Tradition

I remember when there was a shift in the Catholic Mass when I was a kid. The words I had once said with ease were traded for different, similar roadblocks. The pews were littered with cream colored cards that had our lines neatly arranged so we could answer when it was our cue. I remember practicing these new tripping mantras and listening as the congregation grumbled through at a begrudgingly slow pace. They hated it. I was so young I didn’t know what I liked or didn’t. I didn’t care enough to become irate over the whole thing. I didn’t understand. The words were essentially the same. We just had to learn these new lines and it would be okay. I didn’t understand what these traditions meant to these people. Now, I do.

I spent many hours dedicated to becoming a devout Catholic. I would listen to the pockets of silence in the mass and wait for some rumbling voice to speak to me. I would pray that, when I dreamt, I would receive visions like the many saints I adored. I would focus my attention on my peripherals to try to catch a glimpse of an angel or spirit. Someone beyond the veil of the mortal world bringing an extraordinary message to me, a silly little girl. I was constantly looking for physical proof that my faith was real, that God existed, that I was someone believing the “right” thing. It took me a long time to find proof of God’s existence. When I found it, I was almost astonished by how simple it was. It was a feeling. For me, I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. I feel it like goosebumps on my skin and shivers down my spine. It feels like coming out of a freezing building into the sunlight and all the cold is washed away. All your muscles relax into the warmth and comfort of the sun. I felt these sensations in church during prayer. When someone died. When all I felt was sorrow. When my entire world was lit up by fireworks. When my happiness was practically buzzing out of my chest. When I realized what this feeling was, I began to seek it out. I paid closer attention to its presence. I relished the feeling as it washed over me. And then, it stopped. I stopped feeling this close bond to the Holy Spirit. I felt abandoned, left to fend for myself. I desperately searched for ways to make the Spirit visit me. I went to more masses, more prayer opportunities. I stared at the Eucharist with the intensity of a scientist waiting for the specimen to jump, move, anything. I waited for my heart to be enveloped in calm. Nothing.

I continued to go to the mass for a while after until I began to feel like it was all futile. I was disconnected. I was alone. There was nothing tethering me to this mystery, save for one thing. The tradition. The routine. There is comfort in each anticipated movement. There are no surprises when saying a Catholic Mass. No matter where you go, it is the same. The same words. The same songs. The same God.

This is why tradition is important. This is why people grumble and growl when new changes come to sweep out the old traditions. They are afraid of losing what once made them feel the shiver of the Holy Spirit in their veins. They hold onto each word, each procession with knowledge that these things once brought them peace, a peace that could only be that of Heaven. They are afraid that if these changes happen, they may never see that peace again. They will never feel the goosebumps spread over their skin and assuage the wounds that this world inflicts upon all of us. How could I blame them, when my own experience mirrors their own?

ABOUT rita woodraska

Rita Woodraska is a 2023 alumni who majored in English education. She writes about her life and the world as she sees it. She is living in Sisseton and teaching high school English.