Bold

Each week, since the pandemic closed our churches, we’ve been able to attend our parish’s Sunday Mass online. On our devices and TVs, we can see our priest standing in front of the tabernacle behind the familiar white-clothed altar with its moulded picture of the Last Supper. We have a view of what we see whenever we kneel in our pew inside our church.

A phone with its camera floats in a gimble at the top of a tripod facing the altar. The priest celebrates Mass, together with the deacon, with the help of the musicians, the readers and a parishioner or two to respond. Later, after some editing magic, the Mass becomes a video, and at the weekend, it’s uploaded to YouTube. Then Sunday Mass can be attended, time after time, without end.

Last week, Imogen was asked to cantor the recorded Sunday Mass. When my daughter returned home from the church, I said, “You attended Sunday Mass on Wednesday. And when Sunday arrives, you can celebrate the same Mass again. You can even sing the psalm and the hymns with yourself!”

We thought about time and how Sunday arrived on Wednesday, and Wednesday appeared again on Sunday. And how my Sunday daughter could celebrate Mass with the Wednesday version of herself.

”I wonder if I can write a story about Mass and time,” I said. “I might try.”

I opened my laptop and got to work. But the next time Imogen and I met up, I had to admit that I hadn’t been successful. “It’s your story, not mine,” I said. “I wasn’t there.”

Instead of writing about time and Mass, I wrote about coffins and rosary beads.

A few days ago, Imogen was again asked to cantor this week’s Mass. But before filming day arrived, I received a phone call from our parish secretary: “Father would like to invite you to Mass.” Would I like to be one of the allowed people?

When I put down the phone, I shouted, “Imogen, I’ve been invited to the recorded Mass! We’re going to Mass together.”

For hours, one thought kept chasing itself around my mind: I’m going to Mass!

Yesterday, I walked through the front door of our church for the first time in two months. Imogen followed me. Before she walked down the blue-carpeted aisle to the musicians’ area, I said some rusty words: “Sing well!” I then chose an isolated spot in a pew, and looked towards the altar and the tabernacle. You’re back. I am. Jesus was waiting for me.

Imogen practised the psalm and the hymns with the accompanist while a cameraman arranged his equipment. And I knelt and prayed for everyone I know that couldn’t be with me in the church.

The priest and the deacon began Mass. A reader approached the lectern. Imogen sang the psalm. Another reader. Prayers. Responses from the tiny congregation. Hymns. Then the most powerful words in the world. The portal between heaven and earth opened. Jesus descended onto the altar. A miracle.

After communion, I thought about all the people that I know who can’t attend Mass. Could I be bold and ask Jesus to give them the same grace as He was giving to me?

On our way home from the church, Imogen and I stopped at a favourite cafe. “We have to celebrate today with a special lunch,” I said as we ordered BLATs, and coffee, and a slice of melt-in-the-mouth lemon cheesecake to share. “Let’s have a picnic in the car at the lake.”

We parked alongside the water where we could see the ducks and the sparsely-clad autumn trees, and then we unwrapped our fat, warm sandwiches, sniffing the rising bacon aroma. We looked at each other and grinned.

In between delicious mouthfuls, I said to Imogen, ”On Sunday, you can attend Mass with yourself again.”

My daughter replied, ”So can you.”

”Except I wasn’t visible. There’s no evidence that I was there.”

”Unless the mic picked up your voice during the hymns.”

”I hope it didn’t. I don’t want Father to regret inviting me to the Mass because I spoilt his recording with my terrible singing!”

BLAT finished, I wrapped my hands around my warm cup and sipped my coffee. “I can’t believe I was invited to the Mass. It’s not as if I had anything to contribute. You were needed. You sang the psalm. But me?”

I was given an unexpected gift.

I received Jesus.

And then I was bold.