Everyday church life touches the community's soul

The tremendous events in the life of the Church crash like waves upon the shores of our parish communities. Sometimes they wash over us, but more often than not they are merely noticed; the effects are not felt until later. The smaller, more local things take precedence.

Last week the May beatification of the late Pope John Paul II was announced; this news was splashed across the journals of the world but went unremarked upon at my Sunday Mass. Last week, too, three former Anglican bishops were ordained to the Roman Catholic priesthood. This launched the Personal Ordinariate of Our Lady of Walsingham, the only reunification of the Church of England with the Church of Rome I expect to see. This was briefly mentioned in the homily, and my formerly Anglo-Catholic husband chatted merrily with his formerly Anglo-Catholic friends on the topic over drinks after Mass. But the real event of the week, and the first thing mentioned in the homily, was that one of our altar servers was hit by a car thief last Sunday and had sustained a broken leg.

There are Catholics who experience Church life vicariously by reading the newspapers. And there are Catholics who experience Church life personally by going to Mass and taking an interest in the people who worship with them. Some stick to one parish church for years, and others migrate around their cities, looking for a Mass celebrated in a way that nourishes them. When I was single, I was a migrator. But now that I am married, I go to the same Mass in the same wooden church every week and have put down deep roots. The Latin word for root is “radix,” from which we get the word “radical.”

Liturgically, those who love the Extraordinary Form of the Mass are very radical. Our roots burrow back to the first century without skipping all the centuries in between. When family came to visit over Christmas, I was torn between worry and glee. There would be a lot of church-going, we have no car and my family does not share my passion for the Extraordinary Form. My parents have staunchly gone to the Ordinary Form since it launched, and to the same parish church for decades. My siblings migrate, but not to the EF.  My father sent me Advent e-mails about the walking distance to this local church and that. But, as I hoped all along, my family was carted off by cab to the Extraordinary Form for Midnight Mass and had to lump the Latin. I sat in the choir pews at the very back and gazed at them with affection. Afterwards they praised the music and the friendliness.  

Catholics are a minority in Scotland, and Catholics who attend the Extraordinary Form are an even smaller minority. And this means that everyone gets to know everyone else. At the 11:30 Mass, the old wooden church might as well be a village church. If that sounds romantic, I assure you, it is.

Whatever the weather, the church is always filled with bright light and dark shadows thrown by white candles. The organist plays a prelude. There is no other sound in the church, for by universal and unspoken consent, nobody chats inside it. A deep, prayerful silence brackets the prelude, broken only by the dramatic entrance of the eager guide dog who half-drags her mistress to her pew every week. Then, three Sundays out of four, a priest comes out of the sacristy with an aspergillum and sprinkles the congregation while we sing the Asperges hymn. (On the fourth Sunday, this liturgical prefix is exchanged for the suffix of Benediction.) He disappears back into the sacristy. Silence reigns again until Father returns, vested for Mass, and the choir sings the Introit.

Everyone who can read has a copy of the chants and readings of the day, Latin and English printed side by side. Those who need to do so follow the fixed parts of the Mass in a missal.  Others watch the actions of the priest and servers as they pray. The atmosphere of attentive mediation is palpable. The music is sublime. The children sit quietly. The worshippers are plunged into a deep, deep peace.

After the final hymn, the congregation sinks to its knees in silent, spontaneous thanksgiving. One by one the worshippers get up and silently leave the church, exchanging smiles in lieu of spoken greetings, to the tiny parking lot. Here the devotional atmosphere gives way to sociability. Cigarettes are lighted, hands wrung, kisses exchanged and those who have the time amble into the parish hall for a cup of tea and further chat. Petitions are circulated; this Advent we helped defeat Scottish euthanasia. Announcements are made. The generations mingle. Last Sunday I chatted with our unlucky altar server just before he left for his encounter with a stolen sports car. This Sunday another server passed around his Get Well card.

The great events of history shake the world, but it is the everyday life of a community that most deeply touches the soul.