I had heard rumors there was a congregation in our landlocked state still worshiping in Latin. In a dire moment this past week I needed to see if it was true and so I finally made a pilgrimage.
Walking in through the broad wooden doors, I turned to the basin and in an instant was perpendicular to the world and the sanctuary within. Forces on each side of me began tightening their grips as I went for the water and then slowly entered in.
I took a seat in the pew furthest from the front. The rear right corner next to a stained glass mosaic of Saint Jerome. From every trade and tribe, men filed in. The women were already veiled in prayer just like my memories from being a kid. Fidgeting children filled the remainder of the seats. Then the priests began the liturgy.
Lowering the cushion, I collapsed over the bench in front of me before finally clasping my hands respectfully. My eyes softly closed as the light from Jerome's window fell before my nose. The colors danced softly in the sweet scented air. My agony was no longer alone as lifted petitions resounded in our bones.
I looked at our Lord hanging there on the cross… Bending time. Gravity excruciatingly defied.
If they could do it to you. They would do it to me.
Asking God why I began to plead. Not just for me, but for the Nazarene. After intimate minutes of inquiry passed, Teresa of Avila began to speak from the Castle's keep. She reminded me what the world sees as horrified and crucified, for us is mercy. When the world renders injustice, remember Heaven has readied victory.
Live such good lives among the pagans that,
though they accuse you of doing wrong,
they may see your good deeds
and glorify God on the day he visits us.
1 Peter 2:12
The proper response to being accused of doing wrong is to continue to do good. Even though the enemy levies from the shadows in cowardly calamity, I will continue to choose the light.
Hours later, retreating from my row in the now empty sanctuary, I knelt to the King and proceeded to bring the temple from the building.
Until next week,
-Steven
PS. I wanted to weave in some of my notes from the Interior Castle but this will have to do. I hope to someone, somewhere, that this encourages you.
There are souls so infirm and accustomed to think of nothing but earthly matters, that there seems no cure for them. It appears impossible for them to retire into their own hearts.
-Teresa of Avila, The Interior Castle
And so let it be me who retires for I have long been rehearsing for Heaven. It seems to me that this retiring mystery looks much like the thing I have already been practicing.
For those of you who are new around here, welcome to Siesta in the Storm.
This is only the beginning.
There's a special pleasure in hearing sermons in the original tongue.
Hearing Khutbahs (sermons) in Arabic is a treat. The enunciations, structure, and poetry flow differently than said in English.
When you say it in English, it feels transcribed and stilted.
In Arabic you can feel the words flow like a stream of wisdom.
Our parish in a small town in Connecticut holds a Latin Mass every Sunday. But not just a Latin Mass, the Tridentine rite, which requires three priests and careful liturgical coordination and choreography. I find that there is a profundity to the Tridentine rite, a feeling of connection to the great sweep of theological and liturgical history and I'm sorry to see it go. I guess that our pastor is a bit of an outlaw in the eyes of the Vatican. But I will say that the Latin Mass attracts a cult-like following, at least in this parish, that can lead to insularity and an unwelcome attitude. The ultramontane lives on, unfortunately.