I went to the 9:30am Mass at my local parish, which is about 1/4 mile from my house. It is the parish that both sets of my great-grandparents on my mother’s side belonged to, raised their families in, were married in & buried from.
While technically my territorial parish, I do not attend Mass here often. The pastor is a lovely man, deeply spiritual and very caring, yet, like many priests in my diocese, takes one too many “liberties” for my tastes.
Mass was very nice. It is a very poor parish, in not a great part of the city in which I live, but was once a vibrant, ethnic parish. The Mass I attended had some carols in Italian, sung by a wonderful cantor, before hand, and sitting there, I had a very interesting experience. A dark cloud had enveloped my area on Chrismas Eve, when 2 volunteer firefighters were ambushed and killed when they arrived on the scene of a house fire, and, to be honest, celebrating Christmas was really the last thing on my mind.
As I sat there, listening to these carols that I have not heard in years, I was suddenly very aware of how many people I know have sat in this very same Church, during some very dark times (the great depression, WWII, Korea, Viet Nam, etc, etc, etc…)
and how many Christmas’ there were that someone sat in Chruch with tears streaming down their faces, but there- because of faith, hope or maybe even desperation. It was a very powerful moment for me, and helped me to realize that despite what is going on in “the world”, Mass is a place that will always bring me a glimpse of heaven.