Resurrecting Chicago

Our guide pointed to a soft, green hillside next to the Lake of Galilee. “Jesus preached to five thousand people right over there,” she said. We turned from gazing at the lake and saw the sloping contour of a wide grassy hill.  Other than a few struggling and scraggly trees here and there, it was a meadow.

The sun was intense that day and the air was hot and dry as we pilgrim priests stood there reflecting on the beatitudes that Jesus spoke some two thousand years ago.  It struck me that because of the heat, Jesus could not have been preaching in the middle of the day.  It must have been late afternoon or evening, which explains somewhat Jesus’ worry about the crowd who had little to eat and drink as they listened and followed Him.

Scripture says that Jesus felt distressed because his listeners were like sheep without a shepherd, so He had them recline on that gently sloping hill that eased into the rocky beach of Galilee with a view of the impressive mountains across the lake. Like a shepherd, He guides them to restful waters and green pastures.

The Lake of Galilee near Nazareth with a rare pairing of leafy trees. Mountains form the horizon. (Photo by author.)

He knows they are hungry, so He first nourishes their souls with the beatitudes and then feeds the crowd a miraculous meal of fish and bread.  He tells them that He would someday, somehow give them his flesh and blood to eat.   “You must eat my flesh and drink my blood or you will not have life in you …your ancestors ate manna in the desert and have died… if you eat the bread that I give you will live forever.”

Transubstantiation is a beautiful way to describe what must still remain, though, an awesome mystery. During the Eucharist just after the consecration of the bread and wine, the priest announces to the faithful that (this is) “the Mystery of Faith.” We all respond with faith: “Christ has died.  Christ is risen.  Christ will come again.”

I think of these things as I look at the grassy hill today where Jesus preached the gospel and fed the hungry flock two thousand years ago.  That miracle of mercy has never ceased and continues in our day as the Beatitudes and the Eucharist are reborn daily in the hearts of those who believe in Him.

Immaculate Conception Church, Morris, Il. Typical parish church constructed in the early 20th century for Latin liturgies.

As a Boomer Catholic, I remember the Latin Mass well and loved it. Growing up and going to Mass was a daily religious ritual at my grade school. Sundays my family attended Mass at our huge parish church.  We never missed a Sunday.

The Latin Mass was rich in color (even when the vestments were black) and the sound of Latin was comforting and became a refuge from the vernacular.  I didn’t know what “Dominus vobiscum” meant but I did know to answer “Et cum spiritu tuo.” I thought it was quite holy.

My parish church sanctuary was ornate with beautifully carved rich dark-brown wooden altars, one at either side of the main altar which were built by German craftsmen.  The main altar was even more impressive with its ornate carvings. Life-sized statues of Our Lord and His mother were placed as focal points at each side altar. A striking corpus hung from the large cross over the tabernacle above the main altar.

Mass started when the priest wearing a biretta (a black boxy hat with three fringes topped off with a round tuft) and a cape-like colorful chasuble  entered the sanctuary with two boys dressed in black cassocks and white surplices leading him in. Those boys –acolytes– represented the Catholic community and assisted at the Mass.

When they arrived at the altar all three genuflected to the presence of Jesus in the tabernacle in the center of the main altar.  After the prayers at the foot of the altar and with much bowing, the priest went up the three stairs to the altar and bent over, kissing the table-like altar and then beginning prayers with his back to us in silence.  The entire service was in Latin –sotto voce–except for the scriptural readings.  We watched Mass rather than heard it.

The focus of the Mass was the separate consecration of the bread and wine. The priest with his back to the congregation lifted the bread and wine separately for adoration as the Body and Blood of the Lord.  Bells rang brightly in a fixed pattern to alert us to the moment of consecration.

Latin was the only liturgical language used in the Western part of the Church. That was about to change as the reforms of Vatican II set in in 1962.

As Latin was carefully and slowly replaced by English, I began to realize that I was not watching a Mass but was part of it. The II Vatican Council’s document on Liturgical reform stressed that the celebration of the Holy Eucharist should include “full, active and conscious participation” of the congregation. To achieve this, the priest would move to the other side of the altar  and face the community. And, he would speak to us and we to him in our own language.

I began to love this new form of the Mass.  it was a development of my understanding of the Holy Eucharist and a sanctifying of the language that I spoke everyday of my life. It was the language, too, of my personal prayers, those I had prayed in my heart for my entire life. I still revere the Latin Mass but I am grateful for the blessings of our English Mass, beautiful, too, in its own way.

My backyard looks kind of peppy this morning. Even though we have close to drought conditions here in Morris, my lawn looks green and healthy.  Dawn finds the sparrows flittering around the birdfeeder while robins hop here and there occasionally pulling hidden nightcrawlers out of the grass. Even St. Francis over there, caught in the act of preaching to the birds, seems brighter  — and I think I know why.

Mary Kay’s Flowers

Near the white fence that encloses my yard, bright yellow lilies cluster around the statue of the saint and set it off as if they were decorating both sides of an altar with Francis as the santo.  This feature is the work of Mary Kay Golimowski who is the gardener for my yard and the nun’s yard which is next door to my home.  I can still see her kneeling next to Francis and carefully pulling weeds that had grown among the lilies. She died unexpectedly a few days ago.

Mary Kay, the gardener, brought quiet and kindness to those who knew her.  When you were around her you felt a sense of peace and order, a kind of gentleness that would set that moment apart from the untidiness and noise that adorns most of our days.

Those lilies that seem so warm and joyful this morning were not yet blooming when I last saw Mary Kay down on her knees tending to them. The buds began opening last Thursday when she entered the hospital for a somewhat routine valve replacement. Three days later she passed away  there and my lilies began to blossom

Each year when I again see the creamy yellow flowers around St. Francis, I will remember the woman who graced my garden and my life.