I would say, first of all, that worries about the loss of the universality of the Mass after V2 are sorely misplaced. Anywhere you go in the world, you can find cantors raising their arms at you to indicate it's time to sing the Celtic Alleluia.
1) Let's see...June something. 28. Caltanissetta, Sicily. Poor Clares monastery.
Our hosts at the Sillitti Agriturismo led us to Mass here - they are friends with the sisters. The monastery is, well, I can't really tell you where it is in Caltanissetta, except that it's past the McDonald's and across the road from nature rangers of some sort. The building was relatively contemporary - built some time since the 60's I would guess, and the chapel was sort of in the round - that is the part of the congregation was semi-circular, with the sisters' area located behind the altar rather like the the thick stem of a spoon.
We were a little late coming in, I think, during the first reading. There were about a hundred in the congregation, with several families. We had prepared by reading the readings in the Magnifcat beforehand, and I had it with me so people could occupy themselves during the homily as well.
These were the readings which were about God's power over death, about Jesus raising the little girl from the dead.
As you should know by now, I know very little Italian aside from "dove" or "cuando" or "ciao", but when you know the context and swim in the same lake of technical language, you can pick something up of what was being said. And on this day, in the homily, the relatively young priest spoke with passion and force, saying the word "morte" over and over - I got the message.
Death was not God's doing.
Talitha kum
I got the message.
For a little while, at least. I got it.
The tune of the offertory song was "God and Man at Table Are Sat Down" which, if anyone sings it anymore, has assumed some non-sexist iteration. I have no idea if they were singing that or something else to that tune.
It was all Italian, 4-hymn sandwich type thing. No chant.
Communion was interesting. A paten (not with a handle, but simple an oval-shaped silver dish) was handed to first communicant, who held it under her chin and received on the tongue. She then handed the paten to the person behind her, and so on down the line. Obviously, no Communion in the hand. Joseph freaked out a little because, this being his...what...8th time receiving Communion, adding the complication of holding his own paten seemed a bit much. So I simply stood by his side, and after I received, held it under his chin.
After Mass, there was chatting, and we were taken to meet one of the sisters who speaks English. The words that resounded in the courtyard afterward were "Buona Domenica" - "Good Sunday!"
2) The next Sunday was in Cava D'Aliga, and I wrote about it here.
A photo in case you forgot:
It was a beautiful, healing opportunity for prayer. Again, as with the previous week, I knew the readings, so I understood more of the priest's homily than I would have expected beginning, as it did, with the question, "What is a prophet?"
Now for a comment that will either get me excoriated or ...I don't know what.
Italian congregational singing is...interesting.
For years, I have read (and shared in) criticisms of the Sistine Chapel choir. That they do not have a unified sound, that they are flat and draggy. Once I read, at NLM in the comments, I think, that what we hear from the Sistine choir is simply an expression of typical Italian choral singing - I do think the commentator took it to the level of, "their mothers all think they should be soloists and they sing with that in mind" or something, but I am unqualified to go that far. Well, I'm unqualified to go as far as I have, no doubt, but what I heard at both Italian Masses, from regular congregants and from the sisters as well was a sort of plaintive,always-on-the-edge-of-flat almost mournful sound. It was mostly full-throated and obviously deeply-felt, but it gave the impression that we were al waiting for the funeral to begin. It was interesting and so different from what I might call a more assertive American sound that even Katie commented on it, without me mentioning it first.
Or maybe it was just Sicilian?
Anyway, on to Barcelona.
3) July 12, Mass at the Cathedral in Barcelona. Like so many of the churches we happened to see on this trip, the exterior was convered in scaffolding - which I always take as a good sign because it means funds are available to do the necessary work. I was wearing a sleeveless top, but had remembered to bring my sweater, knowing that it would probably be necessary - and it was. They were handing out scarves to women at the door (as they had in the duomo in Cefalu, as well.).
Going to Mass at this Cathedral struck me as similar to going to Mass at St. Patrick's (and St. Peter's in Rome, of course, too, but the size makes the St. Pat's comparison more apt.) You have Mass going on with swarms of tourists circling the perimeter. The guard to the choir stalls (GORGEOUS choir stalls) didn't want to let us in, but I assured him we were going to Mass, and we were legit.
The Mass was every much like a typical US Mass, except in Spanish - well, that wouldn't make it an atypical US Mass then, would it! I think the next Mass was to be in Catalan (which I found, in museum placards and such, much easier to read than the Spanish, because it is so similar to French).
What made it especially similar to a Mass here was the fact that when we walked in, the cantor (a nice-looking guy in a ponytail, who, to tell the truth, was very unobtrusive during the Mass itself) was rehearsing a new hymn with the congregation. At least he didn't say "Let's do that again - you can do better!" Or at least I'm pretty sure he didn't.
It struck me as I was sitting there that this was probably the oldest church in which I have ever attended Mass - being build, as it was, in the early Middle Ages. I don't think I attended Mass in Rome at any churches that old. Even though I was poorly prepared for the Mass - I hadn't brought the July Magnificat and I'd forgotten to have us read the Scriptures on the Internet that morning, and there was no, er, "worship aid" with the readings, that in itself gave me food for thought and prayer, as I sat in the choir stall, contemplating the Gothic arches and ancient stone, trying to open myself to the solidity of it all, letting it root me more deeply in the faith of the thousands who have knelt where I knelt, who have endured far worse than I have, suffered more deeply and sacrificed more, and were able still to give thanks and praise.
4) July 19 Cathedral, Atlanta, Georgia.
English! But with a priest from Ghana as the homilist, so the universality of this Body of Christ could not be forgotten.
This was the 9 o'clock Mass, fairly crowded, but then most Masses at that Cathedral are because it is so small - and beautiful in its dignified stonework. But small. And - those of you who go there can tell me if it was just the pew in which we were sitting, or if it is the way it is throughout - the narrowest pews I've ever encountered - as in the space between the edge of the seat and the pew in front of you seems to be about 10 inches, making for some interesting maneuvering.
As I said, the priest was from Ghana - Fr. Simon Assamoah and this is his organization - Clap for Jesus - which is dedicated to building up health and educational institutions in Ghana. Worth a look and some coin!
A privilege, really. Mass with Poor Clares and tourists in Sicily, in cathedrals in Barcelona and Atlanta. I followed God around a small bit of his world, and he followed me. Never abandoned, never alone, able to pick out words of hope and truth no matter what the language, challenged to think bigger, to dig more deeply for others, joining in the sacrifice of praise, voiced in many languages, but really only one.
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