Morning Mass Revelations – OpEd

I think that one of the most glorious moments of any day is when a burst of sunbeam breaks through the clouds. It may come peering, perhaps shyly, but still awakening. And this is demonstrated most beautifully inside a church that I go to.

I go to mass every Wednesday and Sunday at 6:30 in the morning. When the mass starts, Solitude is completely welcome. The cathedral looks gloomy, sullen and unyielding. But slowly before seven, sunrays cast bright slivers through the church’s colored glasses of yellow, orange and blue. The brightness, aura and life exudes magnificent, beautiful and unmatched splendor It breaks the churchgoers’ attention. I catch my breath and the wonder leaves me stupefied. It has been this way even during the time when the old church existed. I was a sacristan when I was a boy, and I was awed and perplexed by the beauty and revelation of the sunlight flashing bright rays through fading early mist while birds chirped all over.

It has changed a bit these days but the beauty is still there. If only one stops to admire it. Shafts of gold stil light up the cathedral. I open my arms to embrace the life it gives. It is sobering. There are less birds though, (and lesser people).

Outside, the sky is as beautiful, clear and enticing. A broad river of clouds stretched across the heavens. In the east it was soft white, cottonlike, its edges outlined with pink and orange in the waking gold of the sun’s commanding light. Aurora Hill looks so blessed.

I stand still for a while and once more walk to the cathedral’s door as the breathtaking vastness of light fill the church. It is a panorama that would put the work of any artist to shame. I try to fill my mind with words to capture it, describe it. I fail. There is just no way I can paint it in my mind. Words were not enough to depict the complexity of shape or describe the vast scale, with distance and size unknowable in the endless hues, and the mind of man has not invented names for all the colors that appear to be visible there. It is in these situations, I thought, when faced with the grand ineffable majesty of nature, that we run up against the limitations of language. At such times I can appreciate the claim of Zen Buddhist mystics that mere words are inadequate to communicate the nature of ultimate reality.

I want to stay longer each time every after mass. But there are chores to be done; I have seeds to sow, crops to water, trees to plant and a yard to clean. I also yearn to see my wife for a garden cup of coffee or delight to the waking-up of my only grandchild. Home is where the heart is. The church is where you bring your scarred soul for mending. And such help can be taken from God’s glorious light.