“Hold back nothing of yourselves for yourselves, that he who gives himself totally to you may receive you totally!” —St. Francis of Assisi

At daily Mass the other day, I saw a guy with his arms stretched out along the back of his pew — a kindred spirit! It’s what I do all the time, and I always thought I was a bit of an oddball for it. How nice to know I’m not such an oddball after all — at least in this respect. And it got me thinking about other parts of my Catholic life that appear to be somewhat, shall we say, singular.

Limiting myself to just those quirks on display at Mass, here’s a standout trio to compare and contrast with your own peculiarities in the pew.

1. The Double Horizontal Sign of the Cross. I begin with what might be the strangest of the three, and, frankly, I’m not even all that clear how I picked this one up. When I make the sign of the cross — and only when I’m at Mass — I’ll repeat the shoulder-to-shoulder gesture (left to right, twice) as I say “… and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” When I was a new Catholic in Chicago, my parish was highly heterogeneous in terms of ethnic heritage — lots of Hispanic folks from all over, along with Koreans, Vietnamese, Eritreans and every variety of Anglo. As an intellectual convert, I’d read my way into the Church, but I had to learn how to live as a Catholic like kids do: by watching and listening and imitating. Somebody, or some group of somebodies, must’ve routinely been doing the double horizontal gesture because I started doing it myself, and I’ve been doing it for decades. If I had to justify it, I’d say that, given its timing, maybe it represents a double outpouring of the Holy Spirit — or at least a plea for that double outpouring. And why not? Who couldn’t use more Holy Spirit these days?

2. The Thumb Kiss. This one is also connected to the sign of the cross, but, unlike the double shoulder-to-shoulder, it’s one that I see performed regularly today, especially among Hispanic Catholics. After crossing myself with the first three fingers of my right hand, I’ll close my hand into a fist with my thumb resting on and perpendicular to my folded index finger. Next, I’ll lift my hand to my mouth and lay a very deliberate smooch on my thumb. This motion has a decent pedigree and even a commonly accepted interpretation: Holding the thumb against the first digit at a right angle creates a miniature cross, and so it’s natural, after blessing myself with a cruciform gesture, to further venerate the parallel cruciform image I created in my hand — one more reminder, especially at Mass, that the whole Catholic thing, all of it, comes down to “Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (1 Corinthians 2:2).

3. Bows During the Elevations. Here’s one that really goes against the popular liturgical grain, if my observations are any indication. The elevation of the host and chalice immediately after consecration is generally accompanied by bell ringing and then a short period of silence. The common practice, around these parts anyway, is for the faithful to gaze upon and worship our Eucharistic Lord. Then, following the elevation, after the consecrated elements are set down on the corporal, the kneeling congregants bow their heads in reverence as the priest genuflects behind the altar.

Me? I do the exact opposite, bowing in worship during the elevations, hand over heart, and when the bells stop ringing, I raise my head to witness the priest’s act of reverence. Apparently, my routine has a more ancient provenance, although it was none other than Pope St. Pius X who urged the current, more familiar practice on the universal church. Either one is acceptable (or neither for that matter — the Church requires a bow at that moment only of the faithful who have to remain standing [GIRM 43]), but the more ancient practice just makes more sense to me: The priest is holding up God; I’m already on my knees; my bow is an additional human token of submission to the divine.

There is one last church behavior of mine worthy of comment, but it’s in a class by itself: Striking the breast three times during the Agnus Dei — specifically at “take away the sins of the world.” It’s something, like the others listed above, that I picked up from older Catholics, especially in the daily Mass crowd, and, like bowing during the elevations, it’s my understanding that breast-beating was all over the rubrics back in the day — in the Agnus Dei as well as the Confiteor and elsewhere. The 1969 Novus Ordo liturgy retained a single chest thump only in the penitential rite, but it largely fell into disuse over time. As a convert, I saw only the old-timers keeping it up, especially during the “Lamb of God” prayer.

And now, of course, with the adoption of the 2011 revised translation of the Mass, breast-beating has made a prominent comeback, although reserved in the rubrics to the “I Confess” version of the Penitential Act (“through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault”). I happily whack away at the appointed time, but then I go ahead and repeat the action during the Agnus Dei. Out of the corner of my eye, I see others doing the same.

Is it okay? Perhaps it’s not technically prescribed, and certainly there should be limits to the amount of accretions and variations we introduce into our communal liturgical participation. The General Instruction on the Roman Missal declares that the faithful “are to shun any appearance of individualism or division. … This unity is beautifully apparent from the gestures and postures observed in common by the faithful” (95-96).

On the other hand, it’s imperative that we bring our whole selves to the Mass, and that means leaving room for local custom and personal expressions of devotion that don’t contradict the rubrics or spirit of the liturgy. “I personally fail to see any pastoral benefits accruing,” writes Father Edward McNamara, “by attempting to enforce a rigid uniformity in areas where the Church has made no prescription.” Indeed, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger — our future Pope Benedict XVI — even explicitly defended Agnus Dei breast-beating to “remind ourselves … that our iniquities lay on his shoulder, that ‘with his stripes we are healed.’”

In his Apostolic Letter, Desiderio Desideravi, Pope Francis writes that the “rite is in itself a norm, and the norm is never an end in itself, but it is always at the service of a higher reality that it means to protect” (48). This protection requires a degree of conformity to avoid what the Holy Father calls “imaginative — sometimes wild — creativity,” but that conformity should not result in “rubrical mechanism.”

There’s a “dynamism that unfolds through the Liturgy,” Pope Francis goes on, in which “the Paschal Mystery is made present so that the baptized, through their participation, can experience it in their own lives” (49). The Holy Spirit informs, guides and literally inspires that dynamism, yet our attentive, intentional, even eager cooperation extends that dynamism in myriad directions and ways — including, within reason, our own particular, even idiosyncratic practices.

So, how about you? Any regular practices of your own that aren’t spelled out in the missal? Consider spending some time pondering why you adopted and continue them, and how they mesh with the Church’s official liturgy. Then, carry on — and be sure to smile at those around you when you glimpse their own quirks.