PERBOYRE SPARKS

A beautiful Noise

The priest looked like he might have been a boxer in a former life, but his open face and obvious good humour quickly corrected the startling first impression. The parish church, a typical example of early 90’s faux Chinese Gothic (stick a spire in front of a large box and call it art!) was full. This was despite it being 8 am and I, who had driven since 6 to be there, was even more convinced than ever that I don’t DO mornings. The Church brass band, presided over by a uniformed and rather serious conductor, made up for what was lacking in technique with a SOUND which was deafening. It lead a rather motley crew, which varied from schoolgirls in matching dresses to ten priests of varying girths, into the church to begin the annual celebration of Corpus Christi in a Catholic village in north China. What followed was a Mass which would have been recognisable in any county parish anywhere. It unfolded smoothly, with a predictable beginning, middle and end. Devotion was in evidence and the antics of the altar servers were stared down by a very attentive sacristan. It may not have been cutting edge, but the liturgy was performed with a confidence and dignity which would have warrant high praise even in the Vatican. My presence, added a whiff of sophistication to the proceedings as we were deep enough into the countryside to for a foreigner, any foreigner, to raise the tone of the event somewhat. When asked to say a few words, the attempt at observing that we are Catholics under the skin, seemed to go down well, or at least they hid their miscomprehension with a polite clap at my conclusion.

The Corpus Christi procession followed. The Blessed Sacrament, under its canopy, was carried with great solemnity around the village. We stopping for a blessing at various stages en route, with an extended halt in the village market for another sermon, (only the forth since proceedings began!). The band led the way and their particular skill ensures that there could be no surprise on our arrival at each venue. Two of the matching dresses took turns in what could only be described as pelting the Blessed Sacrament with rose petals. I fear the idea of tossing the dismembered flowers before the feet of the priest carrying the Monstrance had gotten lost in translation. The women taking up the rear insisted on singing their own set of hymns irrespective of the melody, if one could call it that, being proposed by the band at the head of the 600 strong crowd. The stall holders, not locals, in the market looked bemused by the whole thing, but since this is a 100% Catholic village, the bemused were swallowed up in the devout and they all came along for the show. We ended up back in the church for one last blessing and a final blast from the band of what could only be described as a robust rendition of “What a friend we have in Jesus. We retired to lunch at 11.30.

Having seen what happened in Zhang Zhuang, I am reminded of “The Stripping of the Altars” a history of the Reformation in England which focuses on the experience of Parishes in the transition from late medieval Catholicism to Anglicanism. One of the facts that surprised me of how much people objected to loosing processions. Now I can see why. Here was a complete society celebrating itself and its faith in a complicated mixture of devotion and what we Irish call “devarsion” You could see it in the not quite complete piety displayed by the young blades who knelt dutifully enough, but whose eyes roved more than the rubrics would recommend. You could see it in the carefully hung bunting and the intense engagement shown by the team of haulers who made sure that scarce accoutrements were whisked ahead of the throng to the next station. You could see in the piles of flowers prepared for the pelting and the carefully matched homemade dresses. At another level you could see it in the route chosen. We went through the village, touching its boundaries, but also claiming its heart, the market, for Christ. Here was a self confident parish successfully claiming the public space as its own, rather like a robin marks it s territory by urinating on it. (Excuse the simile, but is the only one I can think of) It is now difficult in many free societies for the Church to be present in the public square, but for the “so-called persecuted” Church in China to do so with such unself-conscious confidence was both remarkable and yet, to the participants, seemed entirely natural. I suspect, although they probably didn’t compare themselves to Robins, that was what the parishes of England were missing when they were no longer allowed to process the Parish boundaries.

Watching this ceremony was an experience. This wasn’t a clerical command performance, entered into reluctantly by a vaguely disinterested laity. This event mattered deeply to these people as both a religious statement and one which made important declarations about their place in their world. They applied themselves with much seriousness, even during the grain harvest, to making sure it went off with dignity and some élan. They succeeded. Their triumph become personal when it became no longer possible to sustain the disinterested observer pose, to which I have returned to write this article. Taking my turn carrying the monstrance, being pelted by clumps of wilted roses, (those girls could throw!) I found myself noticing that, despite the cultural differences; this was not just some quaint pagan custom I had happened upon. This was the Body of Christ I was carrying, and that the objective observer stance was inappropriate. Instead, all I had to do was to surrender to the moment and thank God for the opportunity to express with them our shared Faith in the Eucharist. Joining fully in the event did however create one new conundrum. Should I join the women behind me in belting out the “Tantum Ergo” or the band in front in their unique version of “Oh what a friend we have in Jesus”? Decisions, Decisions.