Divine Mercy Sunday

I spent much of the afternoon sitting in the church car park, basking in the warm April sunshine. Given the popularity of the Divine Mercy indulgence, I placed a prie-dieu beside me and heard confessions from those who were attending the Divine Mercy devotions in our small hall. Meanwhile, the monthly Nigerian Mass was being celebrated in the church: the combination of their loud drums in the church and the Divine Mercy hymns in the hall served to cover from preying ears the sins that were being confessed. This pious competition, to see who could sing the loudest, was quite impressive and a vivid expression of the universality of the Church in this part of London.

I must confess to being rather under-read when it comes to St Faustina and the Divine Mercy - after all, the Church offers so many laudable devotions and private revelations. The essential message of today, however, is clear, stressing the infinite depths of God’s mercy, no matter how serious our sins may be.

Today's Gospel reminded us that Confession is an Easter Sacrament; it was the first gift to the Church from the Risen Lord. All the Sacraments continue the Incarnation – and through Confession, we have a share in the Paschal Mystery by dying to sin and rising to the life of sanctifying grace. Our Lord knows us too well. He knows that we blunder along in life and often take the wrong turning. That’s why He gave us the promise of His peace and forgiveness. That's why we are never closer to Jesus than when we sincerely repent of our sins.

Easter in Rome

This shot of the English College schola in action outside St Peter's on Sunday, courtesy of Northampton Seminarian, brought back happy memories of the Easters I was privileged to spend in Rome as a seminarian. Compared to life as a priest in an urban parish, the experience of the Triduum was pretty relaxed, especially since I was never heavily involved with music or organising the liturgy. Maundy Thursday evening was spent happily rushing round the different altars of repose in the centro storico - the atmosphere in the darkened churches was always electric and I think on one occasion I visited well over twenty.

The Easter Vigil was followed by a party, which meant that seminarians (without the duty of saying two or three parochial Masses in the morning) retired at a very late hour. And then it was up early to walk to the Vatican for the Papal Mass and Urbi et Orbi - one of the few occasions when we were allowed to wear cassocks in the streets. The English College schola traditionally provided some of the music for the Mass and sat at the top of the steps leading into the basilica, just behind the outdoor altar. We normally sang a motet at Communion (such as Casciolini's Panis Angelicus) and a piece before the arrival of the Pope (a sort of 'gathering song'). In my day, at least, schola numbers were boosted by non-singing seminarians and guests (who were lent cassocks for the occasion). The combination of being so near the Pope and wearing choir dress meant that Easter morning was a popular day for taking photos - in fact, about half the photos in my seminary album are of the occasion:

Then we returned to the College for a long festal lunch and digestivi. Even this did not stop the piety of us seminarians, for most of us would dash to sit in choir at St Peter's for Easter Vespers (though on one occasion it was too much for one of my fellow students and he very obviously fell asleep during Cardinal Noe's homily, much to the canons' disgust). But, as you can see, the long procession made it very impressive (I'm one of the white blobs on the far right):

Wet Monday

I always find the Easter Octave a bit of an anti-climax in our secular culture. Yes, liturgically every day is a Solemnity, but I find things otherwise get back to normal far too quickly and the week lacks the festive feel of Christmas Week, when the forthcoming New Year ensures a continuation of the celebrations in the popular mind.

Today, the Easter Bank Holiday, is known in parts of Eastern Europe as 'Wet Monday' on account of the tradition of boys waking up girls by pouring over them a bucket of water! This originated with the custom of blessing houses with Holy Water, blessed at Easter (though some claim it goes back to an ancient fertility rite). In Poland there is supposedly a link to the baptism of King Mieszko I and his court on Easter Monday 966. Śmigus-dyngus, as the day is called in Polish, is consequently still a day for water fights, which seems a jolly good way of spending Easter Monday. Perhaps I should lurk outside the church with a water pistol as the congregation arrive for the midday Mass?

Christus resurrexit, alleluia!

A happy and blessed Easter to all of you!

I'm about to have a belated siesta, having had a rather fine festal lunch here at the presbytery - including, for the first time since I was 7 years old, some indoor fireworks (now, how Catholic is that?)! However, before I make my horizontal meditation I thought I better add something to the blog. Holy Week is one of my favourite times of year because everything is so focussed on the drama of the Sacred Liturgy. It started with the Chrism Mass at Westminster Cathedral on Holy Tuesday, marked by a lovely Monteverdi Mass setting and a good homily by the Cardinal on Sacramentum Caritatis (indeed all priests were given a complementary copy when they turned up to vest, which was very encouraging).

Here at Kingsland, things went well. Each day of the Triduum had its own flavour and momentum: the Maundy Thursday Mass (at which I 'presided') is, I always think, the most contemplative. Good Friday is edifying, despite the chaos caused by the congregation (numbering at least 850) - I was particularly impressed by the demand for confessions, on which subject Fr Tim has an excellent post. The Easter Vigil was full of beauty - and I just about got through the Exsultet (though I must gargle some port, as the experts recommend, before I do it next time, since my voice got rather dry). The highlight, however, was the Solemn Mass this morning, celebrated by the parish priest, at which I got to exercise my 'eternal diaconate' (Fr Albert, the National Nigerian Chaplain, joined me on the sedilia in a gold tunicle). A special choir sang Haydn's St Nicholas Mass, Mozart's Ave verum and (as a recessional) Handel's Alleluia Chorus, which attracted a spontaneous round of applause from the people. I'm not a great fan of clapping in church but I think an exception can be made for Easter - one thinks of the fifteenth century Bavarian custom of the priest singing comic songs at the end of Mass and causing the people to be convulsed in Risus Paschalis, 'Easter laughter.'

I should add that today is the first 'blogiversary' of Roman Miscellany. Thank you for your kind interest over the past year. Originally I thought I might stop blogging after a year but, with your indulgence, I think I might continue - at least for a little longer.