The same day my lipstick melted,
I fell in love with a church.
We were in Aussie; ‘im indoors
and I were in Sydney for our godson’s wedding and it was on Sunday afternoon on
the Manly ferry that the lipstick went sideways. By then we’d been charmed by egrets
strolling in a park, the heaven-scent of frangipani in the night, flat whites served
gratis while we waited outside a café for a taxi - but what knocked our socks
off was St Peter’s Church, Surry Hills.
On Saturday morning, dear ‘im
indoors having booked an apartment around the corner, we set off on foot for
the convent where their website said Mass would be celebrated.
We never found the convent; instead
the parish priest found us, lurking lost in the street behind the church. He
directed us to a side door. In the entry was a statue of St Therese of Lisieux.
In the church, in front of the tabernacle the Blessed Sacrament was exposed until
Mass began, closing St Peter’s monthly overnight Vigil for Life. Oh, and
there’s key pad entry to the Blessed Sacrament, any time.
On Sunday morning, we heard
hymn-singing and laughter just within earshot as the choir rehearsed nearby for
an hour. A teenager entering the sanctuary in jeans and trainers presaged the
style of Mass to come: in his hand he carried a pair of shiny black shoes. Three
such boys processed with the priest, all wearing black shoes and robes whiter
than white.
By now I was purring, I who’ve
been told off after Mass occasionally by ‘im indoors for subdued grinding of
teeth. Before Mass I’d joined the queue (of people neither old nor Asian) outside
the confessional. On a Sunday. Inside
was a prie-dieu and a curtain. There’s no provision at St Peter’s for a cosy
chat, for Father in a vulnerable moment opening compassionate arms to a lovely
young thing in distress, of either sex. And after Mass the confessional light
went on again. Immediately.
Communion was under only one
kind. An altar server held a paten beneath the Host, distributed by the priest’s
consecrated hand. I noticed people kneeling to receive on the tongue. When in
Rome, I thought, and did likewise.
The only female to enter the
sanctuary, a literally Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion, was one of St
Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity. The altar servers were male and whenever they
passed before the tabernacle they genuflected. Every time. The lectors were
male, the organist was professional, young, and male.
The choir master was a mistress,
however, and a very pretty one at that. She didn’t look like she lies awake at
night worrying about gender balance. Some of the hymns were Latin. I knew the
lyrics. The homily was about sin, repentance, and intimacy with Jesus.
Afterwards in the porch we had to
say no to a cuppa. It was a nice man who asked us, but he wasn’t the priest.
The priest was in the
confessional.
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