Finding the Beauty in Submission

Having a husband in the military means our family has done a great deal of traveling over the years. As a result we’ve attended Mass in so many parishes I’ve nearly lost track of a solid number. I can tell you with certainty those parishes have been in eight different states and in a prefect of Japan. One of the things I love about being Catholic is the structure and consistency in worship. One can expect to walk into any Mass anywhere and know exactly what’s going to happen without fail, even in a language not our own. We start with the entrance procession, receive and reciprocate the greeting, go through the penitential act, we give glory to God, the priest recites the collet, and we move into the readings of the day. It’s familiar. It’s comforting. It’s steadfast. For us, it’s the anchor we need in the whirlwind of our nomadic lifestyle.

We recently received orders for another move; our last move as my husband is approaching his thirty year mark in his career and retirement is on the horizon. While living in the Pacific Northwest, we’ve been exceptionally blessed with a remarkable parish to attend and handed a gift in a phenomenal priest. He and his liturgical assistant transform the Ordinary Mass into an extraordinary experience each and every time through adhering to the first suggested Propers as set down by Mother Church in using chant, and much of the sung parts at the eleven a.m. Mass are in Latin. It is absolutely stunning and the reverent response of the congregation to this gift is overwhelming to behold.

My husband and I are quite aware the Ordinary Mass is interpreted in as many ways as there are parishes out there because we’ve experienced it firsthand. In as much as we as Catholics can expect the consistency in the order of things, we can expect as much inconsistency in the delivery. One such inconsistency came back to my attention recently as we’ve been visiting parishes in a neighboring city in anticipation of spending a part of our transition time there from this duty station to the next, several weeks in fact. We wanted to be prepared, so the search for a transitory parish ensued. So far we’ve visited three and one thing in particular has caught my attention in this neighboring archdiocese. The parishes we’ve attended have consistently omitted kneeling after the Agnus Dei, Lamb of God, has been sung. It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed it. I’d just forgotten this omission exists in pockets across the nation. We actually attended a parish in North Carolina in which there were no kneelers on the backs of the pews at all.

I understand that although in the United States the norm is for the people to kneel at this time, it’s not liturgical law, at least not from anything I’ve been able to find concerning this matter to date. From what I can find and from what I’ve read, it’s up to the discretion of the Bishop as to how a diocese responds at this time during the Mass. That being said, I really can’t imagine a Bishop thinking anything other than kneeling is appropriate. No disrespect for the Office intended. I just simply can’t fathom it. My own experience has led me to believe this is a time of reverence and a time to show our submission to Jesus Christ, soul and divinity, held before us as our spiritual and physical nourishment.

Against the grain and norm of the parishes we’ve visited, and apparently against the Bishop’s decision on what’s right for this particular archdiocese, I’ve rebelled and kneeled anyway. I’ve rebelled alongside my husband all the while praying those around me would be inspired to find the beauty in this simple act, and hoping I’d at least plant a seed of pondering as to its significance. Maybe a spark will take root and flame. Maybe a parish will come together and decide, yes, kneeling at this time is appropriate and feels natural.

I’m sure we’ve all heard the phrase or some semblance of, you don’t know what you have until you don’t. It was earlier this year I discovered I didn’t know how important to me kneeling was after the Agnus Dei until I couldn’t kneel. For years, I’d watched the elderly sit on the edge of the pews and lean forward as far as their aging bodies would allow and I’d wonder, do they miss this? I’m positive now many who kneeled for years before frail knees and aching backs would no longer allow it do. I’m sure we’ve also all heard, be careful what you ask.

God certainly delivered on an answer. I know without hesitation that while not all may miss kneeling when unable, and some who are able may think they never will, I did. I missed it.

In March of 2015 I underwent surgery to eradicate endometrial cancer in its early stages. During my recovery I had strict instructions as to what I could do and a long list of what not to do. Kneeling was forbidden for at least eight weeks. I cried the first week I was able to leave the house and attend Mass post-surgery as nearly the entire congregation went to their knees after the Agnus Dei and I was left wanting; starving, craving, needing those few moments of silent submission to the Potter. I cried because I wasn’t able to give my whole self to Him in those moments and until the time had come to pass that I couldn’t, I never realized how important such a simple act was. That wondrously meek position of being on our knees symbolizes our acceptance and embracing of our own tininess in the scheme of things and shows Abba we acknowledge He is great while we are small. How mystically powerful is that?

At that point, in the midst of being left wanting, I was left wondering no more. I’d without doubt found the beauty in submission, in making myself small in his presence, and I desired more than anything to be able to participate in that act again.

One absolutely does not know what they have until they don’t.

I’ve never again questioned this matter and I will continue to rebel whenever I encounter a parish where kneeling isn’t the norm, and I’ll use my time on my knees in submission praying for those around me. For they know not what they’re missing. They don’t know the beauty in submission.