The Eucharistic Prayer:
A Guide to Participation
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#1. Give God Thanks and Praise
Do you remember the ﬁrst prayer you ever learned?
Perhaps it was:
Angel of God, my guardian dear,
to whom Godʼs love commits me here,
Ever this day be at my side, to light and guard
and rule and guide.
Or
Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray, Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, I pray,
Thee, Lord, my soul to take.
Do you notice all the personal pronouns, the ʻmyʼsʼ and ʻIʼsʼ and ʻmeʼs? We learned this and other childhood prayers at
a time when we were, each of us, the center of a very small world. But, at the same time we were learning these bedtime
prayers, we were also being taught to give thanks together at mealtimes:
Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive,
from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord.
Our parents were teaching us to look beyond ourselves and our needs – our natural focus - and to see others. We learned
about the ʻweʼ beyond the ʻI.ʼ We learned in our petitions to pray for our parents and siblings and friends. We learned to
pray for people we had never met, and might never know. We learned at table to give thanks for the gifts laid out before
us. We learned at table to bless.
To bless a person or a thing is to acknowledge its true identity and its true source. When we bless a meal we
acknowledge that it is a gift from God. We are not more deserving than the hungry people of Haiti; we simply accept
our bounty as a gift, something we neither deserve nor earn. When we bless a child, we acknowledge that she is not our
property, but a gift from God, from whom she came and to whom she belongs. Blessing teaches us to loosen our grip on
all we believe to be ours – our families and friends, our husbands and wives, our health - and to return it to God, to whom
all life belongs and from whom all life comes. Blessing teaches us to turn our eyes from ourselves and to turn them to the
source of all that lives and moves and has being. Blessing teaches us to look to God for each day, whatever it may bring.
Blessing, acknowledging the world as gift, leads us to thanksgiving, acknowledging the giver of the gift. Thanksgiving
leads us to praise. Praise is beyond thanks for gifts given and received. Praise is a love song, a hymn to God. Like any
lover gazing upon the beloved, we simply acknowledge who God is, in beauty, in wonder, in mercy, in might.
We hear this hymn of praise every time we gather to celebrate the eucharist. The Preface, the opening movement of our
Eucharistic Prayers, always begins with praise,
Father in heaven, it is right that we should give you thanks and glory:
You are the one God, living and true
Through all eternity you live in unapproachable light.
And ends by joining our thanks and praise to that of the angels and saints as we sing
Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might,
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
We sing this praise Sunday after Sunday. We sing this praise when our children have run away from home, when our
health has failed, when our houses have been foreclosed. We sing this praise at weddings and at funerals, in good times
and in bad. And when our tears will not allow the words to form, the community sings Godʼs praise for us and with us,
lifting us up with their praise.
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What we learn in praising God is what we ﬁrst learned as children: Thanking God for the food on the table doesnʼt
depend on the menu. We thank God for lentil soup as we thank God for beef tenderloin and chocolate cake. And we
praise God not because of our circumstances, but because God is. God is: Is eternal, is strong to save, is loving, is
forgiving. Because “countless hosts of angels look upon Godʼs splendor” even when we cannot see.
Praise shapes our lives. Like water running over a rock, the praise of God sculpts us, forms us and turns us from a
people looking in the mirror to a people looking at God and Godʼs world, at Godʼs creatures. It transforms us into a
people whose very lives are a daily acknowledgement of Godʼs glory. Our tradition calls this “doxology” from the Greek
meaning a word (logos) about glory (doxa).
Seeing this glory, praising this glory, living and moving and having our being within this glory is the goal of all our
prayer, indeed, of our very lives. This is why our highest form of prayer, the Eucharistic Prayer, always ends in doxology,
Through him {Jesus Christ}, with him, in him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
All glory and honor is yours, almighty Father, for ever and ever. Amen.
FDLC #44680, Part 1 of 5
Authors: Andrew Ciferni and Melissa Musick Nussbaum
Art: Jane Pitz
© FDLC, Federation of Diocesan Liturgical Commissions, 415 Michigan Avenue, N.E., Washington DC 20017.
Web page: www.fdlc.org; email: [email protected]; voice: 202-635-6991.
The Eucharistic Prayer:
A Guide to Participation
Sample - DO NOT DUPLICATE
#2. Looking to Jesus
Hereʼs what the tradition tells us about Jesusʼ conception
and birth. When a pregnant Mary went out into the
countryside to visit her cousin, Elizabeth, she received
Elizabethʼs blessing. That is, Elizabeth recognized Mary
for who she is, the god-bearer, and she recognized
Maryʼs baby as the promised One of Israel. Elizabeth
cried out,
Most blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb.
Mary responded to Elizabethʼs blessing with her own praise of God:
My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
My spirit rejoices in God my savior…holy is his name.
Jesus was conceived and delivered and raised in a culture of blessing and praise. He learned his ﬁrst prayers as most of
us did, taught by his parents. He was circumcised, according to Jewish law. He was taken to the Temple and presented to
the Lord. He went with his parents to Jerusalem each year for the Passover festival.
In fact, from the few biographical facts we know about Jesusʼ life, one is certain: Jesus prayed. Jesus prayed alone and
with his followers. He prayed in the temple. He prayed at table with his friends. He took bread, blessing and breaking
it before feeding the multitudes. He prayed before he spoke to the crowds and after he preached. He prayed before his
passion and death. He walked and talked with God the Father, moment by moment, remembering by whom and for whom
he was called.
If we were to ask the popular evangelical question posed on t-shirts and posters, “WWJD, or, what would Jesus do?” we
could honestly answer, “Pray.”
Scholars argue whether the Last Supper was a Passover meal and whether our Eucharistic Prayer derives directly from
ﬁrst century Jewish table blessings, but no one disputes that the Jewish tradition of blessing and thanksgiving prayers at
the beginning and end of Jewish meals are the foundation of the Eucharistic Prayer. Listen to this modern Jewish grace
after meals:
Blessed be the name of the Lord from now forevermore.
Let us bless Him of whose bounty we have partaken
Blessed be He of whose bounty we have partaken
And through whose goodness we live.
Blessed be He, blessed be His name.
This hymn of praise to God, though Jewish, is familiar to Catholic ears. It would have been familiar to Jesus of Nazareth
two thousand years ago.
These are prayers Jesus knew by heart, from the simple blessing of the daily meal, to the expanded Passover prayers of
thanks and praise for Israelʼs delivery in the Exodus. It was within the context of the Jewish table blessings that Jesus
spoke at the Last Supper. Jesus inserted his own words and actions, transforming the prayer into the culmination of his
teaching, a teaching fully revealed and understood only in his death and in his rising from the dead.
But Jesus didnʼt only pray at the Last Supper. He presided at a meal. He ate with his followers, and commanded all of
his followers, down throughout time, to share the same prayers and the same holy meal.
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When supper was ended, he took the cup.
Again he gave you thanks and praise,
gave the cup to his disciples, and said:
Take this, all of you, and drink from it:
this is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant.
It will be shed for you and for all
so that sins may be forgiven
Do this in memory of me.
We are to take of the Body of Christ that we might go out and be the Body of Christ for the world. We are to do what
Jesus did: Hand over our bodies, shed our very blood, for the reconciliation of a broken world.
Prayer and praise was the way Jesus lived and died in the world. Prayer and praise is the way we are to live and die in
the world.
Liturgical prayer is the public worship of the church, as when we gather for Mass. It is the time when all the personal
moments, the daily moments of prayer and praise, are gathered into one. We hear the word of God proclaimed and
preached and we come to understand that our story is part of the long, ancient story of God and of Godʼs people. We hear
stories of betrayal and conﬂict and loss. We hear of the deaths of the righteous and the innocent. We hear in these stories
the echoes of our own lives. And through it all, we hear of the faithfulness of God, the One who neither slumbers nor
sleeps, but who keeps eternal watch. We lose our way, but God is the good shepherd who will not suffer a single lamb
to be lost. We turn away from God, but God is the loving father, searching the road for his wandering child, ready to
welcome him home.
In liturgical prayer we remember: Who God is – “…holy indeed, the fountain of all holiness” - and who we are before
and within the heart of God. This remembering compels us to bless, to thank and to praise the One who calls us by name:
beloved daughter, beloved son.
We are daughters and sons in triumph and in failure, in life and in death. Growing into that pattern – the pattern
of Jesusʼ prayer and praise – brings us, through grace, to accept Godʼs will even in our own Gardens of Gethsemane.
Growing into the pattern of Jesusʼ prayer and praise will bring us to be what Jesus is in and for the world: One who
proclaims and enﬂeshes glad tidings for the poor, freedom for the captive, joy for those who mourn, and light for those
who dwell in darkness.
We are the people of whom the Eucharistic Prayer says
From age to age you gather a people to yourself,
So that from east to west
A perfect offering may be made
To the glory of your name.
FDLC # 44680, Part 2 of 5
Authors: Andrew Ciferni and Melissa Musick Nussbaum
Art: Jane Pitz
© FDLC, Federation of Diocesan Liturgical Commissions, 415 Michigan Avenue, N.E., Washington DC 20017.
Web page: www.fdlc.org; email: [email protected]; voice: 202-635-6991.
The Eucharistic Prayer:
A Guide to Participation
Sample - DO NOT DUPLICATE
#3. The Shape of the Eucharistic Prayer
Think back to the time you ﬁrst learned the alphabet.
Perhaps your parents or teachers taught you to sing the
letters to the tune “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Most
children sing the song over and over until they know the
letters in order and by heart. Many adults, confused for a
moment over just where ʻQʼ belongs, will ﬁnd themselves
humming the same nursery school song until they place
ʻQʼ correctly between ʻPʼ and ʻR.ʼ
We know what our ancestors knew. Repetition is the best way to learn. The scriptures of the Old Testament were
spoken, memorized and handed orally, from one generation to the next long before they were written down. Today
surgeons who perform the same operation over and over again have the lowest mortality rates. Musicians who attain
professional careers are the ones who practice daily. Scientists speak of such repetitive learning as the cutting and
clearing of neural pathways in the brain. It is like a clearing in the forest; the more you walk it, the easier walking
becomes. Left alone and untended, the pathway will disappear, overgrown by vines and grasses.
The same is true with prayer. When we ﬁrst learn a new prayer or hymn, we concentrate on getting the words and
rhythms right. Like hikers on an uncleared trail, we have our eyes on the ground, on the lookout for rocks and fallen
branches. Weʼre afraid of tripping up.
But once we learn a prayer or hymn weʼre set free. Most of us donʼt need a printed copy of the Hail Mary or the Our
Father in order to pray. We can pray those familiar prayers anywhere, under any circumstances. Why? Because we have
repeated them over and over again, ever since we were children.
Just as repetition is the friend of learning, so is it the friend of prayer. Once we know a prayer by heart, we can stop
focusing on the words and focus instead on the object of the words: the glory of God. We can lift our eyes, as the psalmist
encourages, “to gaze on the Lordʼs beauty/ to visit his temple.”
For some fourteen hundred years the Roman Catholic church prayed one Eucharistic Prayer. It is called the Roman
Canon, “canon” meaning a “rule” or “standard.” Just as a carpenter will use a rule, or level, as a guide to measure whether
a wall is true, so the church uses the canon of the Eucharistic Prayer as a guide for all our prayer, personal and communal.
Since 1970 the Vatican has revised the Roman Canon and has added thirteen other Eucharistic Prayers. All of them
– except the Eucharistic Prayer for Masses with Children, which is modeled after the Roman Canon – repeat an ancient
pattern of eucharistic prayer that is set out in the General Instruction of the Roman Missal. This ancient pattern both
shapes and expresses our relationship to God. It shapes and expresses our relationship to God in the same way requiring
small children to say “Please” and “Thank you,” shapes, and expresses their relationship to other people. First, we ask
them to act like grateful people, to say the words of thanks. Repetition, the habit of gratitude, helps form them in true
gratitude and gives them the means to express it.
So the Eucharistic Prayer becomes the rule, or standard, of our prayer and of our faith. Its pattern becomes the template
for all prayer. Here is an easy memory aid to learn the pattern of the Eucharistic Prayer: You - Who - Do - Through.
You – We begin by naming God, the “You” upon whom we call. When Jesus prayed, he called God “Father,”
and in the Eucharistic Prayer, so do we:
Father, it is our duty and our salvation,
Always and everywhere
To give you thanks…
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Who – We remember an act or quality of God; we remember who God is. When Jesus spoke of God as father, he
spoke of one who protects and guides his own, of one who would lay down his life before allowing harm to those
in his care. In the Eucharistic Prayer we remember that
Time and again we broke your covenant
but you did not abandon us.
Instead, through your Son, Jesus the Lord,
you bound yourself ever more closely to the human family
by a bond that can never be broken.
(Preface, Eucharistic Prayer 1 for Reconciliation)
Do – Jesus laid down his life for us; he acted. God is at work in the world, acting on behalf of all. Knowing how
God has acted throughout human history – bringing the Jews out of slavery in Egypt, sending Jesus to reveal the
depth of the Fatherʼs love – we have the courage to bring our needs before God. We have the courage to ask that
God will stand for us and with us, that we will not stand alone. In the Eucharistic prayer we proclaim
Father, hear the prayers of the family you have gathered here before you.
In mercy and love unite all your children wherever they may be.
Through – Jesus comes to earth to reveal the nature of God. He says, “If you know me, then you will also
know my Father.” (Jn 14:7) We come to the throne of Godʼs mercy through Christ and in the Holy Spirit. All
prayer acknowledges the communion of Father, Son and Holy Spirit and the Church.
Grant this through our Lord, Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
One God, for ever and ever. Amen.
FDLC # 44680, Part 3 of 5
Authors: Andrew Ciferni and Melissa Musick Nussbaum
Art: Jane Pitz
© FDLC, Federation of Diocesan Liturgical Commissions, 415 Michigan Avenue, N.E., Washington DC 20017.
Web page: www.fdlc.org; email: [email protected]; voice: 202-635-6991.
The Eucharistic Prayer:
A Guide to Participation
Sample - DO NOT DUPLICATE
#4. Praying or Making Lists?
Multi-tasking is one of the words that deﬁne our age.
It is a valued skill. The person who can take a phone call
while checking e-mail and signing letters is top management material. The woman who can dice vegetables while
holding an infant and doing a series of stomach tightening
exercises is considered a super-mom. We admire the jogger who times his walk so that he can listen to NPR as he
burns up calories. The old notion of “killing two birds with
one stone” now seems quaint. Weʼre after the whole ﬂock.
There are a few activities which resist multi-tasking. Married couples will tell you that trying to – say – fold sheets
while making love results in wrinkled laundry and bad sex. Shoving a meal down oneʼs throat kills table conversation
and brings on heartburn and indigestion. Listening to a childʼs tearful tale of humiliation on the playground while surﬁng
the internet lessens the chance he will ever tell you anything of consequence again. And babies being fed stare into the
motherʼs or fatherʼs eyes with such intensity and curiosity as to demand a long, care-ﬁlled look in return.
There are certain threads connecting these moments, for they involve times of human communion, sharing stories,
sharing meals, sharing our very ﬂesh. Consider our gathering for Mass. We come to hear the stories of Godʼs faithfulness
told again and again. We come to share a feast laid before us by God. We come to eat and drink of the very ﬂesh – the
body and the blood – of Christ. These are moments which require attention. To do it right, to do it well, we have to be
there. Not there and somewhere else, as multi-tasking requires, but there, fully present, fully active, fully conscious.
It is one thing to speak of the Eucharistic Prayer as the canon, the “standard” or “rule” of our prayer and faith. It is
quite another to live with the Eucharistic Prayer as the canon of our lives. But it is precisely that eucharistic way of life
to which we are called. Such a life takes practice, and that is, in part, what we do every time we gather for Mass: We
practice living the life of a baptized Christian. Part of the practice involves being present: Turning off the cell phone,
leaving the morning paper behind, putting away the list of to-doʼs, entering one of the few spaces as yet untouched by
television, radio, or the computer and turning oneʼs whole self to the work at hand.
We sing together; we pray together; together we confess our sins. We sit quietly and listen to the long, long story of our
faith. We bring our gifts to the altar. It all prepares the assembly for this momentous exchange.
The priest exhorts us, “Lift up your hearts.”
It is not a suggestion, nor is it a request. We are told, commanded, to lift up our hearts. And this is no easy or light
command. In a world in which children die and spouses leave and cells turn malignant, we are told to lift up our hearts.
If nothing else, such a call should command our complete attention. Lift up our hearts. Why? Because our eyes opened
on this day. Because we are welcome here, in this church, at this altar. Many of us can lift our hearts for gifts beyond
number: Health and friends, husbands and wives, children, good work, peace, homes and gardens. But we can also
consciously lift up every loss, every longing, every burden, every pain. Why? Because God is. Mountains crumble,
seas dry, we wither and die, but God, the faithful shepherd, is. We are never abandoned. And it is right, always and
everywhere, give God thanks and praise.
So we respond, often through tears, “We lift them up to the Lord.”
This act of attending in thankfulness at the beginning of the Eucharistic Prayer is essential to our attention throughout.
The priestʼs words are an invitation to follow, and in following, in saying, “Here is my heart, Lord,” we enter a doorway
that leads us ever deeper into the rest of the prayer. It leads us into the holy work of remembering: Who God is, what
God does. This, in turn, leads us into the holy work of praise. Like a symphony or a play, one movement, one act leads to
the next. So the hymn to God calls for us to sing a hymn in reply. Like the angels who gathered above Bethlehem on the
night Jesus was born, we sing
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Holy, holy, holy Lord,
God of power and might.
Heaven and earth are full of your glory,
Hosanna in the highest.
The acclamation after the consecration is another call to attentiveness. We are bidden to offer our gifts to God. What
gifts? Only those God has ﬁrst given us, and they can only be given, lifted up, to God, in union with this memorial of
Christʼs death, and through Christ, who sits now at Godʼs right hand. We are to become “an everlasting gift to you
(God),” but only God can make it so.
Multi-tasking is the work of breaking every act down into manageable bits: Iʼll check on my e-mail while I take this
call; stir this pot with one hand while I scrub the burner with the other. But the Eucharistic Prayer so bids us to presence
that we can begin to see what many cannot: The cloud of witnesses who surround us. We do not make this prayer alone.
We do not make this prayer only with those we can touch. We make this prayer with the whole Church, both living and
dead, Godʼs “pilgrim church,” all Godʼs children “wherever they may be.” We make this prayer with the dead whose faith
is known to us and “those whose faith is known to God alone.” We make this prayer with
“Mary, the virgin Mother of God;
with the apostles, the martyrs,
and all your saints, on whose constant intercession we rely for help.”
Some parishes have taken the clocks from the walls, banned missalettes and even declined to hand out bulletins until after
Mass. Why? Because itʼs hard for Americans to be still, to be present to one moment and one moment only. We are like
parents hurrying a two-year old along on a walk. For the adult who will stop and see every shiny rock on the path and
every ﬂower pushing its way up through the asphalt, treasures await. Indeed, treasures abound. We just have to be there
when it happens.
FDLC #44680, Part 4 of 5
Authors: Andrew Ciferni and Melissa Musick Nussbaum
Art: Jane Pitz
© FDLC, Federation of Diocesan Liturgical Commissions, 415 Michigan Avenue, N.E., Washington DC 20017.
Web page: www.fdlc.org; email: [email protected]; voice: 202-635-6991.
The Eucharistic Prayer:
A Guide to Participation
Sample - DO NOT DUPLICATE
#5. From Prayer to Prayer
Most of us have complaints about Mass. We donʼt like
the music or the preaching or the sound system. Weʼre
angered by the inattention of the altar servers or the mistakes of the lectors. But the ﬁrst question any of us needs
to ask when we complain is this, “What did we bring to the
celebration?” Was this morning the ﬁrst time we had ever
heard the readings? The ﬁrst time we learned that it was
Pentecost? Have we come to the well but forgotten to bring
a bucket? Then, of course, weʼll come away empty-handed,
but not because there wasnʼt abundant water to be drawn.
Imagine an assembly that had come together on Sunday morning soaked in the scriptures. Imagine families reading the
gospel around the table and discussing it. Study is rarely so effective as when one has to teach what has been learned. If
you can explain scripture to children, chances are you have learned it well. Imagine men and women reading the epistle,
perhaps going to read a history of the church in Corinth or an explanation of Paulʼs missionary journeys. Imagine an
assembly meditating all through the week on the words of the psalm. That would be a people ready to sing out the refrain,
a people ready to hear the Word proclaimed and broken open in their sight and in their hearing.
We expect such careful preparation from the homilist and the musicians, from the lectors and the cantors, but not from
ourselves. Some Catholics mistakenly speak of themselves as the “audience,” as though we are spectators at a weekly
production of the Holy Name Society Players. In fact, the Mass calls us all – lay and ordained - to “full, active, conscious
participation.” True listening is full, active and conscious. (Think of the best listeners you know; listening is an art.) The
silence of prayer is full, active and conscious. Singing, processing, interceding for the world, taking into our hands and
into our bodies the Body and Blood of Christ, going out into the world to be the Body of Christ demands our full, active
and conscious participation.
How can we begin to become such Catholics? Lectio Divina (prayerful reading) is an ancient way of reading biblical or
liturgical texts that is especially helpful in preparing for the liturgy. We read for information – the Who, Where and When
of journalism – but Lectio Divina is reading for formation. How can we read in such a way as to become people of prayer
and praise?
Lectio Divina seems to have begun with the desert fathers of the fourth century church. Stories abound of their
experiences with Godʼs word. The story is told of Abba Pambo that a brother came, asking him to teach a psalm. Pambo
begin to teach Psalm 38. But hardly had he pronounced the ﬁrst verse:
I said, ʻI will be watchful of my ways, for fear I should sin with my tongue…ʼ
when the brother stopped him. He wanted to hear no more. He told Pambo, “That verse is enough for me. Please God I
may have the strength to learn it and to put it into practice.” The story says that nineteen years later the brother was still
trying to live that verse.
Someone asked Abba Abraham, who was famed as a scribe as well as a teacher, to copy Psalm 33. Abba Abraham copied
only verse ﬁfteen:
Turn away from evil and do good; seek after peace and pursue it.
He turned to the brother and said, “Put this into practice ﬁrst, and then I will write the rest.” We have no idea if the
brother got the rest of the psalm. Or if he needed it.
Lectio Divina begins in silence. When one is still, in mind and body, read the biblical or liturgical text. Read it slowly,
carefully. Allow an engaging phrase or word to capture your attention. What does it mean, for example, “to pursue
peace”? Sit with those words. Repeat the word or phrase over and over again. Speak in time with your slow breathing.
Then attend to the prayer that rises from the prayer.
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Or take a phrase from the Eucharistic Prayer for your Lectio Divina. You might begin with the whole prayer, which
could be read in ﬁve or ten minutes, while riding the bus or the commuter train, before eating breakfast or during a lunch
break. Do that for several days in a row, to learn the ﬂow and rhythm of the prayer. Then take a particular section, say, the
section on prayers for the dead. Then take a phrase, perhaps, “whose faith is known to you alone.” What can it mean that
God knows each of us by name? That God knows the heart of each man and woman, even those who seem to us to be cut
off from Godʼs love? Psychologists tell us that the primary emotional need of adolescence and adulthood is intimacy, to
be known and loved as and for who we are. A God who knows the faith of those who never evidenced faith is One who is
intimate with his creation, and with us.
Now imagine that after some time spent practicing Lectio Divina you pick up the paper and read that one of our nationʼs
enemies has been killed in a military raid, or that a criminal has been executed. Or you hear of a family member who has
so offended the family as to be shunned. One need not ignore or excuse the crime or offense to remember that we do not
know the hearts of all, that there are those “whose faith is known to God alone,”
We bring this renewed understanding to Mass. We bring all the living and dead before God, even those we had judged
condemned. We stand in wonder before the prayer that asks, “In mercy and love unite all your children wherever they
may be.”
Now imagine an entire parish preparing for the liturgy in this manner. Imagine how the deepening of prayer might infect
the entire assembly, from the people in the pews to the people at the altar. A people who carry the words of scripture and
prayer around with them - as they lie in bed, as they wake, as they dress for the day, as they bless the food before them, as
they leave the house for jobs and school, as they attend to their work – this is a people for whom prayer and praise is not a
nice custom, to be pulled out when the need arises. This is a people for whom prayer and praise is a way of life, as much
a part of them as the need to eat or sleep. This is a fully human people, living as God created us to live, in fellowship, in
company with God.
FDLC # 44680, Part 5 of 5
Authors: Andrew Ciferni and Melissa Musick Nussbaum
Art: Jane Pitz
© FDLC, Federation of Diocesan Liturgical Commissions, 415 Michigan Avenue, N.E., Washington DC 20017.
Web page: www.fdlc.org; email: [email protected]; voice: 202-635-6991.