Tuesday, October 04, 2005
A COMMUNION SERVICE
My husband was convinced that a long weekend in the country was just what we both needed, so we packed up and took a ride, planning to stay at a B & B far enough away to forget about home for a while, but near enough to avoid spending a lot of time on the road.
Expecting the usual hassle in the search for a church, we began on Saturday night by asking the inkeeper for directions. He invited us to attend his nondenominational church instead, but directed us to a little town down the road when we indicated we wanted to attend a Catholic Mass. Then we took a ride.
No church. After asking several of the locals and getting a wide variety of directions, all of which produced no church, we drove back to the B & B in the dark.
Sunday morning we got out the phone book and attempted to call the rectory, a long distance call which we would not have been permitted to make without a calling card. Fortunately my husband had one in his wallet. The recording gave us the Mass times, but no directions. We started down the road, hoping to find someone this time who might know, and we lucked out by finding a Catholic who could direct us right to the church, but who was not going to attend himself, though he didn't say why. He asked us to say a prayer for him.
It appeared to be a new church, built on the top of a hill with a nice view. The people milling around were dressed mostly in blue jeans, with some shorts here and there, and a rather skimpy top on one young body, which struck me as odd because I had seen the innkeeper's little girls ready for church in their pretty dresses and his wife in a dress as well. Apparently country Sunday morning style is just as varied as the city variety.
The first hint of trouble came when we entered the church. It looked like a theater both in shape and decoration. Though there were small statues of the Holy Family off to one side, and it may have had stations on the wall (I honestly don't remember them) Catholic symbolism in this church was nearly non-existent. There was a banner proclaiming the name of the church and the year it was established, 1995. We stood at the back to take in what we had gotten ourselves into. Should we genuflect? Perhaps yes, there seemed to be a tabernacle hiding behind some greenery at the side of the altar, but only about half of the people we watched genuflected.
There were no kneelers. No pews, in fact. But there were nice comfy upholstered red movable chairs lined up in nice straight rows, and they were filling up fast. Edward Sovik would surely have been gratified. Should we leave?
We played it safe and sat in the back row in case it was necessary to escape.
The bulletin had a curious segment titled "fred's inkling!" which very much resembled a pastor's message, but who was fred? None of the staff listed on the front of the bulletin were named "Fred" or "fred". It consisted of the usual "forgiveness" lecture that is making the rounds since the depth of the scandal has become apparent. fred quoted Henri Nouwen, SJ, whom I haven't read, mostly because the pastor of my former liberal parish that turned me into a refugee used to quote Henri Nouwen in his pastor's messages.
The sanctuary up in front was a couple of steps up and would have made a good stage if it had been just a step or two higher. I studied the archway for evidence of a stage curtain, but didn't find any. Wouldn't have taken long to clear out the furniture if a little production number was desired since it was sort of bare up there.
It was loud in church. There wasn't much praying going on that I could see, but everyone must have been getting caught up on the events of the week--and not in whispers, either. Off to the side I could just see the end of the neck of two guitars and five or so heads. Looked like the music was going to be coming from up front.
Two servers appeared--a girl and a boy--and gathered up the candles for the entrance procession. A man in an alb and a green stole appeared. After a few moments he announced that since there was no priest to say this Mass, we would have a communion service with the hosts blessed by the priest who had said the earlier Mass. Then he asked all of us to greet our neighbors, as though the neighbors hadn't already been doing that for the last ten or fifteen minutes. Finally he requested a moment of silence to get ready for the service.
He walked to the back of the church and began the entrance procession. From this point to the creed, you would have been hard-pressed to notice any real difference between a Mass and this event, except that the Liturgy of the Word lasted an inordinately long time.
At one point during the Liturgy of the Word the two men with guitars moved up to the pulpit. One of them had a very nice singing voice and played his guitar with stylish extra flourishes. I'm not sure what language he was singing in. Only half caught a word now and then. It sounded vaguely Jewish. Not bad as entertainment, though. The congregation remained silent through this whatever it was. Might have been the Responsorial Psalm.
When it was time for the Canon to begin, the man in the alb--Was he the deacon? Is the dalmatic improper when no Mass is being said?--led the Our Father then moved right into the "Lord I am not worthy." Next he received the Eucharist himself, gave it to the EMs, then all moved to their communion stations to distribute. There was no communion cup anywhere in evidence. A few of the people bowed before receiving. Everyone waiting in the rows of chairs was standing. Those returning from communion sat down. The communion hymn wasn't familiar though I think I may have heard it before somewhere.
I kept listening to them sing the words "You and I are the bread of life" while I stood there waiting until it was time for the last row to receive. While I was standing there I thought about this congregation who thought they were the bread of life, who prepared for Mass by having a gabfest, and whose priest--if they actually had a priest--had supposedly consecrated this bread at an earlier Mass. I thought about bowing before receiving this bread, or this Body of Christ if that is what it was, and I thought about idolatry. When it came time for me to go up to receive, I decided to pass, and my husband and I left instead.
When we got to the car, hubby commented, "I know why you stayed. I expected you to want to leave but then it hit me--you're going to blog it aren't you?" (Sometimes I wish he were not quite so wife savvy!) The real question is why he stayed with me instead of waiting it out in the car which would have been more his style not long ago? I wondered if he has become so completely indifferent to whatever takes place in church that he no longer cares what goes on, but didn't want to ask him because he might say "yes." Mostly he goes to Mass to accommodate me, but next time we're on a trip and have difficulty finding a church, chances are he's going to remind me of this experience as a way to justify not bothering.
While I was standing there trying to decide what to do about communion, I thought about how little meaning this event had for me. How empty this service was without a priest or a consecration. How Protestant it was. And I thought about the invitation from our inkeeper to attend services with his family which I wasn't willing to consider at the time because liturgy is so much more fulfilling than just listening to a minister read Scripture and talk. Had I known that I would get exactly that in my Catholic church, would I have taken him up on it? If all I was going to get was the religion of man, would his version of it have been better than the one I was getting? Those words "You and I are the bread of life" from the communion hymn just kept repeating in my head. "You and I" was all I had gotten out of this service, and any old "you and I" would do just as well as any other, especially when all of the "you and Is" were strangers.
Theoretically this bread wasn't "you and I" but rather the Body of Christ, if these hosts really had been consecrated, of which I had no assurance, but of which this congregation was telling me it wasn't so by the song that they were singing. As it was I left feeling as though I had just seen a group of people play Mass.
It could not have been more empty, but no one in attendance seemed to care at all that no Mass took place. I got the impression that this was not the first time it had happened, and it was not a big deal. I also got the impression this congregation did not know when there would be a priest and when there would not be a priest. I even suspected that some of the people in the congregation didn't really notice that what took place was a seriously deficient Sunday morning liturgy.
Walking out of church I was overwhelmed with a sense of sadness and loss--such a sense that this is the future of which I had just had my first glimpse. And I thought about a young man I had dated when I was in college. He was a Catholic but he had become disillusioned. He wrote a poem about seeking God on a windy hill instead of in a church. For him the Church no longer had meaning. For me the Church will no longer have meaning either if what I took part in at this country church is all that we are going to have left. Once we had thriving parishes with three or four priests. How could we have come this low in 45 short years?
Our Lady of Fatima, pray for us!
