Every Sunday you and your family rise to don your nicest clothes and go to Mass. Maybe you have never been to a Mass, or are unfamiliar with it. You would gawk in awe at the intricate arches and columns of the Church. Gaze at the lustrous stained glass windows. Stare at the wondrous metal engraved cover of the book as it is carried down the aisle. Reverently raise your hands for a host lifted from its golden nest of a bowl. Sip with utmost care from the elaborately engraved chalice. These things are quite impressive to look at. And then there is me.

Do not mistake me for my brother, the Lectionary. He is the one paraded down the aisle and set upon his throne at the ambo. He is the bird of paradise; showy, handsome, elegant. I am a humble woodthrush by comparison. I am the Roman Missal, settled in my inconspicuous nest off to the side. The only eyes that see me are the altar boys and the sacristan. I am set in my perch long before Mass begins by his experienced hands, or rushed there last minute by a nervous altar boy. I nestle there unseen, out of sight and out of mind. Until my big moment: the Consecration. The servers make gestures with their eyes and then the stage is prepared. I am lifted and carried up to the altar. The spotlight leaves my elegant brother and rests on me. Here I stand proudly, offering my words and wisdom. The priest is the seasoned actor in a holy play and I am the script. The words read from me are most precious. The very body of Christ summoned from my ink. His very blood conjured from my paper. I stay on the altar during Communion, overseeing the work of my words spread and multiply among the masses. Sometimes my brother waves his gilded pages from across the altar. All too soon it seems, the act ends and my curtain closes. I am wrested from my golden perch and brought to rest in my sheltered crevice. I have served this job for more than a hundred years, but my creation story stretches across centuries. Select a bookmark to guide your journey as I begin my tale.

Many materials are used in the creation of a book. All of them come from the earth, its yield transformed from earthly strength to manly elegance. My paper was crafted from sturdy trees, taken from their heavenly boughs and brought to earth in a thinner, daintier form. My covers were made from sturdy oak. The ink imprinted on pages was made from coal wrested from the bowels of the earth. The thread binding my spine was made from hemp fibers laboriously woven into long threads. Leather stretched from wood and soaked in specific plants was painstakingly created for my covering. My coverings were secured with glue molded from rubber harvested off kingly trees. My bookmarks were made from cloth woven of plants and sliced into strips.

My wooden cover and pages were carefully measured and cut to size. Ink was stamped with accuracy and care upon my ready pages. Hemp thread was selected. Needles made of iron wrested from the crevices of the earth lifted by work worn hands. These needles were wielded with expert craftsmanship, woven through my pages in an intricate braid and tied to my covers. The work took many days. Eyes squinted close at my spine and breath ruffled my paper. Cloth bookmarks were neatly sewn onto my spine. Leather was secured to my covers with the thick sticky glue. Careful hands kept it smooth as it enveloped my pages and covers. Golden ink was delicately stamped upon my cover and spine. I remember when the craftsman opened me, his finished creation. He stroked my cover and ran my pages through his fingers. With finality he snapped my cover shut and I was handed off. I was packed in a box with many other blood brothers. This, was my creation. But you cannot judge a book by its cover alone. My words are another story.

My words were written by man, but they came not from man, rather from the Lord of all. He who willed the entirety of creation, he who crafted the very physical reality that made me. He touched their minds and they wrote, using their own words and tastes to describe what he showed them. Their words came from many peoples, places, and situations. As Christianity spread, they spread. The Mass evolved, and they evolved with it. Eventually the Father of Rome ordered the creation of my ancestors. The rhythm may have changed but the song stayed the same: Glory to God in the highest. The words, songs, and lessons imprinted upon my pages were ruffled as I was opened for use for the first time. The beautiful words were spoken and I felt my purpose. I am an echo of the words before me, different, but guided by the feathered wings of the Spirit. I am the nest for the Spirit, a place of rest. When my covers part the Spirit lifts its blazing message and extends it to all who listen. I am a vessel for the message, a launch pad for the grand designer. It is my greatest honor to serve my purpose. The Lord himself became a humble man of flesh and bone. His Word became a meek sandwich of papers and wood.

My story does not end as you close the book. This is only a chapter of many in the great book of life. Each page tells a story and there is meaning behind every word. It has been an honor to tell my tale and be a part of something much, much bigger than I. Fare thee well wherever your story takes you.

Want to dig deeper? Visit these links:

The Roman Missal

How Books Were Made and The Story of Bookbinding

The Story of Ink

Leather Tanning