Coming Home: The Mass as a Sanctuary in a Restless World

(A Father's Day Reflection on the Gift of the Mass)

As a father, I often feel the weight of wanting to do right by my family—to protect them from the noise and confusion of the world, to give them something solid when so much feels fleeting. I want them to know peace, truth, and beauty. But in the face of constant distraction, relentless busyness, and shallow connections, I sometimes ask: Where do I lead them? Where do we anchor ourselves?

Then, I am reminded—the Mass. It is my own refuge and the home I long to bring my family into. It is where we are rooted.

Picture yourself caught in the current of daily life, swept along by tasks, screens, and demands. It can feel like we’re endlessly moving yet going nowhere. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han describes this well: we live under the “compulsion of production,” constantly driven to do, achieve, and consume. In this whirlwind, the Mass stands apart. It is not just a pause—it is a sanctuary. A place where time slows, and meaning is restored. It welcomes us like a warm home after a long week.

Unlike the chaotic rhythm of our modern world, the Mass is a sacred ritual that helps us feel at home. Han writes, “Rituals are symbolic techniques of making oneself at home in the world... they transform being in the world into a being at home; they turn the world into a reliable place.” This is what the Mass offers us: religious obligation and rootedness. The Mass transforms time from a blur into a habitable sanctuary, a space for sacred memory and divine encounter.

As a father, that’s what I hope to give my children—not just provision, but peace; not just activities, but meaning. The rhythm of the Church year—the cycle of feasts, fasts, and seasons—is not arbitrary. It gives form to time. As Han puts it, rituals “structure time” and “furnish it,” allowing us to journey “from one feast day to another... from anniversary to anniversary,” building up a life that is rich in meaning rather than lost in haste. The Mass helps us move through life not like leaves in the wind, but like pilgrims with a compass.

In a world where an overflow of fleeting information often drowns meaning, Han reminds us that “data and information do not possess symbolic force.” They do not nourish us. They do not form a community. The Mass, on the other hand, offers “symbolic perception”—a deeper way of seeing. It draws out the eternal from the temporal, the beautiful from the ordinary. “It elicits the permanent from the transient,” and allows the world to “acquire durability.”

And what a gift the Mass gives us: attention. In the modern world, we are pulled from moment to moment, from one digital stimulus to the next. “Serial perception,” Han says, “rushes from one piece of information to the next... without ever coming to closure.” But in the Mass, we are invited to rest. To breathe. To behold. “Every religious practice is an exercise in attention.” The Mass cultivates this deep, lingering gaze—a countercultural stillness that teaches us to see again, not just look.

I want my children to grow up knowing that the most important things in life can’t be clicked, swiped, or streamed. They must be beheld. And the Mass teaches us to do just that.

There’s something deeply human, even healing, about how the priest handles the sacred. Han beautifully describes it:

“Mass teaches the priests to handle things in beautiful ways: the gentle holding of the chalice and the Host, the slow cleaning of the receptacles, the turning of the book’s pages. And the result of the beautiful handling of things: a spirit-lifting gaiety.”

It’s not just a ceremony—it’s a way of life—one that speaks of reverence, tenderness, and meaning. The priest’s gestures model something for all of us: how to approach not just the sacred objects of the altar but the sacredness of daily life with patience, care, and wonder.

As a father, I know that the way we treat things shapes how we treat people. How we handle the sacred teaches us how to handle one another—with care, patience, and love. In this way, the Mass is not just a worship service but a school of love.

Most beautifully, the Mass is where we become a people, a community, a body. Han says rituals “bring people together and create an alliance, a wholeness, a community.” In an increasingly isolated society—trapped in digital echo chambers that “only strengthen the echoes of the self”—the Mass creates resonance. It opens us up to the other: our neighbor, the world, and God.

In the Mass, my children see that we don’t go to church alone. We belong to something bigger. We are part of a family stretching across centuries and continents, heaven and earth. We kneel together. We sing together. We receive the same Lord. Together.

And in this sacred gathering, we are invited to let go. To lay down our burdens, our egos, our striving. Han observes, “In a society governed by ritual, there is no depression,” because the soul is not left alone to carry the weight of its emptiness. Instead, it is “absorbed by ritual forms... emptied out.” The Mass gently teaches us self-transcendence. It draws us into something greater, something eternal. It becomes, as Han describes, “like a house” that shelters the soul from despair and makes life livable again.

So this Father’s Day, I’m not asking for more stuff or more time for myself. I’m asking for the grace to lead my family to the only place that gives true rest: the Eucharist. It is the source and summit of our faith, the one place where I, too, can lay down the weight I carry and remember that I am a son before I am a father.

Let us cherish the Mass, not as a relic of the past but as a vibrant, living encounter. It is a wellspring of grace in a parched world, a sacred rhythm that counters chaos, and a home for our restless hearts.

In the Mass, we are reminded of who we are: not isolated producers, but beloved sons and daughters. Not drifting particles, but part of a great story. The Mass offers us roots in a rootless age, beauty in a utilitarian world, and presence in an age of distraction.

Let us return to it, again and again. For here, in this sacred space, heaven touches earth. Here, we are made whole.

And as a father, I can think of no greater gift to pass on than this: a place where we learn to belong, love, and live with hearts lifted high.