“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”
These words are another option for the priest’s greeting at the beginning of Mass. This greeting comes straight from Paul in 2 Cor13:13. The Eastern churches had been using it for some 1,500 years, while the West used “Dominus vobiscum” — “The Lord be with you.” When the reformers after Vatican II set out to renew the liturgy, they didn’t reach for something modern. They returned to the scriptures and carried this greeting forward. The freshest line in the Missal is also one of the oldest.
Paul wrote this line to the church in Corinth, a community so fractured, exhausted, and argumentative that it would make your worst parish council meeting look downright serene. Into that chaos, he drops one powerhouse sentence: three Persons of the Trinity, three divine gifts, and basically the whole plan of salvation.
Consider my Uncle Uther. Uther greets people the way a man fills out government forms: the precise minimum required. His entire greeting is a single, grudging nod. Words would only complicate things, he figures. In 47 years, he’s never once asked “How are you?” because he’s not equipped to handle an honest answer. Uther acknowledges your existence. Barely. He doesn’t invite conversation, let alone communion. It’s the nod of a man who’s concluded people are best left over there, where they belong. Efficient? Yes. Warm? About as much as a DMV waiting room.
Grandma Geraldine, on the other hand, greets like a pipe organ on Easter morning with every stop pulled out: full volume, no restraint. She starts with your full name, including the middle one she personally selected for you, delivered at a decibel level the cantor would call showing off. Then comes an alarming appraisal of your weight, hair, and skin (“You look tired, dear, are you eating enough kale?”), a detailed inquiry about your great-aunt Mildred, who passed in 2019, an unsolicited remedy for ailments you didn’t know you had, and a hug so enthusiastic our family chiropractor can pay off his kids’ college tuition. She has never uttered a plain “hi” in her life. To her, “hi” is what you say right before you accidentally back over someone in the driveway.
Now, contrast that with the Trinitarian greeting at Mass: the most theologically dense hello in human history, delivered while at least half the congregation is still circling for parking and wondering if they remembered to turn off the stove.
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.” When people hear “grace,” they might picture God being politely nice, like offering you the last cookie. Paul means something far wilder: the free, unmerited gift of God’s own life poured into you. Like forgiving that relative who ruins Thanksgiving every year.
“The love of God.” This one starts in the Father: the love that sent the Son into our mess, that conquered death itself, and that still shows up in whatever baggage (literal or emotional) we lugged through the church doors this morning. This love shows up even on our worst weeks.
“The communion of the Holy Spirit.” “Communion” means more than coffee and donuts after Mass (though those are nice too, especially cronuts). It’s koinonia — deep, shared life, the real thing. The Holy Spirit is the living bond of love between Father and Son, drawing us into the middle of the Trinity. As Peter puts it, we become “partakers of the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4). Mind-blowing stuff for 8:30 AM on a Sunday.
One God. Three Persons. One invitation.
Uncle Uther would grunt approvingly: “Church got it done in eight seconds. Efficient.” He’s not entirely wrong.
Grandma Geraldine couldn’t diagram the Greek grammar if you paid her, but when she hears it, her eyes close, her shoulders relax, and for a record 11 seconds she’s actually quiet. We meet the Trinity long before we can explain it: in moments of undeserved forgiveness, in love that keeps showing up anyway, in that odd sense of belonging to a congregation you walked into freely, full of people you didn’t select, who turn out to be family.
Every greeting flows from what the greeter believes about the other person. Uther’s nod says, “You’re fine… over there.” Geraldine’s bear hug declares, “You’re family, spine realignment included, whether you like it or not.” No one greets in a vacuum. We greet out of our convictions.
So what does the Church confess when she greets us this way every Sunday? She’s handing us the inner life of God Himself. That means she believes you (yes, you, the one who barely made it, or the one quietly doubting) are recipients of divine grace, love, and communion. This greeting is a declaration, not polite small talk. Real participation in God’s life is on the table for every one of us, in the pews, parking struggles and all.
You can tell what a family believes by how it says hello. The Church’s liturgy says hello with the full Trinity. Draw your own conclusions about what that says you’re worth, and about the kind of welcome waiting for you every time you show up.
The Joy of the Gospel 