Third Mass. Sunday 27 April 2025.
Our Lady Immaculate.
Collections have been catching me out since I returned to church. Mainly the supply of ready cash. So this week I resolved to get ahead of the problem.
Walking through town I noticed a cash point in a quiet moment. I didn’t want to be one of those people who manage to occupy a cash point for 15 minutes so while there was no one about I entered my card three separate times to get some ten-pound notes. That would keep me going a few weeks.
But second collections have been catching me out even more.
I gave ten for the church and ten for St Geroge’s Cathedral in Southwark (it was St George’s Day), and suddenly I’m down to one week’s supply of sterling. And I owe a pound for the special Pope Francis edition of the Catholic Post.
All of which has produced a theory of mine, that the exact amount of money you need to take to church is exactly one pound more than you thought you needed.
I stuck to my plan and sat in a different pew, on the opposite side to where I usually put myself. A guest of the bridegroom, so to speak, rather than the bride.
This gave me a bench to myself, which also avoided the little crowd that had gathered around my former spot. It made it easier to lean forward when kneeling without that ever-present fear of opening your eyes to find yourself resting your head on the shoulder of the person sitting in front of you.
It was cold in church, but the sun finally made it through one of the windows high up in the ceiling, raising the temperature a little and creating one of those small moments of grace when the sunbeams shine through and illuminate everything.
I watched the line of people pass on their way to receive communion and how most people passed by the chalice containing the blood of Christ, receiving only the body of Christ. I wonder why that is? Is it the hassle? Germs maybe? I decided on both again, planning to wet my lips with the wine. But I ended up taking a full sip, a first proper sip. It burned with alcohol. And the Holy Spirit.
My second new policy was a dress code. Smart trousers and a jacket.
I have this sense of wanting to set an example. Of being a good, humble catholic. It’s not dressing to show off, it’s dressing to show respect. So I sat up straight, listened carefully, said hello to people I knew. I even had the communion antiphon ready to read, to help out the three other people who seem to remember where to find it.
There were free copies of the Catholic Post for everyone (although really I owe the church a pound). And the picture of Pope Francis was below the altar. We were jokingly asked to read the adverts to cover the cost.
The Homily was about Thomas the Doubter. Or Doubting Thomas. It made me think a lot about my own experience. How we sometimes need proof. But that I should not need proof if I have faith.
But it is hard to blame Thomas. What an unusual and frightening time it must have been for him and the apostles. But where had he been?
Canon P was in good form. On the subject of these moveable saints days, he told a funny story about when he was a seminarian, and one of his co-trainees (is that the right word?) said that if he were to become a saint, he didn’t want to be one of those optional ones that could get easily moved around. For him it was a dedicated day or nothing.