Catholic London: Mass In the Middle Ages

To be ignored is bliss

I found myself this morning at the scene of one of the many devout practices I have resolved to carry out and spectacularly failed to maintain this Lent: going to Mass in the middle ages at least three times a week.  I am looking to finishing strong with daily attendance through to Easter Monday and got off to a propitious start.

Today’s clear skies and earlier dawn detracted from the full experience of the 08:00 show at the Brompton Oratory¹, the cavernous and intimidating late 19^th century church in London’s ever-so-fabulous Knightsbridge.  For the full pre-modern experience it’s the run up to Christmas which cannot be beat: wending one’s way to the church in the barely-street-lit cold, entering the more dimly illuminated nave, looking and listening past the chapels, some adorned with prostrate faithful at their devotions, others nearly swallowing up the murmur and chime of priests’ daily personal Masses.

Low Mass takes place at the St. Philip Neri altar, where I believe relics of the saint are kept.  This is the entirely Low Mass (1962 edition) – no homily, minimal / no interaction with the congregation other than at the altar rail.  When the rubrics call for the priest to face the congregation there is not the slightest pause in the turning or flicker of recognition as he sweeps around.  Then there’s the congregation which simply carries on going about their Catholic business.  To be ignored is bliss.  They’ve been there for a while already and gradually migrate toward Mass, adding to the ciborium before assuming their positions.  Praying the Rosary.  Following along with the Missal.  Drifting into deep, rocking-back-and-forth-a-bit, revery / meditation.  Quite a few psalters can be seen, some digital, most paperback.  Everything stops at the sacring.  Every eye looks to see then returns to business.

Another oddly medieval aspect of the experience is the congregation itself.  London can in no way be likened to a medieval parish where one size, as it were, suits all save insofar as we 1962 Mass devotees only have a handful of places to go.  Everyone comes.  The whole village’s there.  The bricklayer who takes the bus to work with his bag, long spirit level and rosary.  NHS workers.  Professionals, young, old and former.  The old Irish.  The tired and the mad, some homeless.  The young Germans, Nigerians, Spanish and Poles.  The au pairs, nannies and student types.  The quiescent and the militant.  The anonymous and different made familiars in the same mysterious business and the ritual.

All what I imagine went on right up to the “Reformation.”  The sort of thing which got right up the noses of those puritan types.  Fair enough, no criticism.  Nobody’s perfect.  God’s grace is always unmerited and dished out with inexplicable abandon.

Why this way of worship got up the noses of the Catholic Church, however, escapes me.    Saying that I have no particular problem with the New Mass is the truth.  I would not dream, dear Papists, of advocating the immediate re-imposition of the Ancient Rite upon the whole Western Church.  Free and fair competition ought to see the matter settled in a timely (for the Church) manner.  Let the Missals go toe-to-toe and we’ll see who comes out swinging the incense around.  I just will not now go to one unless / until the Pope cancels them entirely.  I have gone to the new New Mass and, to be frank, it’s just too much work.  It was too much work when I knew the words which I no longer know in the new awkward translation.  What’s worse, it’s “make work.”  Far from fixing the “problem” of the wham-bam-thirty-minute Low Mass, now there are half-hour Masses which include an attempted-homily and the congregation “participation” which only interrupts people’s conversations with Jesus and his Mother.  Let us say, for the sake of argument, that one does not understand a bit of what is going on in the Low Mass and pays it no mind in any event.  Just kneel there, say some Aves and Paters, approach the altar, properly shriven, receive the living body of Christ the Redeemer.  Job done.  Chalk up a win.  What great wonderment and fulfilment of the spirit have I missed by not reciting the Apostles’ Creed in fifty-part mumbled disharmony, or failing to get touched by those adjacent signing peace at me with a grimly determined cheerful face, or not making with the orans hands at any time?

Don’t even get me started about the loss of the “High” Mass for those who have to suffer that indignity.  New Mass Kyrie is like a high school language class “listen-and-repeat” exercise.  Who decided that sitting back and letting the choir and Mozart / Beethoven / Palestrina / Byrd / Handel take the strain was a bad idea?  It’s not like we don’t know the words.  We also get to sing cool songs when it’s our turn.  The Credo is great fun.  There’s even mild cardio throughout with the kneeling, sitting and standing.  Good healthy and holy fun for the whole family. 

Sometimes it seems to me that having decided to cancel anything which carried the faintest reminder of the “hair shirt,” someone came up with the idea to compensate for that loss by making Mass miserable: work rather than worship, taking away all the beauty as well as all the dark, brooding, memento mori fun of going to Mass mostly in the dark without having to interact with anyone other than Jesus, Mary and / or a favored saint.

Which is all the more reason to give thanks for Catholic London.  I rather suspect no one ever seriously entertained the idea of eliminating the Liturgy on whose account these streets ran with Catholic blood.  Not yet anyway.

Peregrinus

1. Please see highly informative and well-made parish website for this church’s history: https://www.bromptonoratory.co.uk/history-of-the-church