Rosemary and I recently returned from a week in Southern California, our first trip in three years after being confined to Amesbury, Mass., where we are fortunate to have a fine place to live, and trying to avoid the coronavirus. We went back to an area that is familiar to us from previous visits, and for me from my time living in Dana Point when I was a graduate student in the MFA writing program at UC Irvine. We spent half a day in San Juan Capistrano, touring the historic mission dating from the 1700s and the funky arts district of Los Rios Street (oldest continuous neighborhood in the state, close to the mission) and exploring the shops and eateries nearby. When we got back home I was reminded of the Easter Mass I attended at the Father Serra Chapel in the mission on Easter morning, 1984, just before I headed back East to start a new job as cultural affairs director at the Preservation Commission in Lowell, US Dept. of the Interior. I wrote about that Easter in my journal.
web photo courtesy of rcbo.org
April 22, Easter, 1984
Woke at sunrise and stayed up. A clear blue sky, bright sun. Drove to San Juan Capistrano for the 7 a.m. Mass at the mission. There was very little traffic, and only one other car was parked near mine on the main street. I thought I was too early, but when I walked around the corner, down the side street towards the chapel entrance, a steady line of people were going in. At 6:45 a.m. the chapel was full—I stood in the back with others. The chapel is four times as long as it is wide, an old structure, part of the mission complex. Twenty rows of benches run up each side, straight-backed wooden benches that seat five persons across. Another 25 people stood behind. The altar in the dark chapel was decorated with potted lilies and small red glass candle holders, lit and glowing. The white adobe walls showed their uneven texture. Large green beams run crosswise on the ceiling. On the beams are painted symbols, not Christian symbols, I don’t think, more closely resembling ethnic designs—flowers, swirls, and the like. The modest gold-gleaming altar stands before a back wall painted gold. The priest wore gold and pink vestments.
I was surprised when the old priest pronounced the first words of a Latin Mass. I had not heard that language in 15 or 20 years, since the reforms of Vatican Council II, when the English Mass was permitted. And the altar was turned round to have the celebrant face the congregation. I was in grade school at Ste. Thérèse church in Dracut, Mass. The Catholics answered the priest in Latin. Kyrie, alleluia, agnus dei, the mysterious words of the ceremony.
Readings this morning from the Acts of the Apostles, Paul to the Colossians, and Matthew were in English as was the simple homily read with difficulty by the priest. His message: Because Jesus fulfilled his promise to rise again, we must believe everything He is reported to have said. And, Easter is the most important date on the liturgical calendar.
Then came the crucial part of the Mass, the transubstantiation. Mystery. Faith. Ritual. I was moved.
Reading from his missal, the priest raised and lowered the chalice and ciborium, containing the wine and bread. Bells chimed. People kneeled, stood, voiced responses.
On both walls, between windows, were framed depictions of the Stations of the Cross, faded by time. Outside, where the ushers earlier counted people on the way in, is a sign: Maintain Strict Silence. But I heard the ushers talking and laughing during Mass. Collection baskets were handed from person to person for dollar bills and coins.
Many people rose to file ahead for communion. At that point I excused myself, walking past a long line of people waiting outside for the 8 a.m. Mass. I went across the street to break bread and crack eggs at the Café Capistrano with another group of the faithful.