In Ages Past: A Fantasy

The Angelus - April 1981




A good story, imaginatively told, can sometimes explain things far better than a theological tome. Below, we believe, you have a case in point. Our grateful acknowledgments to Christian Order, in which this article originally appeared in May 1979.


IT WAS A RAINY dismal night as I turned the key in the side door of our church after all had left following the service to mark the closure of our joint congregational venture. It had been a sad service, conducted jointly by a clergyman of each denomination and attended by no more than ten people, all of them over fifty.


The English Ecumenical Church

The six denominations coming jointly together twenty years previously seemed such a fine project. It had been agreed after years of negotiation that each body would scrap all its existing liturgy and traditions and would form into one body with no ties to any other hierarchy. We became an English Ecumenical Church, our head being the Archminister of Ramsgate.

It had seemed such a good idea at the time, even though we were disappointed that the government was not interested in our lobbying to be acknowledged as the only official Church in England. They were not interested they said, quote because we were a minority group, the bulk of the population was not interested in religion and therefore the government did not feel obliged to recognize any sect as being official, especially since the Anglican Church was now disbanded and forms part of the Ecumenical Movement, unquote.

Dismayed but not disheartened, we continued our work of demolishing all the old churches of the six sects and building brand new ones in the Ecumenical rite, on straight lines with no adornment and no visible signs of religion. As agreed, each building was to be purely a meeting house of all creeds gradually emerging as one; a cut-off could not be made from the old to the new because it was felt that the remaining faithful had been through so much upheaval during the previous decades that a prolonged graduation of acceptance would be necessary. This was why there were six pastors to our particular parish. It was felt that once the new church was formed, the numbers attending our churches would increase surprisingly and that there would be more than enough work for all of us and that the number of regular churchgoers attending our services would ensure all of us a good standard of living.

How wrong we had been. We were all six of us by now part-time pastors only. Even I, educated and trained originally as a Roman Catholic priest at Ushaw College in Co. Durham (now, incidentally, in the hands of a large hotel chain with its majestic chapel commonly used as a dining room in which are staged mediaeval banquets), had been obliged to take a position as a part-time clerk with a local storage company.

New seminaries had been built in various parts of the country to train men and women to become ministers in our new movement. We were sure at that time that these establishments would be full to overflowing, but one by one they had been obliged to close down.
Where Had We Gone Wrong?

The project had seemed so adventurous and spectacular and was seen as the saviour of religion in this country, both spiritually and economically.

I let myself into the old presbytery which was my home. At one time it had been attached to the Roman Catholic Church which had been demolished twenty years previously, long before I had come to the parish. The house, in perfect repair, had been left standing and kept to accommodate the Roman Catholic minister of the newly-formed parish. I had inherited not only the house but also the furniture, a lot of it dating back to the beginning of the last century when the church had been built, and some of it, including a huge roll-top desk which was my pride and joy, must have been worth a small fortune.

I was saddened as I sat down at that same roll-top desk and proceeded to clear it of material collected during my term in the parish; thinking back to the start of all this when I as a young priest had been all for a clean break with Rome because it would not support wholeheartedly our proposals for a joint creed in England. It had seemed righteous at the time that we turn a church weakened by subversion and wracked by indecision, to begin again in a new vein with a religion of the people, by the people and for the people. We would show Rome where it had gone wrong and how we would regenerate religious fervour in England.

How wrong we had been. All our endeavors, all our efforts, all our different ideas and, yes, gimmicks, if you like, to bring the people to our churches had failed miserably. Looking back now over those twenty odd years, I realized more than ever that something was missing and yet I did not know what. The projects we had tried and which had failed were almost uncountable. With tongue in cheek, I had to admit that we had driven people away.

Yet we were not the only clergy to break with Rome. Could we all have been wrong? The Dutch had been the first to form their own ecumenical movement, followed shortly by the Americans, and then the rest of Europe. Granted, they had not been altogether successful, but we had been sure that we could learn from their mistakes; now, I hoped that someone would learn from ours.


And now, what was to become of me?

I had been informed that, as the parish had been disbanded and there was no other position available for me, I was free to do as I wanted; but that my name would remain on the list of pastors and, therefore, I must notify the Central Committee of all future changes of address. I could no longer remain in the church house, as it was being rented to the Local Authority to house wayward children who were deeply involved in crime.

I cleared out the bills and letters, notes I had made, circulars, newspaper clippings, old diaries, calendars, etc. It was not a happy time, clearing away the debris of part of one's life which was coming to an end.

After an hour of such labor, I tired from sitting in the one position and leaned back in my chair to ease an aching spine. As I did so, I brought my knees up to rest on the edge of the desk and thence to tip the chair onto its back legs; a bad habit, but something I had done for years. Whether I was more tired than I thought or whether I just did not time it correctly, I do not know to this day, but I felt the chair going past the point of no return and threw my legs under the desk in order to save myself, which I did; and managed to right the chair and so renew my balance.
Two Reels of Film and a Roman Missal

The shock of my near fall was superseded by the greater shock of seeing a portion of the rear panel of the desk inside the roll-top slide away to reveal a secret compartment. One of my feet must have released the mechanism necessary to open the panel. Inside were two reels of film and a Roman Missal. The binding of the book was perfection, the edge of each page was tinted with gold leaf and the page markers were vivid with color. I knew that this was the kind of missal used by churchgoers in the old days prior to the banning of the Tridentine Mass. Inside the flyleaf was the inscription, "To my loving son, Michael; Happy Christmas, 1957, Mother." Considering the age of the book, it was in perfect condition. I flicked through the pages and noted the ornate printing on the lead word of several of them. The whole book was printed side by side in Latin and in English.

I next examined the boxes containing the film, but there was nothing to indicate either their age or content. The only way to find out what they contained was to run them. Quickly, I set up my projector and screen, removed the film from the box marked Reel 1, and loaded it onto the machine, switched out the lights and settled back to view.


The words, "The Vigil," appeared on the screen and faded; then the picture lightened to reveal the interior of a church.

It was very high and, being without a ceiling, displayed all the supporting timbers of the roof structure. The main body of the church was inside the stone columns which supported the upper structure. A center aisle led from back to front of the nave while two side-aisles containing smaller pews than those in the main body were housed in lower structures than the main church. The pews looked old and hard and had attached to them kneelers which looked even harder. We of course, had done away with our kneelers. Our congregation either stood or sat during our services. No daylight was visible through the windows of the church.

The cameraman must have been in the choir or on some high structure at the rear of the church, because he commanded a perfect view over almost the whole assembly.

The picture I was looking at closely resembled a photograph I had once seen of the old Roman Catholic church which had once stood on these grounds, and yet there was something different about it. The difference was so obvious that I did not know how I had missed it in the first place; there was no sanctuary. The center aisle ended abruptly at the point where the sanctuary should have begun but, instead, it ended at a huge purple curtain which ran from side to side of the sanctuary aperture and was about twenty feet high. It was unadorned, but the letters I.H.S., each about two feet high, were sewn onto the curtain at its center. I now realized that the sanctuary was hidden behind the curtain.

A beautifully hand-carved oak pulpit dominated the left-hand side of the main body of the nave: it was a work of art. Immediately above the pulpit was a large cross draped in purple. Then, too, I realized that here and there about the church were quite a few purple-draped figures of various shapes and sizes. The only uncovered figure was a life-size Christ hanging from a magnificent cross, the upright member of which was the king post supporting the superstructure immediately before the front pews. Probably the reason why it was uncovered was that it was too high for anyone to reach. Hanging from the base of the crucifix on twenty or more feet of chain was a huge silver sanctuary lamp, ornately worked and with a red oil lamp at its center. It was unlit.

I was puzzled.

Surely, in 1957, according to my training, at least, the Catholic Church had not yet come into its transitional period of change, was still renowned for its pomp and pageantry, its silly little idiosyncrasies and outdated customs; and, yet, here was a church more drab and bare than ours could ever be.

There was no commentary with the film. The only sound effects were of a quiet congregation filing solemnly, without speaking, into the pews which were fast being filled. I had never seen so many people in a church at the one time. Sidesmen were conducting would-be worshippers to the few remaining seats in a courteous and quiet manner with no fuss, but a lot of diligence, chairs were now being carried in by young men and placed in all vacant spaces so as to seat the congregation.

The people, who appeared to be mostly working class, were smart of dress and appearance. Even the young people—and there were plenty of them in attendance—were neat and tidy. Whole families were sitting together and the congregation was made up of all age groups, but there were no small children present. The whole scene was puzzling to say the least.

The absence of noise was manifest.

No one showed the slightest inclination to talk. The few who had to convey messages were doing so in muted whispers. For the rest, they were sitting or kneeling quietly, and a lot of people seemed to be preparing prayer books for a service which was obviously due to begin.


The procession of clergy and altar servers emerged at last from the sacristy. One cleric was dressed in a purple cope, while a younger priest and the servers were clad in black cassocks and white surplices. The leading server carried a long brass pole with a crucifix draped in purple at its peak. Behind him came a thurifer complete with empty thurible, and behind him again came two boys carrying three-foot-high candle sticks which contained foot high candles. Other boys followed the older boys, backed them and led the clerics.

The procession moved slowly towards the center of the church, stopped in front of the large curtain, bowed towards it in unison and proceeded down the center to the of the church. Directly beneath us, the procession stopped converged around looked like a miniature barbeque. As soon as it arrived there, one of the servers began to rub together two pieces of metal.
Easter Vigil

It was at that moment that I realized what was happening. I knew now I was about to see a replay of the Easter Vigil. I had heard about the superstitious ceremony; about it being a new beginning, a regeneration of tradition and like balderdash. I remembered Catholics of the old traditional rite had treated it as an act of faith and a renewal of dedication to the old Church. I quickly picked up the Roman Missal and thumbed the until I found the prayers to be recited during the Vigil.

A description of Holy Saturday informed the reader that it was a day of deep mourning, a day which the Church spent at Our Lord's sepulchre meditating on His Passion and Death. There is no Mass on this day. It went on, however, to say that the service should begin at such a time that the Mass of the Resurrection on Easter Sunday should begin about midnight. I now understood the absence of daylight and small children.

By now, the altar servers had managed to establish a fire in the barbecue and the priest was intoning prayers in Latin over what was obviously the New Fire, described in the Missal as the symbol of Christ, Whose teaching enlightens the minds of the faithful and whose grace enkindles their hearts. What a lot of rot, thought I.

Now some charcoal was being taken from the fire and placed in the thurible and some powder was added, which really made a lot of smoke; and then the priest walked all round the fire waving the thurible about. At this stage, the service looked more like some rite performed in a witch's coven than a ceremony in church.

Next, a huge candle was produced and more Latin was said, while the priest cut a cross on the candle and placed five silver studs into it after they had been incensed with the thurible. Following this, the candle was then lit from the fire; all, of course, to the accompaniment of intonations in Latin.


It became obvious that the procession was about to proceed towards the front of the church and as it did so, all the lights in the church went out. The light now came from the huge candle which was being carried by the elder priest. They only went a few yards when the procession stopped and the priest, holding as high as possible the candle, in plain chant the words, "Lumen Christi" to which the choir answered, "Deo Gratias." They carried on up the center aisle stopping three times and repeating the same two phrases, after which the procession of altar boys each lit a small candle of their own from the large candle. Next, the foot-high candles contained in the three-foot-high candlesticks carried by the two altar-servers were lit. The place was not quite so eerie now with a bit more light visible; but it made for a strange spectacle. The procession had now arrived in front of the purple curtain and the priest once more raised the big candle and repeated this message telling the congregation that this was the Light of Christ, and the choir again answered for the congregation its thanks.

Now the servers dispersed and went among the congregation, all of whom held out candles to be lit, until the whole church was candlelit.
"Exultet"

The large, or Paschal candle, as I now knew it to be called, was placed in an enormous candle holder worked superbly in brass and standing more than seven feet tall. The young priest next placed a large book on a lectern. Then, facing the people, he proceeded to sing Exultet which, according to my missal, was a joyful song of praise to the Risen Christ, Who is represented by the lighted candle. The prayer goes on to praise the work of redemption which Our Lord has completed and to relate the wonder of this holy night; and, since the candle represents Christ, he prays that it may burn forever to drive away the darkness of this night and he ends the prayer asking aid for the Pope, the bishops and clergy, the whole Church and also our civic rulers that God may "turn their hearts to justice and peace." It did not sound very joyful to me, as it was sung in Latin, and sounded more like a dirge, being without guitars, drums or even an organ to act as accompanist. Still, I thought, it takes all kinds.

After he had finished, the congregation extinguished their candles and the church lighting was again switched on.

The people were next subjected to some readings from the Old Testament which I thought would go on forever. Read in Latin, of course, the monotony was broken only after each reading by the elder priest inviting the congregation to kneel; and, no sooner had they knelt, than he asked them to stand again.

Next followed a series of Litanies calling on all sorts of people—Apostles, Disciples, Bishops and Confessors, Priests and Levites—to pray for us.

Then came the blessing of the baptismal water, done at the Easter Vigil to show the close connection between baptism and Our Lord's Resurrection. A vessel containing water was brought forward. The priest mumbled over it for a while, then reached out his hand and divided the water in the form of a cross, wiped his hand with a towel, mumbled some more, then touched the water with his hand, said some more prayers, then made the sign of the Cross three times over the water, saying in Latin as he did so, "Therefore I bless thee O creature of water, by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God Who in the beginning, separated thee by His word from the dry land, Whose spirit moved over thee." He then divided the water with his hand and threw some in every direction, carried on mumbling, breathed three times on the water in the form of a cross, then mumbled some more. The Paschal Candle was next removed from its magnificent holder and dipped into the water, while the priest called in Latin for the sanctifying strength of the Holy Ghost to descend into all the water in the font. He repeated this three times; the candle was then returned to its holder. Some of the water was drawn off, after which the priest poured oil onto the water, then chrism into it, next oil and chrism, then mixed it all together with his hands. The vessel containing the now well and truly blessed water was carried in procession and poured into the Baptismal Font at the rear of the church.

Renewal of Baptismal Vows

As the procession made its way from the font to the front of the church, the altar servers again mingled with the congregation, relighting everyone's candles while the celebrant removed his purple cope and donned a white one, incensed the Paschal Candle, then proceeded to lead the congregation in a renewal of their Baptismal Vows. For the first time during the service he spoke in English asking the people the question, "Do you renounce Satan, and all his works, and all his pomps?" To each question the congregation answered that they did renounce them. He then asked them, "Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth?" To which the people answered, "We do believe." "Do you believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son Our Lord, Who was born into this world and suffered for us?" With equal sincerity the crowd answered, "We do believe." And he asked, "Do you believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting?" To which the congregation answered in a magnificent yet simple profession of faith which left no doubt as to their belief in it, "We do believe."

The ceremony ended with the Pater Noster and the procession then retired to the sacristy.


While preparations were going on in the sacristy for the next part of the service, the choir continued in its musical incantation of the litanies. As they were doing this, I who, following the previous stage in the ceremonies, was not quite so cynical about it all now, read in my missal the Church's explanation of Lent.

I learned that for forty days the Church went into a time of great mourning, during which the bells and organs were silenced, its crucifixes and statues were draped in purple and its people were encouraged to perform some act of self-discipline for the duration of the period and to offer up that act or acts in honor of Christ, Who gave His life for them at Calvary on Good Friday.

As the choir finished their intonations, the reel of film ran out and so I had to change to watch the second reel. While I did so, and before I sat back to watch the second part of the film, I had time to dwell on what I had just seen.

I had to admit that anyone with an open mind could not help but be impressed by the sincerity with which the ceremony had been conducted. The reverence and the respect had been more than obvious and the gentleness of the people came across. I settled back, therefore, to watch Reel 2 in a different frame of mind.

As the film opened, the scene was unchanged. The procession had not yet returned and the congregation was silently kneeling.

The screen went black, and I thought at first that something was wrong with the film, until I realized that there was a glimmer of light and that it came from the Paschal Candle. A procession once again emerged from the vestry into the darkened church, led by a thurifer and two boys carrying lighted candles, followed by six torch bearers, after which came the two older servers who preceded the younger priest, who was still dressed simply in black cassock and white cotta, while bringing up the rear was the celebrant now dressed in a gold chasuble, stole and maniple while on his head he wore a black biretta. The altar servers had also changed and now wore red cassocks and immaculate cottas.

"Gloria in Excelsis Deo"

The procession came to a halt in front of the purple curtain with the celebrant in the center. He removed his biretta and handed it to one of the older servers who, I noticed, kissed that part of the hat which the celebrant had held. The thurible was handed to the celebrant who incensed the curtain. The celebrant, who had his back to the congregation as he had all through the procession, raised his arms in an upward motion and as he did so, he sang out in a loud baritone voice, "Gloria in excelsis Deo." As he ended the Deo which he held for about four notes, the organ struck up the Gloria, the church bells peeled out, and an altar server rang a hand bell continuously through the playing of the piece.

The noise was profound, yet musical. Its meaning was clear. If anyone was in doubt as to the interpretation of this part of the ceremony, the doubt was removed, as the purple curtain dropped to the floor to reveal the sanctuary, which was bedecked with flowers and lit with every available vessel capable of holding a candle. The tabernacle veil and altar frontal were of matching embroidered gold, while the only electric light shone directly on to a gold crucifix, which stood on the throne above the tabernacle. Six towering candles were lit, three on either side at the back of the altar in readiness for High Mass. Immediately the organ began to play and, after the curtain had been dropped, altar servers quickly removed the purple drapes from the statues and crucifixes around the church and placed vases of flowers in front of each, while at the same time, the sanctuary lamp was lit. The purple curtain was folded and carried away and the altar gates were opened. The procession moved onto the High Altar to participate in the Mass. The lighting was switched on and the Mass proceeded. Christ had risen.

Never had I seen such a transformation from sorrow to joy. It had been breathtaking in its simplicity. The congregation was aware of what it was about. They took pleasure in the ceremonial rite to give praise to their Creator, because they knew that it was now Easter Sunday and they were remembering how Christ was risen on this day for their salvation.

I was deeply moved.

The celebrant conducted his Mass with his back to the people, in keeping with the old rite, and his reverence was obvious to see. He was offering up this Mass, as he would all his Masses, to the honor and glory of his Maker, and he carried the people with him through the mystery and miracle of their liturgy. It was inspiring to me to witness such respect and honor not only from the priests but from the altar-servers, who I felt appreciated the privilege of being allowed to participate in serving the Mass, and also from the people present, who felt joined as one with the celebrant, whom they saw as their intermediary with God.

We passed humbly through the offertory, majestically through the Consecration and then came to the Communion, which was beautiful to see. The miracle of the Mass was being brought now to the people, who thronged to the altar rail and accepted on their tongues what they believed to be the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ. I thought the procession of the faithful would never end, and the reverence with which these people received their Communion was impressive to say the least.

As the Mass drew to its close, so my questions were answered. I knew now where we had gone wrong; we had left out God. Somewhere we had made ourselves God, and in so doing, we had lost our reason for being. We had taken away from the people whom we were meant to serve, their reason for being members of the Catholic Church. We had made man the be-all and the end-all of everything; and, in so doing, we were living a lie.

These people in their simple wisdom and through their unflinching faith, knew that man was subject to God and they cherished the knowledge. They adored and worshipped, respected, revered and loved Him, and we, the presumed intellectuals, had taken away from our fellow Catholics that right, that privilege, that feeling of belonging. It was small wonder that our churches were empty.