Why I don't get a lot out of the Liturgy (Part Deux)
The older priests would tell the following joke once in a while: "Why is a Liturgist worse than a Terrorist?...Because you can negotiate with one and not with the other".
The summer of 2001 was eventful. I somehow managed to talk my parents into taking time off work to take me to New Hampshire (mind you we are immigrants and immigrants don't take time off work) and to drop me off one thousand miles away from home.
It was early Summer of 2001 and we pull into 109 Dane Rd home of Immaculate Conception Apostolic School (Minor Seminary of the Legionaries of Christ). Kids 7th to 12th Grade are crawling around the property like ants. To make things worse there are visitors (like myself) on the property testing out their call on campus for the duration of the summer. It was creatively called, "the Summer Program".
For the first time I witnessed young men and boys forming lines in an organized fashion, almost in a militant way. There were chants and even war cries during the soccer and basketball games. Lost translations for cheers. Above all there was prayer and work many times a day.
A Small Temple
Over a decade before I attended the School some of the novices had come up to the school during a summer and built out what was then the chapel for the school. They had used the dining Hall of the once august Mansion which made up the heart of the school until then. In fact the dining Hall which was converted into a conference room and classroom had a plaque which read more or less as such:
During the colonization of North America the British would mark the best pine trees as "King" pines so as to separate them for use by the Crown. When this room was built one of the few "King" pines were still standing and was felled so as to decorate this room.
Since then the School had outgrown the chapel. There was no A/C and it could get stifling. Despite that the Priests and minor seminarians did their darnedest to prepare each Mass well. The upper classmates (and myself among them) sat and knelt in the back. There were no kneelers just buffed vinyl tiled floors on top of concrete. Confessions were heard in rooms surrounding the chapel as there simply no where else to hear them.
That is how I began my time as a minor seminarian. Fifteen. Considered "old" in the world of minor seminaries, kneeling on a concrete-hard floor. By the end of my time in New Hampshire I had calluses on my knees and my hamstrings were made of steel. I could have been on an 80's aerobics workout video. I learned simple and beautiful Gregorian Chant and Mass was celebrated in Latin on Mondays and Fridays. I attended the "Cook's Mass" twice a week (Tuesdays and Thursdays) being woken up 30 minutes prior to everyone else so that I could cook breakfast. Breakfast would consist of waffles. Easy. Eggs. Not Easy. Eggs consisted of cracking 50 dozen eggs the night before (to start) and leaving the vat in the walk-in refrigerator and then scrambling them on a flat-top cooker in a rush while everyone else was attending Mass in ante meridiem. In case the eggs ran out we would rush to whisk another 10-25 dozen eggs so as to feed the starving masses. If all else failed I learned to cook eggs in masse. No pun intended.
Fr. Victor would celebrate that "Cook's Mass" in Latin, ad orientem and ad infinitum velocitatis (at infinite velocity) in the sacristy. If you weren't in a hurry to get down to the sacristy in time a few minutes late would mean you would walk into the Mass around the time Fr. Victor would be reading the Gospel.
We build a Chapel
At over a 120 students it became impossible for each of us to fit in the crammed space in our chapel. Something had to be done. A large area above the Pre-candidate classrooms existed. The building was dubbed, "The Thorndike". According to one account it was the middle name of a Priest who was at present the Novice Master at the Novitiate. My experience of the Thorndike was penance. Greek was taught in what was previously a garage with no insulation (because the whole building was previously a garage). In the height of winter in my second year as I began the task of translating John's Gospel from Greek to English I could see through the cracks in the door frame that led outside. We would sit on our hands on metal seats to try warm them. No coats or gloves were allowed. And if one were caught with their hands in their pockets. Well let's just consider that a no no.
That spring construction began on a Chapel in a dilapidated large area upstairs where band practice was usually held. Walls were painted. Floors were re-carpeted. A father of a quiet fellow, Jesse, my classmate, from New York City came and helped us by cutting and hemming the beautiful royal blue curtains for the backdrop. Parquet floors were put down for the sanctuary and polished. They gleamed. Pews were found at St. Charles' Parish in Meredith, NH. The old Church on Lake Winnipesaukee was closed and the pews from the Church offered for our construction efforts. Pews made of hard oak made harder by time had to be loaded onto box trucks and drug up a set of stairs and into the second floor through a hole made intentionally in the wall. It was cold. They felt like a thousand pounds and we would lift them as best we could. Although it was not the fight of Spartans we felt the "crush" of battle in building our Lord His Sanctuary.
Holy Thursday came and the Chapel was opened. For a fleeting moment the Blessed Sacrament found a home in our newly ordained Chapel. The breeze from the windows flowed through the room. The irony and providence of it all. Holy Thursday. Upper Room. Breeze of the Holy Spirit. Sanctuary for the Lord. Tabernacle. Eucharist. But it was a fleeting moment of Peace. That night the Altar of Repose was to the best of my memory in the old Chapel and we celebrated the Holy Triduum in the cold of the New Hampshire spring. But God was there all the same.
To be continued...
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