When I was a child, Sunday was different than it is now. What is not different is Mass. My family did not attend Mass en masse. It was a rite of passage: When my siblings and I would reach a certain age, we had permission to attend the Mass time of our choosing and walk the block to our local parish. Easter and Christmas looked more like the Hollywood version of a big family going to Mass, but for the rest of the year, we were scattered across the spectrum of the time zone.
But every Sunday early afternoon, we were all ensconced in our house. The evening meant a big dinner with extended family, the “Wonderful World of Disney” and the nagging regret that the homework assignment due on Monday had been neglected.
We were not allowed to go over to a friend’s house to play or have a friend over. We could watch sports — baseball in the summer and football in the fall — but we stayed close to home. This sentiment was reflected in the culture as well. You were hard-pressed to find a store open if some need arose, and the quiet of the neighborhood was palpable.
Since then, things have become a lot busier. Sunday, to the vast majority of people, Catholic and otherwise, is now just one more day of leisure, activities, and overall busyness. I must confess, when we started our own family, my wife and I found ourselves caught up in this trend of being too busy. We eventually came to our senses, and although she works a lot of Sundays as an ICU nurse, Sundays for the most part have been tamped down.
Family rituals did develop. We found a lovely breakfast place we have been going to after the 8 a.m. Mass at our parish for more than 30 years. When our children got older and went to other Masses at other parishes, we continued to meet afterward for breakfast at the same place. The owner has seen our kids grow up. Now we are going there with our grandson.
If there is any work done on Sundays, it is gardening, which I have always felt is a means to be close to God’s handiwork, and when it comes to all the weeds I pull, a way of doing penance as well.
This past Sunday broke our mold. We went to Mass and breakfast, and then my daughter and I went to a football game. It was a Father’s Day present from her to me, to see the Green Bay Packers (my childhood team) play the Rams. When we arrived, it became clear that a different set of rituals were taking place here. Throngs of people were wearing football jerseys that must have cost at least $175 in support of their team. There were headdresses, ceremonial chains and necklaces, and specific colors designating where one’s loyalties resided. There was even sacrifice involved if you considered the potential for catastrophic injury to the players.
There were also coordinated chants from each side, with one group of adherents shouting “Whose House? Rams House!” while the other side, in rather large numbers for a visiting team, dutifully intoned “Go Pack Go!” It was a kind of religiosity that fit the definition in Merriam-Webster’s dictionary: “Religion is a personal set or institutionalized system of religious attitudes, beliefs, and practice.”
There were certainly people with beliefs and practices centered around their favorite football team, and during the NFL season, those beliefs and rituals take place every Sunday from October to January. I felt a strange kind of kinship with these members of the church of football. I have been known to cheer rather boorishly myself, depending on the “importance” of a particular game. But I would like to think I have matured enough emotionally and spiritually to understand that, in the end, it is just a game.
For many of the 70,000-plus fans at the game, it was special mainly because it was time for football. It was the game that was being honored, and in some cases, absolutely worshiped. This is the secular world seeking to fill a void that God is more than willing to satisfy, if they look for it.
I am thankful for my daughter’s generous gift and the experience of sharing something we have both loved for a long time. I am also thankful for the gift my mom and dad gave me, for remembering to whom Sunday actually belongs. Maybe next Sunday at Mass I’ll start a cheer: “Whose House? God’s House!”
