On Monday, rather than attend RCIA class (an event I have yet to miss), I attended the Chrism Mass at my local diocese.

I’d planned to arrive early, as I figured a diocese-wide Mass would be crowded, but I did not expect the standing-room-only cathedral. There was barely a place to park my car, squeezing it into an illegal spot with the rest of the latecomers. I can usually find a seat when I attend church on my own, but there wasn’t a spot to be found. I lingered in the back, clutching my program, and stared at the crowd before me.

It was a crowd. It was only a week ago that I learned about the Chrism Mass—the annual event where the bishop blesses the holy oils. I was keenly aware how quickly the day approached that one of these oils would be used for my own consecration. It wouldn’t be in this particular diocese, but that minor detail mattered little. The same Mass would be occurring in my “home” diocese, that very same night, for the parish I’d claimed as my own.

The procession was no small affair: Not merely the bishop himself, but every priest in the diocese. At some point, I’d stopped singing the processional hymn to simply watch. I’d known beforehand that they would all be there, but watching the priests fill the empty space in the cathedral was entrancing. After, with two pews that had been reserved for them still empty, us latecomers were ushered into those seats right behind them. (Prime seating for a bunch of stragglers.) The bishop lead the Mass, but we sat close enough to hear every word that the priests spoke along with. Their collective voices blessed the Holy Eucharist. Even as a spectator, they were still part of it. All of them.

(Shot courtesy of the Trenton Monitor.)

I knew that the reality of the Mass wouldn’t sink in until much later. It was a lot to take in for this mere candidate. But every time the congregation spoke, I felt it. Hearing a packed cathedral declare, “Thanks be to God.” Singing in Latin (of which I could mostly follow, thanks to the program) with a full choir. The blessing of the oils, those same oils that will be used this year in every parish, for every baptism and healing and ordination. (And, as I’m inclined to never forget, for people like me.) The bishop’s homily was a rededication. A promise to live our lives as Christ wants us to live it. He spoke directly to the priests for much of it, but it wasn’t any less true for us laymen—What kind of Christian are we? What kind of Christian should we be?

“I ‘bless’ holy oils because they are used to give sacramental grace to the people anointed with them. I ‘consecrate’ chrism because chrism consecrates an entire person or structure to God.” —Bishop David O’Connell

Typically, I take the time during the Eucharist to pray. If I can’t yet receive Jesus bodily, I can receive him in whatever means I can right now. But during this Mass, I looked up. I watched rows and rows of priests approach the sanctuary, receiving the Eucharist. A true brotherhood, one bound by Jesus Christ himself.

I was in no hurry to leave. Some people darted out before the procession was completed, but I waited. I still waited, even after the surrounding pews had emptied. My eyes stung with the lingering incense. And I realized, yet again, how awesome God is. How He brought us all together, not only in Trenton, but in every diocese. Everywhere. To renew our faith at the start of this Holy Week. And to celebrate Him.