The Sunday we were in Paris, we had the opportunity to attend mass in Notre Dame. On the way there, we experienced delays on the metro which made me worry that we’d miss the service entirely. So by the time we reached the exit of the St-Michel Notre Dame station, I found myself dashing across the square past the long queue of tourists waiting to enter. At the entrance there was man holding a sign that read “Messe”, and instinctively knowing this was meant for those who came to pray, I nodded my head at him as I walked straight inside.
My eyes searched for the font of holy water as I entered, and after crossing myself, we found seats and a program which contained translations in multiple languages of the day’s readings. It was the 27th Sunday of Ordinary Time.
As the mass continued on in French, I couldn’t help but sit in awe that I was here. I thought I had been to beautiful churches before, but this seemed different. And while I may not understand French, what I do know is the mass. As the light from the stained glass windows and the sound of prayer washed over us, I came to further appreciate how this old tradition is my inheritance. With all its flaws, I love my Church.
