In the vestry of my church in south London there is a list of Rectors of the parish going back to 1313. In that time, not once has the central church advised us to lock our doors to parishioners. Nazi bombers put us out of action for a while. But not since 1208 has the Church of England closed its doors to public worship. Though of course, as Roman Catholics will be eager to point out, there wasn’t such a thing as the Church of England back then. The advice issued this week that “public worship is suspended until further notice” is without precedent. And it will change the church in this country forever.
The advice came too late to inform a number of my congregation who made their way to church for Tuesday night Mass. “I am sorry,” I said weakly, through the glass panel in the door. George had come down from Islington. He said that if I were any sort of priest I would tell the archbishops where to stick it, and open up. I tried to explain: pressure on the NHS, keeping the elderly safe, flattening the curve.
But he didn’t get it. We both walked away from the window, him back home, me to the altar. And a little part of me died inside.
7pm Mass. A brief thought. pic.twitter.com/NkHVS0qjZ9
— Giles Fraser (@giles_fraser) March 17, 2020
Celebrating Mass in an empty church is a weird experience. No need to check your watch to make sure you start on time. I ring the church bell, a bell that is supposed to tell people to hurry up because the service is about to start. But this time it offers no such invitation. I ring it in the hope that a few local people might know we are carrying on, after a fashion. I unplug the photocopier. We are not going to need that for a while. I dress up in my robes, and process out into a dark church, alone.
The opening words of the service are supposed to be a greeting to all who have gathered: “The Lord be with you.” But there is only me to respond. And I do, as the service book dictates: “And also with you.” It’s crazy. I am literally talking to myself in an empty building. And so I start skipping bits of the service. What is the point of the peace or the blessing? The Mass feels like it is falling apart before me. Perhaps this what losing one’s faith feels like? Only when I raise the chalice towards the ceiling with the worlds “Do this in remembrance of me” does the whole thing come back together as purposeful. I drink from the cup denied to others. This is heartbreaking.
Earlier in the day my friend David Lan called to see if we were OK. David used to be the director of the Young Vic theatre, just up the road from my parish. “You wouldn’t put a play on if there was no audience?” I asked him. I wouldn’t, he agreed. But that, of course, is where theatre and liturgy divide. Because the proper purpose of liturgy is the worship of Almighty God, and that is what this church is now for, with the priest performing that ancient function of representing the people to the divine, making the sacrifice of the Mass on their behalf.
Join the discussion
Join like minded readers that support our journalism by becoming a paid subscriber
To join the discussion in the comments, become a paid subscriber.
Join like minded readers that support our journalism, read unlimited articles and enjoy other subscriber-only benefits.
Subscribe