Mass Hysteria

I went to Mass last week. Not for a wedding or a holiday or the loss of a bet. I was spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the beach doing the crossword puzzle and watching the teenaged girls romp around when it suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good idea to try and stave off my impending trip to Hell.

Let me start by explaining that Mass in Southern California is a lot like teenaged girls in Southern California - nothing like the ones I remember from growing up. For instance, I don't recall my Mom ever telling me about a "Singles" Mass. Now, that would have gotten me out of bed on time. I don't know who does the marketing for the Catholic Church, but they really need to publicize this more. So, I decided the 5 o'clock on Sunday Mass was right for me (and the 100 other singles who were there).

Of course, I showed up five minutes late, which shouldn’t have been much of a surprise considering I had forgotten how to get to the church. But, suddenly, I felt like everything was going to be OK. Did I feel God calling me? Not exactly. No, my inner peace resulted from the fact that I was practically early! Like, 50 people were still pulling into the parking lot as I was walking in. By law, Southern Californians must arrive late to Dodger games, Laker games and church.

My church in Manhattan Beach is called Church of the American Martyrs, which is, in my opinion, a pretty stupid name for a church. I mean, if you want people to spend their first ten minutes inside thinking about John Brown – that crazy looking, white haired, white bearded guy from our 4th grade social studies book – and whether he was an Abolitionist or an Abolutionist, then go ahead and name the church American Martyrs. But if you'd like easily distracted people like myself to pay attention, call it St. Anthony's.

Predictably, my mind continued to wander, consumed with deep, religious thoughts, like: - Is there an unlimited amount of time one person can take up at confession or do they ask you to come back once a week till you’re better, like a chiropractor?
Is the Pope really infallible? I mean, he did get elected.
Wait, is my confirmation name Andrew or Christopher?
Man, I've got to make sure I have something less than a ten in my wallet next week.

But the biggest thing occupying my thoughts, I mean, troubling my virginal mind was the breathtaking amount of bare, tanned skin I saw in church. Jesus Christ. Isn't there a commandment that says, "Thou shalt not show your belly ring in church" or something? There should be. I must say, though, that it was encouraging to see more women wearing crosses than ever before. I couldn’t help but notice this trend as their plunging necklines revealed golden crosses nestled lovingly in the heavenly valleys between…er, ahem. Suffice to say, crosses seem to be a popular accessory this year.

During the kneeling parts, I was quite impressed by the military precision with which these ladies reach back in sync to pull down their shirts to cover their tattoos and then pull up their low riders to hide their thongs. I now understand why some parishioners refer to singles Mass as “Ass Mass.”

The exchanging of the sign of peace takes on a whole new significance at Ass Mass. Was that a wink? She gave me the “hand on top of the hand” shake! Did she mean, “Piece be with you?” Such thoughts harkened me back 14 years to the Godsend that was the Lewis Hall Sunday service. At Notre Dame each residence hall had its own chapel, some of which became famous for their unique attributes. For example, Pangborn Hall, a loser guys dorm on South Quad, hosted “The Pangborn Express,” a 10-minute – I swear to God, TEN MINUTE – Mass at 10 pm Sunday night for those who had missed 22 other chances; it was like the redeye to heaven.

Mass at Lewis Hall, though, sometimes resembled heaven on earth. I lived in Keenan Hall and Lewis, conveniently located next door, was our “sister” dorm. The Lewis Chapel had a tradition of hugging during the exchange of peace. Hugging. More guys from Keenan Hall could be found at Lewis’ Mass than at Keenan’s. Even on Super Bowl Sunday, the ratio of Lewis residents to horny males was 1:1. The opposite of the Pangborn Express, Lewis Mass normally took about two hours because guys would shamelessly get up and walk across the chapel to wait in line for the chance to offer the sign of peace – a pointy sign of peace – to the cuter girls. You could read the minds of the less attractive ones: “Even in church, Lord, you forsake me.” I shudder to think what would happen if Ass Mass incorporated the hug.

Something has got to be done to turn our focus away from scoring and back to scriptures. I spent a great deal of time pondering this issue – maybe the most important issue facing the Catholic Church in Southern California today – and I came to this definitive conclusion: I am going to need a lot more time to examine it, uh, close up.

Many Catholic churches hang signs out front reminding their lost sheep that, “You can always come home.” Thank God.