I brought my dog to church on Sunday.
Well, we’re bringing church to our living room and our dog is asleep on the couch, so he’s coming to church too.
This is the first time any of us have missed Mass since nobody knows when. We’ve never done this before, and we’re not quite sure how to act. My mom sits on the couch with my dog. He lays on his back, head dangling and ear flopping down over the side of the flowered cushion, occasionally wriggling and stretching in case my mom didn’t get the hint that belly rubs were expected. My dad sits in the pink striped rocker with his tea, my sister on the blue-checked armchair wrapped in a fuzzy polka dot blanket from her bedroom upstairs.
I curl up with my coffee in the corner armchair, wearing a high school sweatshirt and too-small sweatpants, a gift from my driver’s ed teacher after I got my license in 2013. They have two cars crashing across the butt. More casual than I usually am for Mass, but I only packed for a week at my parents’ house, not months. I’m relying on decade-old t-shirts and Christmas pajama bottoms until I can make a trip back to Philly.
“What are we supposed to do for this?” I ask, already awkward, “Like am I supposed to be singing?” My vocal talents are best appreciated in a full and lively congregation, where no one can hear them. My living room would not do them justice.
“You don’t have to stay,” my dad replies, fiddling with the remote for the new TV.
I stay. We don’t sing. I sip my coffee.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen,” the priest begins. His name is really bugging me. We bless ourselves in our living room.
I know I know that priest from my undergrad days, but his name escapes me. He has red hair and teaches French literature. EWTN, the Catholic channel, always livestreams Mass from Notre Dame—the University of Notre Dame in Indiana, not Notre-Dame in Paris, an important distinction that is confused more often than it should be. Last spring, some unwitting BBC reporter used a Lou Holtz quote about Notre Dame football to mourn the loss of “the treasures of Notre-Dame.”
The basilica is wonderful, but it’s no Notre-Dame. It looks small and cold on the screen. Cavernous and quiet, with its night sky ceilings and serene saints, it’s usually a peaceful place, warm and welcoming in the bleak South Bend winters that numbed me for five years. Today it is empty but for a handful of priests, dutifully spaced six feet apart in their rose-colored robes. It is Laetare Sunday, the fourth Sunday of Lent, where Catholics—and maybe some Anglicans—take a brief break from the solemn fast of Lent and look forward to the brighter days ahead. It’s the spoiler alert of Lent, the reminder that we’ve got good things coming if we run the race, fight the good fight, and do whatever else Paul said in that one letter to somebody or other. It also means that priests wear pink.
“The Peace of the Lord be with you,” the priest welcomes.
“Are we supposed to, like, do the responses? And with your spirit?” my sister asks. We make eye contact and I shrug. I sip my coffee.
I let my legs dangle over the side of my armchair as the priest reads the Gospel. It’s a good one this weekend: Jesus healing a blind man but breaking the Sabbath in doing so. I like this one. It feels fitting for a Lent full of Sabbaths that we won’t be able to keep holy because of a plague. I wonder what the medieval Church did during the actual plague. Went to Mass and died, probably.
I swirl the dregs of my coffee, watching the trail of stray grounds spiral in the bottom of my mug.
Is this sacrilegious? I wonder. Me, flung sideways in my chair drinking coffee, my mom, petting my dog and turning away from the TV to remind him that he is a very good boy. Or is it right somehow? Bringing worship into our home, with its faded carpet and mismatched furniture, into the fabric of our imperfect lives. That’s the point, isn’t it? I wonder.
“Is that Father Pete? The one in the second pew?” my dad asks, pointing at the back of a head on the screen. Carolyn and I answer in the affirmative.
My mother, five minutes later, asks, “Is that Father Pete?” The other three of us exchange looks.
“Yeah, the guy in the second row with the dark buzz cut” I say, letting her selective attention slide.
My sister is less willing to let go, “Yeah Mom, Dad asked that literally five minutes ago.” My mom makes a face at her before continuing to pet the dog.
A Notre Dame favorite, Fr. Pete is so well-beloved that ND football made a hype video of him preparing for Mass that they play on the Jumbotron at every home game. I wonder if there will even be a football season this year. Heaven forbid God’s favorite university doesn’t have its football season. What will the devout do on Saturdays?
I should pay attention. I finish my coffee.
“Father Gregory! That’s it,” I say, finally remembering the name of the celebrant. My mom shushes me.
The cantor sings “Let us pray to the…” and the sparse congregation joins in “Lord hear our prayer,” making one continuous song out of the Prayer of the Faithful. This is usually a lovely exchange of prayer and intention, but now it echoes oddly in the empty space of the basilica.
There’s only one cantor instead of a full choir, and her chair is spaced an awkward six feet from Fr. Gregory’s. Somehow, I know that her name is Danielle. She has a beautiful voice, but the hymns are thin without the congregation participating “with full heart and voice” as Fr. Rocca always used to say.
She sings “Amazing Grace” as the priest prepares Communion. It isn’t usually sung during this part of the Mass; they must have chosen it intentionally. It’s a song of hope, of being found and known, of perseverance. I know they mean it to be uplifting and unifying, strengthening us through the darkness and fear. But it’s not the same. “Amazing Grace” echoing to an empty basilica catches in my throat and makes my eyes sting for the first time in this pandemic.
I hide my face behind my empty mug and hope my family doesn’t notice.
My dog snores.
Kathleen Davin is an MS1 at the Perelman School of Medicine. Kathleen can be reached by email at [email protected].
