The Ache Behind the Livestream
By Carolyn Shields
I’ve been attending Mass lately more than I have in years, and I have to fight the inner conflict that I’m not worthy of this when hundreds of thousands in this country and around the world are yearning to behold our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament.
With our archdiocese closing its door on public Masses, I had to learn the livestream deal fast (and for our thousands of viewers, it hasn’t been fast enough, ha!). Behind a camera, trying not to swear at the neons of issues that come from this learning curve, I focus in. The empty Basilica has an almost palpable weight of those that can’t be present. The lights are off to avoid the white noise, casting everything but our makeshift altar into a shroud of darkness.
And thinking of Holy Week and the recent decree to keep our doors not only closed, but locked (in a sense), my heart aches. Because even before Him each day, even though we can each participate in spiritual communion, even though it’s all still real — without us, it feels incomplete.
It’s the same kind of mind blowing truth with redemptive suffering, how Christ’s sufferings are literally not fulfilled unless we partake in it. Without the cacophony of an off key choir, bolstered by your grandmother’s shrill vocals, without your cousin poking and prodding you from behind, without a parish, what has become of the Church?
Fulton Sheen wrote that a priest cannot be a priest without his flock. It was so jarring our first live-streamed Mass when the priest addressed the empty pews. And though we can tune in, it’s okay to still feel that deep longing for something more. That’s human. During the Black Plague, priests celebrated Mass in the streets with the faithful participating from afar, leaning over their windowsills.
Something that is lost in the livestreams of Mass is the tangible riches that ground heaven to earth. We lose the incarnated nature of Mass. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen—it does, but it’s beyond our senses. God became Man because He knew our faith struggles to go so far without tangible aid. Thomas touched Jesus’ wounds. We cradle Him on our tongues.
The incense and its smell raises our thoughts above as their whispering trails drift to the neglected cobwebs. The stain glass that cast glowing shadows at your feet. The holy water that speckles your face in passing, the palms that rustle, the lilies that make you sneeze, and yes, even the echos of that one particular cantor. It’s all lost. For a while.
But this yearning? This ache that is only going to drive a little deeper like nails in a cross during Holy Week…what should become of it? Obviously, yes, point it towards Christ, since it’s already directed at him.
But this craving can become a sacrifice of praise because this praise hurts. It’s accompanied by an ache, like a single thorn. Guys, we have an incredibly rare gift that we can offer our God this Holy Week. Our homes can become shrines. Our televisions windows into glory. And our yearnings can satisfy His thirst.
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End note: I’m so incredibly proud of how small parishes are rising up to use technologies to reach their parishioners. These livestreams don’t have to be complicated to bring Christ closer. And because we can’t necessarily smell or feel or taste, we can do some thing to make our participation palpable. It’s as simple as kneeling and standing. It’s responding to the parts of Mass. For the Easter Vigil, turn off all the lights in your house and only light your Baptismal Candles. Many prayers for you all during this challenging time!
