A Shining From Shook Foil

For many reasons, I have not been able to attend morning low Mass at my Oratory in the last few months. I miss it very much, but I know the Canons are praying for me and that brings such consolation to my heart. Today, I ask your indulgence on this little memory in my treasury…..it brings the Oratory closer.

I once had a lovely and very consoling conversation with my son, Thomas. We had a memory between us that brought such joy to me; one of those surprising little jewels you pick up on the mothering journey and put away to mull over later. I suppose I have reached my ‘later’.

Thomas knows how I have come to love and study and invest in the Latin Mass. He doesn't share my great enthusiasm for it, being dedicated himself to the Novus Ordo, but he kindly owns that in the right setting the Latin Mass has brought him some beautiful graces. He didn't have to own that, but he did. He expressed it in his very intelligent Thomas way.

He made an astute and compelling observation that, to him, the Latin Mass was at its efficacious best when it was hidden away in some dim, small chapel with a handful of people in the pews. It was then that it seemed to be most itself. Quiet, lowly and yet still noble and grand, the low Mass lifts the mind and heart to God with its beauty and then recedes like dispersing incense to leave you with the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit in its pregnant and expectant silence, as if you might at any minute hear the comforting words, “Do not be afraid, little flock. It has pleased the Father to give you the Kingdom”. It was there, in the quiet of the low Mass that the Latin Liturgy could just be what it was. Rich and Theological in its prayers. Quiet. Calm. Waiting. Alone with Christ on His cross. Just being itself. I understood what Thomas meant and I agreed. The Tridentine Low Mass is truly a place of exquisite tryst - most times hidden behind the veil, but sometimes “shining like shook foil”. For, in this conversation we had together, almost at the same time, we both said: “Remember that one Mass?” And we both knew what the other meant.

It was an evening Mass in the middle of a hot summer, so the great, cool, Gothic cave of a Church smelled pungent of beeswax and ancient incense in the humid air. A holy haze of sorts. The few people scattered in the front pews looked about as small and humble as the remnant of Israel.

The celebrant was one Father Avis. Father Avis was an affable, steady, sort of fellow with a wicked-quick sense of humor. Nothing surprised him, really, which was good in his line of work. I will always have a place in my heart for Father Avis because once when my little son Ben wore white socks to Mass because he had forgotten that the altar boys were taking their shoes off for Good Friday's service and was mortified that his socks were going to show. Father Avis just said quite affably, "Well, if the congregation is sitting there judging your socks, I haven't done my job." Touche, Father Avis!

At this particular evening Low Mass in the dead of summer, Father Avis and my son Thomas were the only ones up at the altar. It was a votive Mass of the Holy Spirit. Everything was beautiful, as usual. The vestments glowed, the candles flitted in the air from the window. But the tangible beauty sort of melted into the scene, somehow. It didn't overpower. It was an afterthought. What one saw was just those two small humans up there in the massive sanctuary at the altar and it was quite a striking sight. It put human beauty in its proper place up against the mystery. It was pitifully small and humble - lovely as it was - and I sensed the careful effort of priest and server was infinitely welcomed as an indulgent and loving Father might look at a child’s drawing and pronounce it good. We were allowed to enter the larger mysteries. Thomas and Father Avis and us looking on. All of us, remnant as we were, being embraced by the Eternal.

Thomas was a great server because, being a theater kid, he understood the unfolding build up of the drama that was to lead to the catharsis. He understood what he was about. He knew the spiritual meaning of the rubrics and he was beautiful to watch. Father Avis was a soft spoken priest with a sense of piety that was never forced or affected. I loved him for that, too. They both wove in and out effortlessly, confident of the rubrics that created the dance, and yet did not get in the way of the mystery. The mystery remained and we before it.

As the Mass went quietly on, the Church seemed to fill up with this tangible peace. As though the Holy Spirit had truly descended with, “ah, bright wing”. I felt it flow over me. Truly, without exaggeration, I felt true joy. And then, as is the way with all brief sparks of Divine transfiguration, it ended as suddenly as it began. But we were changed.

After Mass, the remnant slowly blinked in the setting sunlight from the opened oak door, and we all looked at each other and smiled and no one had to say anything. We had all felt it. But dear Mrs. B., who was this rosy cheeked mom of a passel of rosy cheeked children, said in her sweet and humble way, "Oh, our Church brings such consolation to us!" She spoke for us all that evening. Thomas and I will always share that unifying grace with the handful of people in those pews.

It might not happen again. It is not my right to feel it again. It was a grace that arrived unasked, unexpected, gratis. But it arrived because our hearts were in the right place. That is what Thomas was talking about. The Low Mass was being perfectly itself.

Jesus is here, always with us. Sometimes He fills a Church with his tangible presence. Sometimes we simply must believe. But He is always the reason we kneel in the pews waiting for His arrival. Because sometimes a mother will see her son shining in a light that has nothing to do with earth, on an ordinary summer evening. And this memory will ever and always bring to mind the kindness and beauty of the Almighty, the love of a child, and the graciousness of a humble priest.

Memories like this one, where Heaven was tangible and real and there for us without the asking for one hour, that is what makes this valley of tears a place of springs.

Deo Gratias!

I do not feel inclined at this time to have a paid substack. But if we were together in a cafe discussing all these thoughts, I would not be opposed to you buying me a cup of coffee - with cream, of course. In that spirit, if any of my posts resonate with you and you feel so inclined, you can donate here: buymeacoffee.com/denise_trull