Understanding everything except the Language: Going To Mass

When I arrived fifteen minutes before La Misa began, a couple of dozen worshippers were already seated outside the church on the plaza. Things were not looking good for a ringside seat. 

This story begins last Sunday: I incomprehensibly turned up nine hours late for Mass. Duh! I know enough Spanish to read “Sabado 2100,” and know the service I was aiming for was the previous day, and I’m Catholic enough to realise a Vigil Mass is on a Saturday. But it was a beautiful walk and I put it down to experience and the sun. 

Fast forward six days. Kate is taking Darren and Frank on a boat trip in the morning, so I’m headed for theVigil Mass, at the appointed hour, quite excited  at this adventure. 

A few years back I attended Mass with my friend Ursula, in Klosters, of all places, reknowned in season for the skiing, and notable because every car is a Ferrari. No need, I assured her, to translate for me, I know what’s going on. I understood two words, “Gott” and “Kuchen”, which was offered with coffee after Mass, and lived up to expectations, as did God. 

It’s the same the world over you see, you know you’re being welcomed, making your confession, saying the Gloria listening to the Bible, and so on, until being sent out in peace to serve the Lord.,

There’s actually something rather spiritual in understanding everything but the words: my attention remained with Christ, in the priest and people in the Bible readings and the pinnacle of the experience, in the bread and wine. I looked forward to repeating the joy of it. 

And joy it was. I entered the church and was offered a foldaway seat between a monumentally gorgeous statue of Our Lady Queen of Heaven, and the electronic candle- thingy the name of which I know neither in English or Spanish. I was grateful for the seat. The singing was amazing, and spontaneous. No hymn sheets or overhead projections, everyone burst into song at the appropriate time, and once I grasped the tunes, I sang along in tongues, a feat I first performed in a pub in Dublin, but that is of course,  quite a different story. 

The church was rammed, and hot. Many women had the foresight to bring fans. Caught up in the moment, I waved my hat in front of my face until I realised it wasn’t achieving anything. 

I wished I’d brought my phone with the missal on it, because I found it rather difficult to remember the words of the prayers, when everyone around you is using different ones. 

My words yesterday were “Señor” Señora and “confiar”which I took to mean confess. 

Good enough to get me through. 

En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo amén