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Ministry isn't a human right, it's a privilege
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
July 28, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
It has certainly been an interesting summer for the church in Canada. The Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops defended the Canadian Catholic Organization for Development and Peace against Catholic bloggers, a relapsed Catholic sued his bishop for the surprising new “human right” to serve at the altar and Prime Minister Stephen Harper made his First Communion.
I have been abroad, attending a Sunday Missa Cantata in the church where my new husband sings in the men’s schola. He sometimes has to work on Sundays; when this happens, I sit in a pew near the middle of the church. But when he is free to sing, I sit with the men’s schola in the back pews reserved for them.
I have been abroad, attending a Sunday Missa Cantata in the church where my new husband sings in the men’s schola. He sometimes has to work on Sundays; when this happens, I sit in a pew near the middle of the church. But when he is free to sing, I sit with the men’s schola in the back pews reserved for them.
The first time I sat there, it caused a small controversy. A long-time parishioner collared me afterwards in the parish hall.
“Since when do women sit in choir?” she demanded, half-humourously.
I was nettled, for I had been as meek as a mouse back there.
“I wasn’t sitting in choir,” I said. “I was sitting with my fiancé.”
But I understood her worries. Not everyone is comfortable with the Extraordinary Form of the Mass, and sometimes visitors make their discomfort known. Sometimes they behave in odd ways to make their point. And although some might find men’s-only choirs offensive, they are an ancient tradition in the church.
My new parish, with its strict attention to the rubrics, seems a world away from the makeshift hospital chapel where I first knelt and prayed that I would not scandalize the congregation. I had almost finished my M.Div. and was the assistant to the Sunday chaplain. When he was away, it was my job to find another priest to say Mass at the hospital or, in a pinch, to lead a prayer service myself.
Priests tend to be booked for Sunday mornings, and for three consecutive Sundays I found myself in charge of Sunday Catholic worship. To my chagrin, our hospital congregation became smaller and smaller as the weeks wore on.
“Is the priest here today?” asked an orderly, pushing his cart.
I was standing by the chapel door to welcome people.
“I’m afraid it’s just me,” I said.
“Hum,” said the orderly and continued on.
I felt hurt. But that was just my ego getting in the way. A lay-led liturgy is not Mass, and no one should go to one instead of Mass, if they have the choice. The patients didn’t have the choice, and some nurses didn’t either, and so someone always turned up to my prayer services. I was sincerely grateful.
Because I didn’t want to cause scandal, I always began our services by stating that I was not a priest and that this was not Mass. I explained who I was and why I was there. I wrote my reflections with constant reference to the catechism. I prayed a lot beforehand. Although I enjoyed leading our priestless liturgies, I was always anxious lest I take my unusual privilege for granted. There was always the temptation to spiritual pride.
But despite my precautions, someone got mad. One Sunday I found a note to my absent boss saying that a patient in the Intensive Care Unit wanted the Eucharist brought to him by a priest. There was no priest, so I took the sacrament, reserved in a tabernacle for such occasions, to the patient myself. He threw a fit. For a guy in the ICU, he had powerful lungs.
“I don’t believe in lady priests,” he bellowed.
Stunned, I denied that I was a lady priest. I explained that I was the chaplain’s assistant and I was there to bring him the Eucharist.
He was not convinced. He wanted a priest, a male priest, and he did not believe in lady priests.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t believe in lady priests either. But there is no priest coming to the hospital today, and so all you have is me.”
I elaborated on the priest shortage, but he didn’t believe in that either. He wanted a priest, he would not accept the Host from my hands, and that was that. So I returned the Host to the tabernacle, left a note to the head chaplain saying the patient still wanted to see a priest and prayed fervently that the patient wouldn’t die before he saw one.
Needless to say, I was devastated. It was deeply humiliating to offer ministry to someone and have that ministry rejected because I wasn’t a priest. I was inclined to feel deeply sorry for myself.
But, you know, ministry isn’t a right. It’s a privilege. Ministry is not for the minister and his or her sense of “vocation.” It’s for the people being served.
Before too long, the patient saw a priest. He got better and went home. I learned a lesson in humility. And nobody got sued.
“Since when do women sit in choir?” she demanded, half-humourously.
I was nettled, for I had been as meek as a mouse back there.
“I wasn’t sitting in choir,” I said. “I was sitting with my fiancé.”
But I understood her worries. Not everyone is comfortable with the Extraordinary Form of the Mass, and sometimes visitors make their discomfort known. Sometimes they behave in odd ways to make their point. And although some might find men’s-only choirs offensive, they are an ancient tradition in the church.
My new parish, with its strict attention to the rubrics, seems a world away from the makeshift hospital chapel where I first knelt and prayed that I would not scandalize the congregation. I had almost finished my M.Div. and was the assistant to the Sunday chaplain. When he was away, it was my job to find another priest to say Mass at the hospital or, in a pinch, to lead a prayer service myself.
Priests tend to be booked for Sunday mornings, and for three consecutive Sundays I found myself in charge of Sunday Catholic worship. To my chagrin, our hospital congregation became smaller and smaller as the weeks wore on.
“Is the priest here today?” asked an orderly, pushing his cart.
I was standing by the chapel door to welcome people.
“I’m afraid it’s just me,” I said.
“Hum,” said the orderly and continued on.
I felt hurt. But that was just my ego getting in the way. A lay-led liturgy is not Mass, and no one should go to one instead of Mass, if they have the choice. The patients didn’t have the choice, and some nurses didn’t either, and so someone always turned up to my prayer services. I was sincerely grateful.
Because I didn’t want to cause scandal, I always began our services by stating that I was not a priest and that this was not Mass. I explained who I was and why I was there. I wrote my reflections with constant reference to the catechism. I prayed a lot beforehand. Although I enjoyed leading our priestless liturgies, I was always anxious lest I take my unusual privilege for granted. There was always the temptation to spiritual pride.
But despite my precautions, someone got mad. One Sunday I found a note to my absent boss saying that a patient in the Intensive Care Unit wanted the Eucharist brought to him by a priest. There was no priest, so I took the sacrament, reserved in a tabernacle for such occasions, to the patient myself. He threw a fit. For a guy in the ICU, he had powerful lungs.
“I don’t believe in lady priests,” he bellowed.
Stunned, I denied that I was a lady priest. I explained that I was the chaplain’s assistant and I was there to bring him the Eucharist.
He was not convinced. He wanted a priest, a male priest, and he did not believe in lady priests.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t believe in lady priests either. But there is no priest coming to the hospital today, and so all you have is me.”
I elaborated on the priest shortage, but he didn’t believe in that either. He wanted a priest, he would not accept the Host from my hands, and that was that. So I returned the Host to the tabernacle, left a note to the head chaplain saying the patient still wanted to see a priest and prayed fervently that the patient wouldn’t die before he saw one.
Needless to say, I was devastated. It was deeply humiliating to offer ministry to someone and have that ministry rejected because I wasn’t a priest. I was inclined to feel deeply sorry for myself.
But, you know, ministry isn’t a right. It’s a privilege. Ministry is not for the minister and his or her sense of “vocation.” It’s for the people being served.
Before too long, the patient saw a priest. He got better and went home. I learned a lesson in humility. And nobody got sued.
Dorothy Cummings McLean