Stains on the Altar Cloth
When I began attending Catholic Mass with the young woman who would later become my wife, it was my first exposure to anything sacred. Or perhaps I should say, to the idea of sacredness. Looking back I can identify many sacred things in my life prior to that point — the love of my parents, the Biblical text I studied as an undergrad literature major. But here, at Mass, was the first time something was presented to my senses as tangibly set apart.
It was clear to me from the beginning that the sanctuary was not a stage, nor was it a mere platform from which to preach. The sanctuary (sanctuarium, from sanctus) was a holy place. I knew this not because of any architectural feature (the parish church was of rather humble design), but because of how it was treated and what took place there. No one entered it casually. The priest and his assisting ministers, clad in special robes, knelt at its threshold before they entered it. From there the Word of God was proclaimed. In it the sacrifice was offered. From it the people were fed.
Thinking back, I cannot recall anyone telling me specifically about the reverence due to the sanctuary, although I’m sure it must have been mentioned during my catechesis. But I do remember the demeanor of the priest as he celebrated Mass. I remember the smell of the incense that emanated from the altar. In my mind, when I think back on those early days of faith, everything in the sanctuary is surrounded by a hazy and immaculate glow. It was a place of pristine white cloth, shining brass, and fine damask, all of which silently communicated one unmistakable message: it is special what we do here.
I remember one RCIA class during which our pastor gave us catechumens a tour of the church. He invited us to enter the sanctuary and approach the altar, where he folded back the white cloth to reveal the stone with a martyr’s relic enshrined. It felt like such an unmerited honor to be in proximity to these mysteries. I didn’t want to touch anything.
Now, a quarter-century later, I spend quite a bit of time in that sanctuary and, as an ordained deacon, routinely touch everything in it. Intimacy has a way of dispelling certain illusions. Things don’t look so polished and pristine. There is a burned spot on the rug where a piece of charcoal escaped the thurible; discolored blotches on the altar cloth left by candle wax. The hem of the linen is looking threadbare. The gold plating is wearing off the chalice, rubbed away by decades of contact with consecrated hands.
Those hands also look worse for wear. From my vantage point behind the priest, I cannot help but notice the humanity of those hands marked as they are by weathered veins and gray hairs. A worn watchband loosely hangs from a thin wrist. It looks so weak and ordinary. As those hands hold aloft the sacred host, I can’t help but notice the arthritic knuckles and smudges of ink left from signing checks and thank you notes. I shouldn’t be looking at his hands. I should keep my eyes on Jesus. But my attention, too, is weak and ordinary.
I’ve known many priests over the years, each marked by his own imperfections; a short temper, poor time management skills, stubbornness, pride, addiction. But marked also with dedication. And love. These are not painted icons but real men, virtues, vices and all. Just like me. Like the altar cloth, I have my stains and frayed edges. As I prepare for Mass I pray, “Lord, I am not worthy to enter under Your roof.” Yet He has invited me to dine in His house all the same. Kyrie elieson.
The same year I was baptized, I married the girl who brought me to Mass. After twenty-five years, any illusions I may have once harbored about her immaculate status have long been dispelled. Yet I love her more, not less. She is imperfect, like me; we’re just two imperfect people trying to be better together.
When I began working for the church, a seasoned chancery veteran warned me that it could be dangerous to my faith to see how the sausage is made. When you peel back the sanctuary veil and discover behind it not clay idols or plaster saints but flesh and blood human beings who bicker and complain and act immature, one can easily grow disillusioned. Yet isn’t this the Church? Isn’t this who we are? One holy, catholic, and apostolic family of imperfect people striving for heaven? The fact that some attain it is a miraculous testimony to the presence of Christ in our midst. So every Sunday, we bring our gifts and blemishes to the altar, the fruit of the earth and flawed work of human hands, to be transformed by God into grace.
In the sacristy before Mass, I count out hosts for the ciborium; perfect circles of wheat, water and salt — but not all perfect. Some are cracked and broken. I pull out the broken pieces, separating the wheat from the chaff. Only the best for Jesus. But sometimes I miss a few. Then the broken ones become Jesus, too.
I want a perfect Church, just like I want a perfect bride and a perfect pastor. And a perfect me. And yes, there are days when I’m tired and grumpy — usually frustrated by my own flaws — when the stains on the altar cloth bother me. But then I shift my gaze to the bread that is about to become the Body of our Savior, an unblemished lamb in the sacred hands of His imperfect priest, which — O wonder of wonders — will be broken and given for me. And I think, Where else would I go? It is good, Lord, to be here.
