To the Band of Brothers: November 6, 2024

A million times, I have heard men, women, and children complain they don’t like going to Mass because they find it boring. What they really mean is that the priest is boring. Actually, what they really, really mean is that the priest’s homily is boring. That means there is a very large number of people out there who struggle with going to Mass because the 15 to 20-minute spiel the priest gives after reading the gospel is not as entertaining as an episode of “Yellowstone” or “The Office.”

Not only does the priest have to motivate the masses to come to Mass, lead the whole congregation in prayer, get them to sing, and transform bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ, but also has to deliver a discourse that is short and precise, practical and witty, all while standing on one foot juggling four lit candles as altar servers throw poisoned darts at his head. If, and only if, the poor cleric is able to accomplish all that, then Mass is worth attending. 

In 2006, after returning from my one-year hiatus in Chile, I was scheduled to celebrate an afternoon Mass at a local parish. I had often celebrated Mass at that parish before. I had prepared the comeback homily of the year—a homily that was going to blow the socks off any congregation and help make the statement that Fr. Willie was back, and back with a vengeance. 

As I stood at the front of the church welcoming people waiting for the Mass to begin, a young girl in her twenties approached me. She had a smile from ear to ear. She ran over to where I was and gave me a big hug. She then confessed she had not gone to Mass since I had left because she only goes to my Masses. She only likes to hear my homilies.

I must admit, at first, I was flattered. I felt like the star of the show, the main attraction. I was ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. But as I processed down the aisle, I began to feel uneasy. I was ashamed at my thoughts and upset that I had helped create an environment where the value of the Mass was somehow reduced to the quality of my preaching. I, and others, had removed Jesus from the spotlight at Mass and replaced Him with an inadequate alternative. 

As Mass began, I was convinced I had to address the issue somehow. A moment of truth had arrived and I couldn’t let the opportunity slip by without somehow proving a point. The deacon had just finished reading the gospel and all of a sudden, it was my turn. The spotlight was on me. I didn’t move. I just sat there in my chair with my eyes closed. I didn’t budge. The deacon, at one point, leaned over and asked in a whisper if I was going to preach. I just shook my head. I could feel the congregation getting nervous… a couple of coughs over here, a couple of throat clearings over there. I could sense the eyes of hundreds transfixed on my still frame. Was the priest sick? Was he having a nervous breakdown? Did the cat catch his tongue? What was wrong?

I sat that way for five minutes. I confess they were the longest five minutes of my life and probably the longest five minutes of the lives of all 500 people gathered in church that day. But I stuck to my guns, and when time elapsed, I simply got up, gestured to the congregation to stand, and began the profession of faith. “We believe in one God, the Father almighty…” And Mass continued. 

Just before the final blessing, I walked into the congregation and took a poll. I asked, “Raise your hand if you were surprised I didn’t preach today?” Every hand went up. Then I asked, “Raise your hand if you leave Mass today unsatisfied because you didn’t hear my homily?” Again, every hand went up. Now the moment of truth: “You’re telling me that after having witnessed a miracle on this altar (at this point, I ran up to the altar and slammed my fist on it), after having received the body and blood of Jesus Christ, after being in intimate communion with Jesus, you walk away unsatisfied?” Mass was over, class dismissed.

Here’s the thing, it really doesn’t matter who’s manning the Mass. It doesn’t matter who the main celebrant is. Even if you had the most boring priest, the most obnoxious individual who you can’t stand because he’s a jerk, and even if the guy wears a New York Jets jersey under his priestly vestments and thought that Joe Montana was a better quarterback than Dan Marino, the Eucharist is the real presence of Jesus. Only He is at the center of the Mass. If we truly believed that, we’d knock down the church doors to get to Him no matter who else was standing at the altar.