I found myself—it’s weird, I don’t recall how—in a church during Mass. It was today. But it also wasn’t today. Something was very different. I wasn’t sure if the technologies around me were far beyond what I knew, or if there had been an iconoclastic hammer taken to everything I grew up with. It was all hazy. But certainly, I was a bit out of place.

A woman was reading from the Old Testament. I must have been distracted during the earlier parts of the liturgy. Or maybe I’d just arrived. At any rate, the text was from Job. It seemed kind of like the NRSV that I knew, but the wording had been slightly emended. It went like this:

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:
“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Gird up your loins like a man,
I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
On what were its bases sunk,
or who laid its cornerstone
when the morning stars sang together
and all the angels shouted for joy?” (38:1–7)

The customary responses were given, and then a cantor in some loft somewhere began to intone the words of the Psalm:

Praise the Lord from the heavens;
    praise him in the heights!
Praise him, all his angels;
    praise him, all his host! (148:1–2)

The refrain echoed over and over, as the whole psalm was read through from beginning to end.

The sunlight dazzled my eye for a moment, as it streamed through a window with a hue of glass quite unfamiliar to me. Soon enough, the alleluias rang out, we followed through the rubrics, and the priest started reading from the Gospel. I don’t recall the whole passage. But it certainly contained the verses about smart birds that don’t worry about tomorrow and beautifully adorned lilies that neither toil nor spin (Mt 6:26–29; Lk 12:24–28). I wish it had stuck in my mind whether the birds were corvids or not; then I might at least be able to identify the evangelist. As it is, I just don’t know.

So, we all sat down—though again, I don’t quite remember standing up, even if I knew we were following the standard rubrics—and the priest launched into his homily.

He marvelled that such a large crowd had shown up for today’s Mass for the Care of Creation in honour of the Caretaker Angels. My brain was a bit fuzzy, and I nodded as if I knew what that meant. But really, I didn’t.

The priest continued on, recounting how Pope John XXV, taking up the mantle of Pope Francis’ encyclical letter Laudato Si’ and Pope Leo XIV’s many interventions on behalf of our common home, instituted this liturgical commemoration. In fact, it’s almost as if the liturgical calendar had been waiting for the holy day we’re celebrating. Until just three years ago, the end of Creationtide had had an empty slot between the Memorial of the Guardian Angels and the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi.

Now, there are a lot of angels and archangels this week, he said. They seem to come all crammed together. But we shouldn’t let that get us all confused and think that today’s is just a repeat of yesterday’s celebration. I want to say that clearly. This isn’t another day in honour of our own personal guardians in heaven. No, this is something different. Let’s look, he said, at the readings for today.

Jesus tells us in the Gospel that the lilies are beautifully clothed and that the birds are well provided for. The Father looks after them. The argument that Jesus offers is one from lesser to greater. God looks after plants and animals. Surely we’re looked after just as much—or more! That’s the core message, and we can’t forget it.

But when we read today’s Gospel in light of yesterday’s, the Church proposes that we see something else in it, too. Yesterday we heard that the angels of even little children gaze on the face of God in heaven. It’s remarkable. Everyone, even a little child, has an angel to stay by us and help us. Every human being has a guardian angel.

Well, today we go through the opposite logic. As we hear in the the psalm—beautifully sung, by the way, Philippa, thank you; as we hear in the psalm and the Old Testament reading, the angels are part of creation. So, if some of them are looking after us, then some of them will be looking after our common home, too. Everything is connected. (Here, the priest repeated himself.) Everything, everything is connected.

Of course, if there are angels that are caretakers of some parts of creation, how much more will there be a guardian angel specific for just you, because you’re a person, you’re a child of God!

But we can’t forget the flip side, too. Everything is connected. This is a big truth that we’ve had to learn the hard way in recent years—especially after there was some grave natural disaster or another that the priest spoke of very clearly, but which I couldn’t decipher. Yes, it’s a big truth. So, here we are. Yesterday we honoured each of the angels who looks after each of us. And today we’re remembering each of the angels who looks after some part of God’s good creation. They rejoice with creation. But they also groan with it, however angels groan, when it cries out under the weight we’ve hung around its neck and the damage we’ve caused. In heaven, the angels hear not just the cry of the poor—but also the cry of the earth.

We, too, need to hear both the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor, said the priest; that’s why, he stressed, we have this new feast day. With the host of angels, let’s listen to both the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor.

And this was, I think, the end of his homily.

I don’t remember anything after this. There are some indistinct colours and shapes, maybe a few sensations that linger. But on the whole, that’s as much as I got from my experience. It was around then that my eyes snapped open.

The fog subsided, and the early-morning stars pierced the darkness, quietly suggesting that we ourselves need to write the song. I found myself nothing but a dreamer, coming to on that day that bridges the liturgical gap between the Memorial of the Guardian Angels and the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi.