#441: An All Souls’ Souvenir

I’ve chosen to share a personal “souvenir” from one All Souls’ Day past. 

I am writing this on All Souls’ Day--a sort of poor stepchild among Catholic feasts.  All Saints’ Day on November 1 has long been a day of required worship for Catholics, whereas All Souls’ Day on November 2 is not.  And now that Halloween has emerged as a major commercial event even for grownups, All Souls’ Day ends up as the invisible tail-end of this 3-day observance. But for me, the tail wags the dog.

All Saints’ is of course dedicated to the honoring of Catholicism’s Hall of Fame: those whose heroic lives made them memorable for future generations.  And All Hallows’ Eve became the popular way of remembering that no one gets to heaven (or hell) without dying first.  But if All Saints’ was about the elites and Halloween was about the buried, All Souls’ was about the ordinary folks who had gone before us and whose prayers we both offered and sought.  In that sense, All Souls’ was the day we venerated, not our heroes, but our ordinary ancestors. It was the people’s feastday.

During the visit of Pope Francis to New York City in September, the television cameras panned over the newly renovated St. Patrick’s Cathedral while media commentators giddily detailed its décor, including the numerous side altars where, in former days, multiple priests would say private Masses simultaneously.  In fact, on All Souls’ Day, priests were allowed the exceptional privilege of saying three masses in one day--often three private masses in a row!

One of the Side Altars

And so the pope’s first visit to New York City reminded me of my own first visit to New York at the age of 14.  I had arrived the day before, November 1, with my father, who was attending an important union conference, and when we woke up in our hotel he announced we were going to All Souls’ Day Mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

But my father did not intend to be a simple tourist, nor even an ordinary pew-dweller.  His plan was to fulfill an old altar boy’s lifelong dream: to serve Mass in New York’s great gothic cathedral.  As we entered there were perhaps 20 priests saying private masses at the side altars while the main altar remained empty.  First he installed me at one side altar where a priest was just beginning Mass, then he went off to find a Mass of his own. 

I had been trained in the “old Latin Mass,” and made my way fairly routinely through the call-and-response typical of that liturgical form.  This priest moved through the Mass fairly rapidly, and within 20 minutes or so he was returning back down from the altar for what were customarily the final prayers in English.

 Old-Style private Latin Mass at a side altar

But then he caught me by surprise, because he began in Latin the “Prayers at the Foot of the Altar” that begin the Mass.  I suddenly realized that he was starting over!  The immediate sensation was of being trapped: if this man planned to say three consecutive Masses, I could be stuck here for some time.

But as the priest moved back up to the altar to begin the first readings, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.  Turning my head, I saw my father beckoning me to come.  I assumed this meant I had permission to leave, so with some relief I got up and walked to him, thinking it was time for breakfast.

Instead, my father’s glowing eyes hinted at a different message, as his arm reached out and pointed toward the main altar.

“There is a priest getting ready to say Mass at the main altar!” he whispered.  “This is your chance!  Go!” His urgent command was clearly non-negotiable.

And so it was that, on my very first visit to New York City, on my very first morning in New York City, I found myself serving Mass in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in the very spot where, just one month ago this year, Pope Francis presided.

Main Altar in 1960

Vatican Council II was underway, but its reforms were yet to be announced. So aside from the venue, the Mass felt just like any other weekday Mass: an intimate sort of exchange between the priest and the altar boy, with the other worshippers invisible and silent behind us.  I did not even know how many there were.  So I quickly relaxed into the familiar routine until the moment approached when I prepared to ring the altar bells for the first time.

Looking down to my side, I saw no bells.  There was a stick with a large white felt ball stuck to its end.  There was also a brass-colored, metal-dome-shaped something, standing on a 1-foot tall white marble pedestal.  Thinking it might be a bell, I tried to lift it, but it was attached to the pedestal.  Thinking next that there might be some way to ring it in place, I reached as discreetly as I could underneath to feel for a clapper.  But I felt no clapper.  In fact, I could feel no moving parts at all.

With about three minutes to go before bell-ringing time, a slow panic began to set in.  How could I ring the bells without a bell?  How could this thing with no moving parts supply the sound that I was supposed to make?

That slow panic kept rising within me for the next two minutes when, with about a minute to go, the corner of my eye saved me again. 

For off in the periphery of my vision was someone who appeared to be a younger priest, dressed in a white robe, gesturing with his eyes locked on me.  I turned my head, and looked directly at him.  His right arm swung out to the right, his palm out in an underhanded gesture, and then his arm swung back rapidly to a position directly in front of him.  He repeated this gesture three more times before I realized what I was seeing: he was imitating someone sharply hitting the side of the brass thing in front of me with the stick. 

I had no idea who this man really was, or if he knew what he was gesturing about, but I was desperate enough to trust him.  What else could I do?  Do nothing, and risk humiliating myself at the main altar of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral when the priest celebrating Mass would swing around, glaring at me for the silence I had committed?

No way.  Instead, I picked up the stick, and when the moment came, I swung out to my right arm and brought it sharply back onto the side of the brass thing next to my knees.

For one instant, I felt my effort had been futile.  For one instant, nothing happened.  Then, softly, almost stealthily, a steady tone began to emanate from the brass thing.  As the volume of this single tone grew, I realized what I had done: I had rung, not a bell, but a gong!

Success!  I thought.  But then I realized that tone had not ended.  Far from it.  In fact, it was growing in volume to fill a wider and wider area of the cathedral’s space.  No bell-ringing I had ever done in all my career as an altar boy had ever made such a long, ever-louder noise!

Was I supposed to stop it?  Put my hand on it?  Put the stick on it?  Was it really supposed to get louder and louder for so long?

I turned my head again, and saw the young priest quietly nodding his head and smiling with satisfaction.  The message was unmistakable: this is exactly what is supposed to be happening right now

So I was suddenly able to relax, and for the first time I appreciated what I had done and why.  Ordinary hand bells, I realized, would sound distant in the cathedral no matter how large and loud.  But this gong was sending its single tone to the furthest reaches of the cathedral. 

THIS was the unmistakable sound of the main altar at the high point of the Mass.  THIS was the sound that would command the attention of all the worshipers and tourists and even all of the priests saying their private masses at their private altars.  It was the Big Gong that made THIS Mass, on this altar, the center of the cathedral’s universe--and I was the one who had rung it!

Over the next few minutes I got to repeat my feat several times. But 30 minutes later the Mass was over, and the priest graciously and generously thanked me-- expressing some surprise that his altar server was a Bostonian, not a New Yorker. 

My father soon joined me and, as he congratulated me, I felt a father’s love in a special way.  For while he was delighted that I had had this opportunity, I knew without doubt that he had sacrificed his own opportunity by giving it to me. He had realized his dream of serving Mass in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, and that was a memory he would always treasure.  But perhaps the memory he would treasure more was witnessing his young son, on his first New York visit, kneeling to ring the Big Gong at Saint Patrick’s main altar.

So while All Souls’ Day may remain a poor stepchild in the three-day observance October 31 – November 2, for me it will always remain a special memory of a special place, a special opportunity, and a special man.

© Bernard F. Swain PhD 2015