At Home Everywhere

I was out of town recently for work and went to Mass at a parish I had never been to before.

I didn’t know the building.

I didn’t know the priest.

I didn’t know the people sitting around me.

And the Mass was in Spanish.

My Spanish is not very good.

I could catch pieces of what was being said, but certainly not everything. Under other circumstances, I probably would have felt like an outsider.

But I didn’t.

I felt completely at home.

That struck me in a way I wasn’t expecting.

I walked into a church I had never seen, surrounded by people I had never met, listening to a language I don’t fully understand, and yet I knew exactly where I was.

I knew the Gospel was being proclaimed.

I knew we were preparing for the Eucharist.

I knew the words of consecration were coming, even if they were being spoken in another language.

And when the priest elevated the Host, none of the unfamiliar things mattered anymore.

There was Jesus.
The same Jesus.

That was the moment it really hit me.

This wasn’t just a church I happened to walk into while traveling.

This was home.

Not because I recognized the walls.

Not because I knew the people.

Not because the music was familiar.

Not even because I understood every word.

It was home because it was Catholic.

There is something incredibly beautiful about that.

That same day, Catholics all over the world were gathering for Mass.

Some in massive cathedrals. Some in tiny country parishes. Some in cities. Some in villages.

Some in places where being Catholic is easy. Some in places where being Catholic can cost you something.

And yet we were all doing the same thing.

We were hearing Scripture. We were praying the same Mass. We were professing the same faith. We were approaching the same altar. We were receiving the same Lord.

That thought gave me a warmth that is hard to describe.

I had always understood, at least intellectually, that the word “Catholic” means universal.

But sitting in that unfamiliar parish, hearing Mass in Spanish, I felt it.

There is a difference between knowing something and suddenly experiencing it.

I realized that if I walked into a Catholic church in Mexico, Italy, Poland, the Philippines, Africa, South America, or almost anywhere else in the world, I might not understand the language.

I might not know a single person there.

I might not recognize the hymns.

But I would know the Mass.

And more importantly, I would know Who was there.

But the altar would still be the altar.

The Gospel would still be proclaimed.

The Eucharist would still be the Eucharist.

Christ would still be Christ.

I think we sometimes forget how extraordinary that is.

We live in a world where nearly everything is divided by borders, language, politics, culture, money, and geography.

But then you walk through the doors of a Catholic church thousands of miles from home and suddenly those divisions seem smaller.

You recognize what is happening.

You recognize the family.

You recognize home.

And maybe that is part of what Jesus meant when He spoke about gathering His people together.

The Church is bigger than our own parish.
Bigger than our town.
Bigger than our country.
Bigger than our lifetime.

When I knelt there that day, I wasn’t simply worshiping beside a room full of strangers.

I was worshiping with brothers and sisters I had never met.

And beyond that room, millions of Catholics around the world were doing the same.

Then there was another thought that made it even more meaningful.

People had been doing this long before I was born. Long before my parents were born. Long before my grandparents were born.

Generation after generation had gathered around the altar.

For much of my life, I don’t think I appreciated what a gift that was.

But I do now.

And perhaps that is one of the beautiful things about coming back to the Church after being away.

You begin noticing things you once took for granted.

A crucifix.

A tabernacle.

The sound of the bells.

The Sign of the Cross.

The familiar movements of the Mass.

The moment everyone kneels.

The quiet after receiving Communion.

They become little reminders:

You know this place.
You belong here.

That day I was hundreds of miles from my own parish. I was in an unfamiliar church. Surrounded by strangers. Listening to a language I barely understood.

And somehow I felt like I had walked through my own front door.

That is the Catholic Church.

You can travel a very long way from home…

and still find yourself home.

— Nonno