Great Masses I remember

On a number of trips to Cape Town this past year, I have had the great pleasure of going to Sunday Mass at the parish of Ss Simon & Jude in Simon’s Town–not only pleasurable because the church itself is the epitome of what I believe church architecture should be, but also because of the wonderful recorded music that greets parishioners every weekend.

Parish priest Fr Bram Martijn, who celebrated the 40th anniversary of his ordination this year, clearly shares my firm belief in the capacity of beautiful classical music to lift the soul heavenward and focus hearts and minds even more keenly on the profundity of Mass.

After my last visit a month or so ago, when Fr Bram had once again made Mass just so much more inspiring with his words of wisdom and wonderful music, I started wondering about other memorable Masses I have had the privilege of attending.

But, before I am pilloried by the purists, let me hasten to say that I am fully aware of the fact that every Mass, no matter how simple and unembellished, is indeed memorable and profound.

I remember Sunday Mass in St Maria Maggiore in Rome, an imposing edifice despite it being smaller and far less commanding than St Peter’s just a few kilometres away.

What was most memorable about this Mass was the fact that the lowliest altar boy held the rank of archbishop, such was the exalted status of the celebrants.

Still overseas, I attended Mass with my mother and aunt at the church of St Eustache in Paris, with its famous organ, where the parish priest also held a doctorate in music.

A huge, angelic choir performed with a professional grace that brought tears to my eyes and caused my mother and aunt, both stalwart members of their respective Catholic Women’s League branches, to nudge each other regularly and whisper words of praise about the wonders of a good Catholic choir.

At the end of Mass the parish priest said in English: “I wish to thank the Southern Baptist Choir of Little Rock, Arkansas, for providing us with such beautiful music today.”

The look on my mother’s face made this Mass exquisitely memorable, as if it happened yesterday instead of 30 years ago when her generation quite firmly believed that the world comprised only Catholics and heathens, and nothing in between.

Closer to home some extremely memorable Masses have been those held in my own parish of Our Lady of Lourdes in Rivonia, Johannesburg, round about Heritage Day.

This must be one of the most cosmopolitan parishes in the country with members coming from as far away as Nicaragua and the US, Japan, China, Korea, India, Europe, Middle East and, of course, Africa.

What makes them memorable is the offertory procession accompanied by prayers in myriad languages during which gifts typical of those many countries are brought to the altar: a wonderful and profound reminder that no matter how different we are, no matter how we may dress or speak, no matter how different the colour of our skins, we are all God’s children and equal in his eyes.

One of the most memorable Masses took place one early Thursday morning in the 1960s at a tiny mission station on the Congolese shores of what was Lake Tanganyika. A platoon of mercenaries had been crossing the lake in a small boat when a storm blew up and for eight hours they were on the brink of floundering and drowning as waves, higher than they’d ever seen in any ocean, pummeled their frail craft.

They made landfall at about midnight and stumbled towards a tiny light in the distance. It was a Catholic mission station and the small band of missionaries did not hesitate to take in the 22 bedraggled soldiers, feed them and put them to bed where they looked like they’d sleep for a week.

The next morning, just before dawn, when one of the priests arrived at the tiny chapel to celebrate, every single one of the soldiers was there, on his knees.

Not one of them was a Catholic. Only three or four were even vaguely religious. But every one said they just woke up out of a deep sleep and almost sleepwalking, ended up in the chapel.