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A Bruised Reed

A Bruised Reed

Last updated on: May 29, 2016 at 2:20 pm by Mary Pezzulo

A Bruised Reed 2016-05-29T14:20:49-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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It’s one of those Sundays where the only Mass I can get to is on campus. Those Sundays are hardest of all.

It was cloudy when I left, and humid; most people in the neighborhood were sleeping in or at church. Very few cars passed me. There was almost no sound, save the constant, eerie burring of those seventeen-year cicadas. They were everywhere– underfoot and on trees, clinging to the weeds and trash as I took the back road down Wellesley Avenue. Crunching brown casings and juicy black insects, juicy black insects and crunching brown casings; broken, trampled insect bodies dotted the pavement, all the way down the hill.

They were on the way uphill to campus, too– that notorious steep incline. I laughed in Latin class, when I heard that “campus” was Latin for “flat land.” There’s nothing flat about campus. It’s a rolling patch of manicured hills on top of a tall, steep limestone cliff. The road goes up the hill through shrubby trees with a lot of wildflower bushes thrown in, the carefully manicured illusion of nature. Cicadas were everywhere, polka-dotting the smooth white sidewalk and burring in the trees. Most of them were dead but some were still struggling, half crushed, their yellow guts desiccating on white concrete.

I was grateful to get to Mass late– always best to slip in without being seen, after the processional. During the summer and in between semesters, the abusive Father Reginald usually says Mass on Sunday. Priests have ways to torment people that lay abusers can’t even begin to aspire to. I’ve learned to hide. I sat on a bench in the foyer, the farthest I could from the statue of Saint Francis. It had been a long, hot, stuffy walk. I was dripping sweat, as disgusting to look at as one of those insects. Everyone gave me a merciful wide berth.

This, apparently, was the anniversary of Father Reginald’s first Mass after ordination. He droned on and on about priests who said Mass in prison camps and wasted away without medicine afterwards; priests who stole bread to say Mass in Siberian labor camps; priests who fooled the Nazis and said Mass for the German resistance. These stories, he said, had inspired him to choose a vocation. I sat still and fixed my eyes on the floor. I didn’t want to cry; I didn’t want to break one more time. I didn’t want anyone to see that I was a cicada with my yellow guts spilled on the ground.

I wondered what it was like to be one of the people who never break at Mass– one of the people who sit in the congregation without wondering if they should, one of the people who haven’t had one horrible experience after another trying to go to church. I wondered what it was like to not tell yourself again and again that this time will be different, not every Catholic in this horrible town is a bully, this time Christ will hide you in the shadow of His wings or maybe even let you find a place to belong in the Church, only to be humiliated again, to fly from the sanctuary turning red and ugly with the tears streaming down your face. To be one of the people who stare instead of one of the people stared at. The one who tells lepers to leave, instead of the leper who leaves. The one who steps on unsightly insects. The one who has a place in the Church.

I almost didn’t receive Communion at all, but I slipped in to sip the chalice at a communion station in the back. I didn’t make eye contact with the extraordinary minister. I stammered as I whispered “amen.”

I know I’m not alone, not really. I’ve met many other people like me by chance, mostly online– people striving to be faithful but afraid to enter the presence of God, because His children are so abusive and they’ve been burned one too many times. But none of those people seem to live around here, and so I feel the isolation every Sunday. To long for a moment with Christ but to know that Christ’s chosen will hurt you if you try, and to have no one to sit in the foyer with you, or help you not to break and cry again. I talk about this so often on the blog, because I want the others to know you’re not alone. There are lots of us, hiding in the back. There’s probably even another one in your church. But I haven’t met any here.

After Communion, I broke. I cried ugly tears, as quietly as I could. I always do.

Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen one in whom I delight;
I will put my Spirit on him,
and he will bring justice to the nations.
He will not shout or cry out,
or raise his voice in the streets.
A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.
In faithfulness he will bring forth justice;
he will not falter or be discouraged
till he establishes justice on earth.
In his teaching the islands will put their hope.

I think that when Christ returns, He will step lightly, not crushing any cicadas. All flesh will see Him together, but I think He will come to the back of the church first. To the ones afraid to go to Communion, He will give Himself there in the foyer. He will steady the falling and console the oppressed. Then He will gather us around Himself and walk into the nave, where the righteous people have been watching and waiting on the benches, confused, wondering why He’s taking so long with the broken insects and everything else too disgusting to sit in a church. Any who do not take offense at Him may join Him. I think that He’ll walk gently down the main aisle, gathering the sheep to Himself, and last of all He will confront the priests. Then, when all are judged, all will be set right. We who have been ugly will spread glassy wings and sing our everlasting song in the new kingdom, but many who are first will find themselves last.

At least, I like to imagine that’s how it will be.

(Image courtesy of pixabay)

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