Appearances

"He's praying the fastest Rosary I've ever seen," the voice of a guest at my parish, an elderly woman behind me said.  Her friend, also a guest, chimed in, after most likely seeing my beat up old warm coat,"Looks to be white trash, probably doesn't know the prayers."

I wanted to wheel about and chew them out, but as I prayed, I kept my peace, most likely due to God.  In fact, it distracted me in part from the Mass, because I kept thinking about the nature of appearances.  Minus my old battered coat, I was dressed business casual.  Professional black pants, black shoes, a polo shirt; in my hands when I was insulted was a handmade wooden rosary from the holy land (to be specific, the primarily Arab quarter of Jerusalem, where a number of the Palestinians are Christians).  However I know I didn't cut a figure compared to another guest who was next to me:  Distinguished grey hair, a full suit and tie, with an impeccable and expensive looking jacket that fit over his suit jacket like a second skin.

As the Mass progressed, I noticed that he and I made the exact same movements and the exact same words, just as it should be in a liturgical gathering.  We both went up for Holy Communion to receive our Lord in the Eucharist.  He received on the tongue and I on the hand.

In many Catholic circles I sometimes travel in, it would be a no brainer that he was treating the sacrifice of the Mass with way more reverence than I.  Many believe that if you dress better, you're automatically more reverent.  If you choose to receive on the tongue, rather than by hand, that you're automatically more reverent.  (On that vein, we both received from a Eucharistic Minister of Holy Communion, so we're both probably irreverent to some.)  However, I don't know which of us was more reverent, or if we had equal reverence.  I, unlike the Lord, am incapable of judging people's hearts at a glance.  I do know this though; I was the one who returned to the pew in prayer as he made for the parking lot.

As I knelt there, I put him out of my mind, and began to focus on this glorious gift I had been given.  I didn't deserve it and I never have, nor will I ever.  I meant those words in that prayer before going up, "Lord I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word, and I shall be healed", hearkening back to the woman who said she was unworthy for Him to be beneath her roof, and to the great faith of many in the Gospels.

Eventually, the Mass came to an end and the recessional hymn died down, the priest already outside waiting to greet people.  I had come to a conclusion without realizing it and turned around to the two old women, my voice gentle and quiet, "It was a Divine Mercy Chaplet."

There was no need to throw my accolades academically at them, no need to speak about international travel, nor a need to give some sort of self righteous theological lecture.  These were my sisters in Christ and a gentle rebuke in the form of correcting a minor error, thinking I was praying the Rosary, was enough; they knew now that I had heard their hurtful conversation, but that I was unwilling to be malicious.  In all things, appearances can matter, but they aren't everything.