The Church of Our Lady of Remedy is never short of people for any service. And this 9 am service had more than its stipulated share of Sunday Mass goers. The service was a month's mind Mass, and month's mind Masses, as you may or may not know, are always packed.
"But why?"
"Why what now?"
"Why are they so packed?" an acquaintance asked.
"Well, it's a second chance to say goodbye to the one departed."
"But does the one dead know you are here to say so?"
"The one who has departed you mean?"
"Yes yes. Dead. Departed. It's the same thing."
"No no. The two have very very different implications."
"Really? I'd like to know."
"Know what?"
"The implications."
"Well, 'The one dead' implies you just happen to know the person expired. By 'The one departed', you imply you know the person well and that you might - just might - be related to the person as well."
"Oh my my. I am impressed. I am so depressed that I called the one departed the one dead."
"Well, people make mistakes you know."
"And you love to point them out to them."
"I am just doing my duty."
"Yes yes; which is why you manage to get off work at 6:30 eveyday."
"Anyway, so you were asking whether the one departed knows we are here to say a second goodbye."
"Oh you remember what I asked you. I am impressed yet again. You never forget do you?"
"Oh no."
"No wonder you love revenge."
"Shut up."
"Well that isn't the kind of language I'll use in the Church yard you know."
"Do you want me to answer your question? Yes or no?"
"What question now?"
"You're impossible."
"Okay sorry sorry. Tell me tell me, whether the dear departed know people have come to say goodbye to them for the second time at the month's mind."
"No, it's just a second chance to say goodbye. And this chance is for those who did not attend the funeral."
"Really? But half the congregation here did attend the funeral."
"Yes I know."
"Are they here because they miss the departed?"
"They're here for the snacks after Mass."
"Oh there are snacks as well?"
"Will you stop asking me questions?"
"Why? It's a harmless question. Say yes or no."
"Yes."
"I see."
By the time my acquaintance saw whatever was there to see, the warning bell went off. So we walked into the Church, sat on the last pew, and waited.
At 9:01, the celebrant entered and the congregation stood up. A second later, the choir made a lot of noise, and three seconds later, I realized that that noise was actually the entrance hymn.
"Oh Lord My God when I in awesome wonder" went the first line of the stanza.
That the Lord my God allowed them to wail their way to the second line was a wonder indeed. Two lines later, they led us into the chorus and were quite sure that they did not know how to proceed. It took an agonizing 30 seconds for the congregation and the celebrant to find their way back and decide that, yes, they must move on.
So the celebrant said how delighted he was to celebrate Mass and the congregation pretended to show some delight. I had no delight left in me even for a pretence, so I stood all set to sit the moment I am allowed to.
However, the celebrant was in no hurry to permit that.
He went on to tell us how this day was made by the Lord and how we must be glad and rejoice when we gather to worship and adore the One Above. He then managed to drag a reflection on a holy virtue I can’t quite remember and link that virtue to the theme of the liturgy.
Finally, the women in the front pews decided that enough is enough and began fanning themselves furiously.
So the celebrant took the hint. He brought his reflection to a standstill, finished the initial rituals of the Mass, and we all sat down to hear the first and the second readings.
The readings went off well. The woman who put on an accent for the first reading managed to sound like a bored newscaster rattling off a column from the Business Times. And the girl who climbed the pulpit to read the second reading thought it best to continue in the same tone. As a result, by the time she reached the acclamation, no man, woman or child realized it was time to stand and sing the Alleluia.
The choir did, however, remember and began to make some noise. The noise woke up all of us. We then woke our feet up and stood to join in the noise that was the Alleluia.
The Alleluia, in turn, woke up the celebrant who then walked up to the pulpit to read the Gospel. And since this was a Sunday Mass, he realized he had to sermonize too.
So we sat yet again and let his sermon float around. No one opened their ears to let it in and no one had any intention of pretending to let it in either. It floated around for a full 10 minutes and finally made its way to the door. But the people standing there were in no mood to give it an audience. So, the sermon – with all its sentences and exclamations – went right back to its owner and complained that no one’s listening.
Of course, that was quite usual. Sermons are meant to be boring. If they aren’t boring, then they aren’t sermons. And the celebrant knew that very well. However, he tried not to listen to the complaint for another 3 minutes. But the sermon kept on complaining about how the ladies in the front pews were dozing and how the children in the pews behind were irritating their mothers who had closed their ears anyway.
Finally, the celebrant had to take notice and wrap up the sermon. The choir then stood up, chose a hymn, and disappointed me: I expected to hear nonsense. What I did hear was a pleasant surprise. The hymn did sound like one, and I could not help but join in.
As I did so, I looked around and tried to spot my near and dear ones. I saw a bunch of them seated close to the door. This bunch I knew was all set to snack once the Mass was over. I saw another group of dear ones ahead of me, sitting very close to the pulpit. This group was all set to enact the usual melodrama and cry at the grave.
And so they did. They wept, spoke of their sorrow in whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, and in general did nothing to not attract attention.
I had not much to do. So, I decided to divide my attention between them and the condolence line.
The condolence line was not long but did wind around the churchyard. All those who could not make it to the funeral made it to this line and managed to look morose and sorrowful as they condoled the bereaved son.
The son, of course, smiled and welcomed the wishes. One of those basic traits of human nature - courtesy - forced him to. That he intended to be courteous was out of the question. He did not want to be. It's just that he had not the nerve to be brash when people were around.
If he were to be rude and walk away, people would have started to talk. And as you know, once people talk, they make sure their talk is heard. So the talk would have travelled around and he would have become the talk of the town - for all the wrong reasons of course.
Now, he loved to be the talk of the town for all the right reasons. And so, he decided - for once - to allow courtesy to force him to smile and look polite.
Fortunately, the line shortened quickly. And we decided to go snack in the cafeteria.
Again and again, as I sat down to eat, as I drank my coffee, I heard not one, not two, but three four and more of my relatives ask:
"Why didn't he tell us?"
Father Dearest tried his best to repair the damage. "Oh it was a shock to us too,"I heard him saying,"we never knew it was this bad."
"Really? But you were her brother. You should have known."
"Well," said Father Dearest, trying his best not to spill his coffee, "I'm telling you. Till the end, we thought she'll recover."
The three four or more relatives looked at each other, then looked into their coffee, and decided they had better smile now.
"Oh I see," they said, smiling, "anyway, God knows what's best."
"Yes yes see, we all have to surrender to God's will someday or the other."
"Oh yes," they said, impressed by Father Dearest's observation, "one has to."
However, some were determined to give the son and in turn his uncle - my Father Dearest - a difficult time.
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"Well you see-"
"What see wee? You know no how close we were to her? We wanted to see her one last time. And even that we could not do."
"I am sorry. We really did not know her condition was so bad."
"That is a big lie," they said.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. You all were there nearly everyday around her. Naturally, the doctor spoke to you people then. He or she must have said something that might have implied how serious she was."
"Yes they did-"
"Then then, why didn't you people tell us?"
"Well actually they did not tell us that."
"Oh come on - you expect us to believe that?"
From where I stood and ate my pattice, I did not expect them to do that at all. I did not expect the son to keep up his polite behaviour either. And right enough, that's what he did: He pretended to not listen, and walked away.
So those relatives threw their ire and anger on Father Dearest.
"You expect us to believe that?" they repeated when they got their lips out of the coffee.
"See I do understand," said Father Dearest in all sincerity, "how close you were to her. But then this had to happen this way and there was no way we could do anything."
"But why didn't you tell us man? We feel so bad that we couldn't see her for one last time."
"Well to tell you the truth, she wasn't too well to see anyone."
"Ohh," said the relatives, taken aback, "we did not know that."
"Yes, so you see, we thought it best not to tell anyone. We did not want her to be disturbed."
"Oh. Oh. Right right. Absolutely. We're so sorry for her, for you too. And even for her son."
"Well, it's okay, one has to-"
"-surrender to God's will. Yes, true."
"Of course, one but has to do that."
Yes I agree; one has to surrender. Yes, one must follow the will of the One Above. But there’s a manner in which that will has to be followed. That neither the son nor the uncle nor anyone close knew. Oh I am no sanctimonious fellow. But I do know when someone who is oh so close to Eternity expresses a wish to:
"But why?"
"Why what now?"
"Why are they so packed?" an acquaintance asked.
"Well, it's a second chance to say goodbye to the one departed."
"But does the one dead know you are here to say so?"
"The one who has departed you mean?"
"Yes yes. Dead. Departed. It's the same thing."
"No no. The two have very very different implications."
"Really? I'd like to know."
"Know what?"
"The implications."
"Well, 'The one dead' implies you just happen to know the person expired. By 'The one departed', you imply you know the person well and that you might - just might - be related to the person as well."
"Oh my my. I am impressed. I am so depressed that I called the one departed the one dead."
"Well, people make mistakes you know."
"And you love to point them out to them."
"I am just doing my duty."
"Yes yes; which is why you manage to get off work at 6:30 eveyday."
"Anyway, so you were asking whether the one departed knows we are here to say a second goodbye."
"Oh you remember what I asked you. I am impressed yet again. You never forget do you?"
"Oh no."
"No wonder you love revenge."
"Shut up."
"Well that isn't the kind of language I'll use in the Church yard you know."
"Do you want me to answer your question? Yes or no?"
"What question now?"
"You're impossible."
"Okay sorry sorry. Tell me tell me, whether the dear departed know people have come to say goodbye to them for the second time at the month's mind."
"No, it's just a second chance to say goodbye. And this chance is for those who did not attend the funeral."
"Really? But half the congregation here did attend the funeral."
"Yes I know."
"Are they here because they miss the departed?"
"They're here for the snacks after Mass."
"Oh there are snacks as well?"
"Will you stop asking me questions?"
"Why? It's a harmless question. Say yes or no."
"Yes."
"I see."
By the time my acquaintance saw whatever was there to see, the warning bell went off. So we walked into the Church, sat on the last pew, and waited.
At 9:01, the celebrant entered and the congregation stood up. A second later, the choir made a lot of noise, and three seconds later, I realized that that noise was actually the entrance hymn.
"Oh Lord My God when I in awesome wonder" went the first line of the stanza.
That the Lord my God allowed them to wail their way to the second line was a wonder indeed. Two lines later, they led us into the chorus and were quite sure that they did not know how to proceed. It took an agonizing 30 seconds for the congregation and the celebrant to find their way back and decide that, yes, they must move on.
So the celebrant said how delighted he was to celebrate Mass and the congregation pretended to show some delight. I had no delight left in me even for a pretence, so I stood all set to sit the moment I am allowed to.
However, the celebrant was in no hurry to permit that.
He went on to tell us how this day was made by the Lord and how we must be glad and rejoice when we gather to worship and adore the One Above. He then managed to drag a reflection on a holy virtue I can’t quite remember and link that virtue to the theme of the liturgy.
Finally, the women in the front pews decided that enough is enough and began fanning themselves furiously.
So the celebrant took the hint. He brought his reflection to a standstill, finished the initial rituals of the Mass, and we all sat down to hear the first and the second readings.
The readings went off well. The woman who put on an accent for the first reading managed to sound like a bored newscaster rattling off a column from the Business Times. And the girl who climbed the pulpit to read the second reading thought it best to continue in the same tone. As a result, by the time she reached the acclamation, no man, woman or child realized it was time to stand and sing the Alleluia.
The choir did, however, remember and began to make some noise. The noise woke up all of us. We then woke our feet up and stood to join in the noise that was the Alleluia.
The Alleluia, in turn, woke up the celebrant who then walked up to the pulpit to read the Gospel. And since this was a Sunday Mass, he realized he had to sermonize too.
So we sat yet again and let his sermon float around. No one opened their ears to let it in and no one had any intention of pretending to let it in either. It floated around for a full 10 minutes and finally made its way to the door. But the people standing there were in no mood to give it an audience. So, the sermon – with all its sentences and exclamations – went right back to its owner and complained that no one’s listening.
Of course, that was quite usual. Sermons are meant to be boring. If they aren’t boring, then they aren’t sermons. And the celebrant knew that very well. However, he tried not to listen to the complaint for another 3 minutes. But the sermon kept on complaining about how the ladies in the front pews were dozing and how the children in the pews behind were irritating their mothers who had closed their ears anyway.
Finally, the celebrant had to take notice and wrap up the sermon. The choir then stood up, chose a hymn, and disappointed me: I expected to hear nonsense. What I did hear was a pleasant surprise. The hymn did sound like one, and I could not help but join in.
As I did so, I looked around and tried to spot my near and dear ones. I saw a bunch of them seated close to the door. This bunch I knew was all set to snack once the Mass was over. I saw another group of dear ones ahead of me, sitting very close to the pulpit. This group was all set to enact the usual melodrama and cry at the grave.
And so they did. They wept, spoke of their sorrow in whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, and in general did nothing to not attract attention.
I had not much to do. So, I decided to divide my attention between them and the condolence line.
The condolence line was not long but did wind around the churchyard. All those who could not make it to the funeral made it to this line and managed to look morose and sorrowful as they condoled the bereaved son.
The son, of course, smiled and welcomed the wishes. One of those basic traits of human nature - courtesy - forced him to. That he intended to be courteous was out of the question. He did not want to be. It's just that he had not the nerve to be brash when people were around.
If he were to be rude and walk away, people would have started to talk. And as you know, once people talk, they make sure their talk is heard. So the talk would have travelled around and he would have become the talk of the town - for all the wrong reasons of course.
Now, he loved to be the talk of the town for all the right reasons. And so, he decided - for once - to allow courtesy to force him to smile and look polite.
Fortunately, the line shortened quickly. And we decided to go snack in the cafeteria.
Again and again, as I sat down to eat, as I drank my coffee, I heard not one, not two, but three four and more of my relatives ask:
"Why didn't he tell us?"
Father Dearest tried his best to repair the damage. "Oh it was a shock to us too,"I heard him saying,"we never knew it was this bad."
"Really? But you were her brother. You should have known."
"Well," said Father Dearest, trying his best not to spill his coffee, "I'm telling you. Till the end, we thought she'll recover."
The three four or more relatives looked at each other, then looked into their coffee, and decided they had better smile now.
"Oh I see," they said, smiling, "anyway, God knows what's best."
"Yes yes see, we all have to surrender to God's will someday or the other."
"Oh yes," they said, impressed by Father Dearest's observation, "one has to."
However, some were determined to give the son and in turn his uncle - my Father Dearest - a difficult time.
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"Well you see-"
"What see wee? You know no how close we were to her? We wanted to see her one last time. And even that we could not do."
"I am sorry. We really did not know her condition was so bad."
"That is a big lie," they said.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. You all were there nearly everyday around her. Naturally, the doctor spoke to you people then. He or she must have said something that might have implied how serious she was."
"Yes they did-"
"Then then, why didn't you people tell us?"
"Well actually they did not tell us that."
"Oh come on - you expect us to believe that?"
From where I stood and ate my pattice, I did not expect them to do that at all. I did not expect the son to keep up his polite behaviour either. And right enough, that's what he did: He pretended to not listen, and walked away.
So those relatives threw their ire and anger on Father Dearest.
"You expect us to believe that?" they repeated when they got their lips out of the coffee.
"See I do understand," said Father Dearest in all sincerity, "how close you were to her. But then this had to happen this way and there was no way we could do anything."
"But why didn't you tell us man? We feel so bad that we couldn't see her for one last time."
"Well to tell you the truth, she wasn't too well to see anyone."
"Ohh," said the relatives, taken aback, "we did not know that."
"Yes, so you see, we thought it best not to tell anyone. We did not want her to be disturbed."
"Oh. Oh. Right right. Absolutely. We're so sorry for her, for you too. And even for her son."
"Well, it's okay, one has to-"
"-surrender to God's will. Yes, true."
"Of course, one but has to do that."
Yes I agree; one has to surrender. Yes, one must follow the will of the One Above. But there’s a manner in which that will has to be followed. That neither the son nor the uncle nor anyone close knew. Oh I am no sanctimonious fellow. But I do know when someone who is oh so close to Eternity expresses a wish to:
- see this or eat that,
- long to talk to someone a little more than usual,
- or want someone very very dear to sit a little longer,
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