensation. You know, like when you first walk into a cathedral or some other holy place, the presence of God can be recognized and immediately permeates every aspect of your person. As it so happened, I had a taste of the Almighty's presence and was eager for more. If that meant bowing my head and closing my eyes, the so be it. In the process ... um, hoping that I would not blindly topple over while on my knees. Through sheer luck, or Divine intervention, I did reconnect. Hallelujah! By happenstance, I remained planted upright too.
As I was kneeling, in my own little spiritual dimension, I felt a wisp of breeze pass by my person. This will sound demented, but I was of the mind that someone donning robes had walked by. Though the priest and deacon were both wearing vestments (which are somewhat similar to a robe, in a convoluted sort of way), it would have been impractical to approach or pass by. Because of where I was kneeling, perhaps impossible.
Being roused from my prayerful state, I could not help but wonder who was in my immediate vicinity. There was no other way to confirm the passerby unless I peeked, requiring me to abandon the battle of wills between curiosity and fighting to remain spiritually focused. Possessing a weak constitution, I peeked. Nothing. Conceding that I may have missed the obvious, I looked around the chapel. Nadda. Everyone was kneeling or seated. Thus, could the light and gentle caress of wind have been....
I know what you are thinking: the sudden movement of air was caused by a door being opened for a congregant to enter or exit. Kudos to you, that is a fair assumption; albeit, misplaced. As it so happens, the door makes a very recognizable sound; of which, there was no such trumpet. Alternatively, perhaps the phantom wind was the result of an open window? That's an admirable inference, but such a deduction won't fly. For starters, the morning was calm. More telling, the windows were not open!
Shortly after Mass concluded, I enthusiastically shared my thoughts with the deacon in training. A smile came across his face as he brought my attention to the theme of this morning's liturgy: the essence of faith and recognizing the presence of God. This became clearer when reflecting on the first reading. God asked Elijah to leave his shelter because the Lord would be passing by. After summarily dismissing heavy winds, an earthquake, and fire as capable transcendental signs, Elijah recognized a tiny whispering sound as that of God (1 Kings 9:190, 11-130).
When the deacon in training so plainly connected these dots, my grin mirrored his.
It's unknown when the Book of Kings was written, but the same God who made a light whispering sound recognizable to Elijah had potentially revealed Himself to me in a passing breeze!
August 2011
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