Within the Roman
Catholic faith, the church is hailed as a holy mother, referencing her capacity
to nourish and sustain. And indeed, one of the nice things about being a
Catholic is that as long as there is a functioning Catholic Church in the
vicinity, there is always a constant in one’s life. No matter where in the
world you go, or what language they speak there, the liturgy of the Mass is
unchanging. As a result, all you have to do is follow the mass with your own
responses in the language you are comfortable in, and almost instantly, even if
only for the duration of the mass, you have a home even in the most foreign of
locations. This scenario can lead to a number of rather interesting
experiences, where you realize that through this standard ritual of the Mass,
one can also reach out to the individuals around, or alternatively be
profoundly touched by the same people.
Take for instance
my experiences while in the city of San Francisco, almost two decades ago. Located
some three blocks away from my home on the edge of the Mission district, and
its steeples clearly visible from my bedroom window, was the Church of St.
Paul’s. While I did not really engage with members of the parish, the strongest
memory I carry back of the church is the voice of the lady who led the choir
every Sunday. Strong and matronly, but by no means untrained, her voice
contributed to the more moving experiences I have had in that church. Even
today, though I often cannot recollect the internal architecture of that
church, I can close my eyes, and recall from memory her voice ringing out
through that Church, and embodying the faith experience of my time in San
Francisco.
While living in
Lisbon, I found my spiritual home at the Chapel at Rato, as much for the
eloquence of the priest Tolentino Mendonça who prays the Mass, as for the, as
yet anonymous, voice of the man who leads the choir every alternate Sunday. Who
knows what it is in the voice of this man, but when, accompanied by his guitar
he sings the Psalm, there is something profound that moves among the
congregation. Indeed, so moving is his voice that newcomers to the congregation
often look up to try and glimpse into the choir loft, and determine the owner
of that voice. If you are among the faithful, and you ever make it to Lisbon, a
service at the Chapel at Rato must be a part of your itinerary for both these
reasons.
It is as a
tourist that I have had the most bemusing experience as a church goer.
Believing that a space opens up in a completely different manner if one uses
the space, I often attempt to attend Mass in the more spectacular churches of
places I visit. Attempting to do so in the Mesquita of Cordoba, I walked up the
evening of my arrival and inquired of the guard on duty what time the daily
mass at the church within was scheduled. “It is not for Muslims, only for
Catholics” was his response twice over, until I could beat it into his
consciousness, that despite my possibly Moorish features, I was indeed
Catholic, not Muslim and had not the faintest intention of recovering the
monument for the glory of Islam by offering namaz inside. (Of course I don’t
see why anyone should object to a Muslim wanting to offer namaz inside a space
that was originally built for congregational prayers, but I am not Cordovan,
and that was not my battle).
Once inside the
Mesquita the next day, my faith in the experience of these spaces being
different when used rather than just gawked at, was rewarded not only through the
smells and bells that inform the Catholic experience of the Mass, but especially
when in the course of exchanging the peace of Christ, through a smile and the
grasp of my hand, I was made even if for a moment a member of that church’s
believing community.
(A version of this post first appeared in The Goan dated 27 April 2013)
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