It was a long journey through the desert (that is, “quarantine”) before we could return to Mass. I almost didn’t believe it when I received the email—it had been three months, a span that seems like nothing in retrospect, but also a time we barely remember happening. Real, live, public Mass had returned, though it was different than we were used to.
I jumped at the chance to get back, but some didn’t share my enthusiasm. I get it—many parishioners are older or have families, and what kid is going to sit still in a mask for an hour? I thought it would be strange returning to church after so long without, but it wasn’t. I’d seen everyone on livestream, even if they hadn’t seen me, so I forgot it had been months since our last conversation. The pews and the altar looked the same, though now with the lingering scent of disinfectant. We were told where to sit—six feet away from other church-goers—a request that wasn’t well-received with some who are used to their “usual” seat. It was an adjustment, but it was okay. It meant we were coming home; we could finally receive the Eucharist again, and I cried a little like I did those first few times after Confirmation.
Once before Mass, a couple police officers came in. I wasn’t paying too much attention, and I don’t think they were checking the place out, but it made me think. I thought of countries where Christian worship is forbidden. I thought of other religions that can’t worship openly. And I knew that worship services were being scrutinized; maybe they still are. I do know that we’re following the rules best we can.
I volunteered to be a church monitor. It’s like a socially-distant usher, leading people to the pews and reminding them to keep masks on. I’m honestly terrible at it. I don’t know why I always volunteer for things that require confrontation. It’s unlikely that any of the monitors particularly like it. It’s hard, and some people are unintentionally difficult (I have my favorite pew, too). But we’re doing this so we can be there.
If we childishly whine about it—even if that’s how I feel on the inside—we’ll make no progress. There are plenty of people who are whining, and their refusal to listen is causing the rest of us to sweat in masks during the hottest months of the year. I want to go back to church. I want to attend “coffee and community” afterward, trying to find the jelly Munchkins amid the boxes scattered around the room. I hate the phrase “new normal;” I want real normal. One day we’ll be there again. In the meantime, I’ll try to be confrontational and ask the man who never covers his nose to please put his mask back on.