Take a bow: can the body language of the new liturgical rules help create community?

THE PARISH OF THE HOLY SPIRIT IS LEARNING HOW TO bow. It's our first official glimmer of the New Rules, the revised General Instruction for the Roman Missal. We don't all agree that it will convey any more reverence for the Eucharist than we already have. Some of us shake our heads and ask, "What will they come up with next?" But we're trying to be flexible.

At first, we did nothing, abashedly commenting after Mass that we couldn't figure out when or how to get the bow in. Do we bow before we get to the priest or eucharistic minister? Do we bow before receiving both the Body and Blood or just once? How about if we just bow before it's our turn in line? How much of a bow are we talking about, anyway?

Eventually the brave tried it out. Some of us bowed from the waist; others tried out a perfunctory head nod. We bowed as the person in front of us was receiving. We bowed just before receiving. Some bowed once, some twice.

A couple of Sundays ago, there was a whole rash of complaints that if you bow too late, the minister says "The Body of Christ" to the crown of your head, erasing the usual eye contact. Others noted that bowing to the back of the person in front of you seemed pointless. My friend Carolyn said that when she bowed from the waist, her nose just about ended up in the cup.

Last week our bulletin instructed, "Bow twice, head only." This seemed to solve the nose-in-the-cup problem but didn't help with the timing. For many, this isn't a problem at all, since they don't bob, nod, or bend in any way. Yet. Otherwise, good-humored uncertainty reigns as we trade notes on what worked this time.

In Zen Buddhism, which I practiced for some time before returning to Catholicism, this isn't an issue. Specific bows are made in specific ways at carefully defined times. Part of learning about Zen is practicing exactly how to bow exactly when. How one moves and sits is inextricably linked to the practice, not a matter of individual style. Bowing is a statement that in this practice, the self is not the star of the show.

My recollection is that the training at St. Francis de Sales parochial school was not much different. We learned how and when to kneel, to genuflect, to bow our heads. We all did it in the same way at the same time, not when the spirit moved us. Altar servers worked the same way. Freelancing was not permitted. We were learning that, in this matter, the self was not the star of the show.

Knowing the ritual gestures and postures of our faith helped us learn that we belonged. Now, even after years away or visiting parishes across the country, our movements join us together and reassure us that time and distance do not separate us.

On returning to Catholicism, however, I was struck by an uncertainty about posture. Genuflecting had evolved into a sort of moving dip, except for those who genuflected and made the Sign of the Cross three times on the way to the pew. Some eucharistic ministers and lectors seemed to be bowing constantly, others occasionally, all differently. One bowed with a "Here I am, God. Pay attention" kind of attitude, involving a tiny head tilt performed with ponderous stateliness.

Sometimes I think that if Mother Mary Eugenie would just come back, review when we're supposed to do what, how to do it, and supervise a practice session, we'd all feel better.

IN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT THE NEW BOWS, THOUGH, WE seem to be saying, "In this, we want to be the same." Instruction has been minimal. We understand that we are supposed to be showing reverence for the Eucharist, but something else is also happening. In comparing notes, gently overcoming awkwardness and self-consciousness, we are spontaneously adjusting our movements to one another. We watch and are trying to find a bow that works for most of us. We are almost instinctively moving toward a shared sign that, in this time and in this place, we are One Body; we all belong.

In a culture that elevates the individual, our ritual movements have always guided our spirits into community, and they still do. Our timing is off and we don't match, but we're gathering momentum. Sunday by Sunday, person by person, one bow after another, we're moving together, melding our little ripples into one big wave.

By ANN LEBLANC a psychologist in Maine and the author of How to G0 to Confession If You Don't Know How (St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2003).