The Beauty of Bobo Doll Disciples

I’m not a pious person. I don’t know if that’s good or bad; it just is. I’m just a regular guy and I’m okay with that. At the same time, I still listen when the spirit gives me a nudge.

I got one of those nudges late last summer. Some 20 years ago, when I worked downtown, I occasionally went to noon Mass at Immaculate Conception Church. The midday break was an opportunity to clear my mind, recharge my spirit, and let the peace of the simple liturgy wash over me.

I felt that need again last August. I decided to attend First Friday Mass for the next nine months. I even made up a name for it. I called it my “School Year Novena.”

Daily Mass is a lot different from Sunday Mass. Shorter, simpler, more peaceful. Often a greater sense of worship. And, of course, fewer people. But daily Mass is even more different for me. I am a liturgical musician. For about half my life, I have played guitar at nearly every Mass I’ve attended. It’s my ministry. It’s what I am called to do. And sitting in front of the choir, in the midst of that “beautiful noise,” is the closest thing I’ll find to heaven on earth.

But playing in the choir has its disadvantages, too. Instead of concentrating on the liturgy and participating with the congregation, I’m actually “working” during Mass. Getting sheet music ready, communicating with the director and other musicians when needed, and waiting for cues are some of the distractions that keep all choir members from participating fully in the Mass. That’s why daily Mass can be especially meaningful for me.

A recent weekday morning Mass at St. Joseph’s turned out to be a wonderfully intimate, communal experience. There was no formal music, but a music minister who was there took it upon herself to announce song titles and lead the unaccompanied singing from her seat in a pew. She even did a beautiful chant as people received the Eucharist. Fr. Bernie Ahern’s homily was off the cuff and insightful, almost like a discussion in a living room. And when he realized there were more people in the communion line than he could handle himself, he called out, “Hey Bob,” so the Eucharistic minister could jump in and help out. The entire experience was simple, informal and beautiful, like a family gathering.

There was one other thing I noticed about our “family.” It was a product of my distinct lack of piety.

I’ve always been a people watcher. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it comes from the same gene that dictated I go into the news business. Maybe it’s my desire to understand people. Or maybe I’m just a little off. Whatever the reason, I have this tendency to watch people in the communion line. I try to read faces. I try to understand what might be going through their minds as they are just seconds away from a beautiful and intimate encounter with God. Who might be scared? Who might be awestruck? Who might be filled with joy? And, as we are fallible human beings, who might be going through the motions?

Bobo dolls always bounce back,
just like so many people who hold
strong to their faith.

On this particular Friday at St. Joseph’s, I noticed something else as communicants returned to their seats after receiving the Eucharist. As usual, most people seemed to be lost in their own universe of two – just themselves and the Lord. But that transcendent look highlighted a quality that was always there. I had just never realized it before.

A significant number of these beautiful, faithful people looked like they had been – for lack of a better term – beaten up by life. I could see deep creases in grizzled, life-worn faces. Eyes inset deeply, some with dark circles. A few more stooped shoulders than you would expect. More people walking stiffly, or with limps, than I had noticed before.And then there were all of the unseen scars people keep to themselves.

These were people who had survived what life had dished out and still sought the table of the Lord. They were like bobo dolls, those resilient blow-up balloon creatures that took all sorts of beatings and immediately popped back up. Nothing that life could do to any of these people could keep them away from the Eucharist.

I realized that I was no longer just celebrating Mass with a bunch of other parishioners. I was suddenly witnessing a group of sanctified, holy people who would not, could not be separated from their God. This regular guy who couldn’t be pious if he were boiled in a vat of the stuff was being blessed with a foreshadowing of heaven. 

Minutes later, when Mass had ended, they no longer appeared to be saintly. To me, they once again looked like “regular” people, some lingering to chat, others pulling out car keys to begin the business of their days. They were just like you. Just like me. That was comforting. Because, following the logic, it meant that heaven was intended for regular people. Just like you. And, with a lot of forgiveness, just like me. And that’s pretty cool.