A number of years ago I was starting an eight-day retreat with more than ordinary reluctance. Retreats had often carried a sense of foreboding for me, a journey into truth that might just as well be postponed or avoided. The solitude and prayer would make me face myself in ways not always pleasant.
I felt particularly unprepared. I don’t think I had prayed for a continuous hour over the previous months. I had been neglecting the prayer of the church in the priest’s “office.” My work with the sacraments seemed good enough, but I had the distinct feeling that I was doing it all for myself. I was resentful of people who asked for my help, jealous of my time, and ashamed of my self-centeredness.
The retreat director said: “Great. You’re just where you should be when you enter the presence of God.” His advice seemed like some of that “don’t worry, be happy” stuff, and I told him as much.
“Well, how does every Mass begin?” he asked.
“In the name of the Father ... ”
“No, what is the first formal part of the Eucharist?”
And then it came to me: the penitential rite. “Lord, have mercy.” He had reminded me that the acknowledgment of sin was the condition for entry into the covenant of the Eucharist.
What is more, I’ve come to see that the admission of sin is a constant theme of every Mass. I do not mean the implicit willingness to “repent and believe the Good News” when we hear the word of God, or the acknowledgment of our inadequacy when we offer our prayers of the faithful. I mean, rather, the continuing acknowledgment of our sinful condition at the height of the Communion rite.
In the Our Father, we pray that God “forgive us our sins as we
forgive those who have sinned against us”—a scary proposal if
you spend a minute thinking about it.
Whether we forgive or not, however, the presumption that we are
sinners is painfully evident. It’s inescapable. The presider
asks God, “Look not upon our sins, but on the faith of your
church,” immediately prior to the exchange of peace. It is a
sinful church that chants: “you who take away the sins of the
world, have mercy on us.” It is the church’s priest who
prays before Communion: “By your holy body and blood, free me
from all my sins.”
The lifted-up body and blood of Christ—drawing all things to
himself—“takes away the sins of the world.” Our response
is to confess that, although we are not worthy, we are healed at the
word of God.
The acknowledgment of our sin is not an embarrassing hindrance to
God’s presence. It is the prompting of God’s law, Jeremiah
reminds us, written in our hearts. It is the condition of the new
covenant itself. It is the reason for Jesus’ covenant.
“This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and
everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins
may be forgiven.”
There are many things we take seriously about our worship—the setting,
the music, the preaching—but I wonder if we take seriously enough its
very ritual words and their meaning. The Eucharistic Prayer is
incomprehensible, actually, if we think we are sinless. After all, it
is the re-enactment of Christ’s sacrifice for the forgiveness of
our sins.
Our admission of sin is the occasion for singing the glories of God.
It is the appreciation of how happy we are to be called to the supper.
It is the acceptance of the new covenant, Christ’s passion and
death embodied in our Eucharist. When we take Communion, we take the
new law, the new covenant, literally into our bodies, our hearts. And
the promise of Jeremiah is realized in the flesh: “I am yours
and you are mine. I will remember your sin no more.” (Jer 30:34) It is as important to remember why Christ died for us as it is to
remember that he did so. In fact, the paschal mystery, as well as the
Eucharist, cannot make very much sense at all if we fail to understand
how much we need both. “You have set us free, you are the Savior
of the world.” (Memorial Acclamation)
It is impossible to enter the presence of God, whether in a retreat or
in a liturgy, as self-made men and women. We cannot enter the covenant
blameless and spotless. Nor can we rely upon our good works to make us
worthy of this covenant. The only contribution we make to this
covenant is the acknowledgment of our sin and the trust that it is
healed by the redemptive power of God’s love.
If our experience of the Eucharist is bland or boring, if our
liturgies seem lifeless or contrived, could it be at least in part due
to the fact that we do not take seriously either our sinfulness or
God’s forgiveness?
After all, the words “I will remember their sin no more” are not very liberating or exciting if people think they have no sins to remember.