by Sue Jones
Getting to Mass on Sunday when overseas is not always easy. The bonus of experiencing the way Mass is celebrated by different communities was for me a bit of a highlight; an hour or so of free culture without having to queue.
In London I went to Mass at the Brompton Oratory.
I saw plenty of the priest’s back as he said Mass. He did turn around when he said, “The Lord be with you” which was nice. There was not an inclusive word to be heard, not a lay minister in sight, no whiff of talent, no personalities on show. The children’s choir was sublime and my husband, a recently retired school principal, loved their formal discipline as they walked down to the front of the Church to sing the Lamb of God and prepare for early reception of Holy Communion. Father announced that the practice of receiving Holy Communion in the hand was acceptable. Some Cardinal had been the week before and confirmed this. The congregation was huge. We were out in a few minutes under the hour.
By contrast, the previous Sunday I was still in New Zealand babysitting my granddaughter and took her to Mass at my daughter’s local Church. Again the congregation was huge. I left after Holy Communion an hour and a half into the celebration. Some people left before Communion. This Mass was jammed-packed with talent and personalities, quite the opposite of what I was to experience the following Sunday. Yet both were Mass and I was not too bothered at the different cultures which gave the universal sacrifice its local flavour.
Mass at an Irish Convent chapel belonging to the Presentation Sisters came somewhere in between these two celebrations and far as this local flavour was concerned. Here in County Cork as in London the singing was of high calibre. The tenor who lead the psalm managed to do it without making a performance out of it, so that he fitted in with the rest of us, offering our voices to God as one. Not a clap was heard at the end of Mass. The congregation was small. People stared at us. We were out in forty-five minutes
On a wild Wednesday we came across the Shrine of Knock, by default rather than design, and what a bonus it was. It is such a beautiful place, a manicured oasis of green and a holy place.
I struck midday Mass. The priest was a visitor I think. He had a foreign accent. The Church was full. There was a woman in the pews who recited the whole liturgy out loud, at breakneck speed. I remembered women doing this at Church when I was a child. When the priest came to the consecration and paused before raising the Host, a voice from amongst us said, “This is my Body”! The priest was startled. He looked disapprovingly in the woman’s direction. When he paused before raising the cup, out it came again, “This is my Blood”! I found it highly amusing. I doubt if many of the congregation even noticed. Perhaps they were conditioned to it as the Irish have this habit of ‘going at’ their public prayer. After Mass Father gave us all a lecture about which bits of the liturgy were his and which were ours, in a very kind way of course. After half an hour of searching my husband found me. I had wandered off to Mass when he was in the loo. He naturally thought I would be in the bookshop, but Mass had the greater pull.
In the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Doms in Avignon I attended a weekday Mass in the chapel. Besides the priest, three nuns and two novices of the Polish Carmelites of the Child-Jesus, the congregation numbered three. I arrived early and listened as Father lead the Sisters in the singing of the Divine Office. We launched off into Mass following this heavenly experience. The sermon was long and I suspect good. Again this was Mass, and I joined in easily though I speak no French. I was caught out later when Sister, wanting to close the chapel after Mass, tried to tell what she was wanting to do. After forty-five minutes of contemplative bliss I was having breakfast in our hotel, looking at the dining room blackboard to find out what the weather was going to do and who was the saint of the day.
And then there was Rome. We walked to San Giovanni in Laterano on a very hot, dusty day. It was the last Church we visited and we were a bit churched out. Outside, a colourful group of African men had gathered and I managed to get close enough to ascertain that they were Knights of the Southern Cross. I wanted to have my photo taken with them but thought it an imposition. They were so lively, these men, my brothers in Christ and I felt that common bond that unites us all. Inside the Church, in the welcome coolness, I ferreted out a Mass which had just begun in a side chapel.
It was just an ordinary weekday Mass with a congregation of about fifty or so. A woman, who may have been a Religious Sister, did the readings and lead the singing. Copies of the words were provided. I did my best to join in and managed quite well, largely due to the generic nature of the tunes. The sermon was short and, looking around the congregation who were not attentive, I gathered I had not missed much. I loved it all, especially when a young priest came in near the end and with Sister sang the Salve Regina. As we left the Church my husband firmly declared that it was the last one he was visiting. We were going home the next day so that was lucky for me.
The Mass experience which touched me most came earlier in our journey. We had landed up in a tiny cliff-hanger of a place called Riomaggorie, one of the Cinque Terre villages.
An inch more and we would have been in the Med so to speak. After inquiring about Sunday Mass times at a little Church we walked passed each day, we were told that Mass was at the bigger Church up the hill. We arrived early and stood outside in the shade watching the village boys playing a friendly soccer game on one of the few areas of flat land. It was two days before the playing of the European soccer final in Rome and every now and then the words “Manchester United” burst forth from a gabble of Italian.
As people started to arrive young boys appeared in long white gowns of clerical design. “Goodness”, I said to my husband, “they dress the altar boys nicely here.” As more appeared it dawned on me that we had hit the jackpot. It was indeed the village’s celebration of First Holy Communion. We sat in the back row of pews that filled only the front half of the Church. The gathering of the congregation was much the same as we have in New Zealand; much talking, greeting and last-minute organising.
The priest was young and darkly handsome. He came and went doing this and that but greeting few. I noticed a girl of about eight hanging around near us and wondered what she was doing. Suddenly Father was there beckoning her. She followed him into an alcove and there in full view of the congregation heard her confession. The same thing happened later with a teenage boy. As the church filled we shifted to the temporary seats that were being put out at the back of the Church. Mass began and down the aisle scooted the soccer teams transformed into altar boys. The atmosphere in the Church changed from one of friendly homeliness to that of a more impersonal sacredness. And that was the tone for the rest of the celebration.
Catholics do not, generally speaking, compare their experiences of Mass in a competitive manner. The closest we get to this seems to be that most like to be at Mass in familiar surroundings, with those they know and a parish priest they love. For some reason I like being a stranger at Mass and like to be reminded that Mass has a life of its own outside the flavours that localness gives it.
