Martina Purdy
There is a phrase that seems to send a ripple of fear through many Mass-goers these days. And it’s nothing to do with eternal punishment! Though Catholics of course should fear hell, it’s rarely mentioned. No, what appears to frighten the congregation these days is when a bishop or priest declares, after the consecration: “You may now offer one another the sign of peace.”
In recent weeks, I’ve noticed this invitation returning in some Masses north and south of the border – is this a discreet attempt to restore the sign of peace? If so, there’s hesitation in the pews. Perhaps not so much fear as uncertainty about what is meant. A handshake?
At a recent Requiem Mass, a few of us shook hands, though some kept their heads down while others turned and smiled and offered, at a safe distance, the post-Covid wave.
One woman in the pew in front of me turned and offered her hand to the person directly behind her. To my dismay, her hand was refused and she turned away again.
Wounding
This has happened to me on a few occasions and it is wounding, even when you know it’s not personal (at least I don’t think it is!).
This ‘sign of peace’ gesture has never recovered from the lockdown years, when we became frightened of each other and hid behind the ‘security’ of masks.
Speaking of which, I watched a woman leave a cafe a few days ago in a mask. She had come outside for a cigarette and removed her face covering intermittently so she could inhale puffs of toxic smoke.
I pondered how illogical we humans can be when it comes to our safety.
While we cower at the notion of shaking hands with a stranger, how many of us would dive on a £100 euro note lying in the street, not thinking twice about where it had been?
Traditionally, a handshake was to reassure an enemy that one was unarmed, and at Mass it is a formal recognition of the community’s role. I once met a priest who decided it was a terrible distraction from the Lamb of God on the altar. “I don’t bother with it,” he declared.
Are any of us immune from this fear of contagion fuelled by Covid – whose dangers we now know were ultimately exaggerated?”
Frankly, I always wondered if shaking hands at Mass was in the wrong place and perhaps would work better at the beginning. To be honest, shaking hands can be a challenge. A devout in a former parish, who attended mass every day, had a serious germ phobia and admitted to dreading the sign of peace.
I affectionately called her, “Howard Hughes without the money!” after reading that the eccentric billionaire, who had a terror of germs, had once contemplated a run for the American presidency until it was pointed out to him that he would have to shake thousands of hands.
Are any of us immune from this fear of contagion fuelled by Covid – whose dangers we now know were ultimately exaggerated? With friends I sometimes fist pump at Mass. It seems more modern and hygienic. When the Italian bishops conference re-introduced the sign of peace, it suggested the use of hand sanitiser as a precaution. Is this faith and reason in action – or a lack of faith in the Body of Christ we are about to receive?
A close friend produces hand sanitiser constantly and I often joke she will perish from a rare disease associated with this fluid. “It works,” she declares, “I suffer fewer colds than I used to!”
Monkeypox
The dreaded Monkeypox has just been declared a public health emergency of international concern. The handshake of peace may never recover – though at what price?
I once sat next to an elderly man whose nose was running like a stream all through Mass. I could see from the corner of my eye that he used his hands as a wipe as he coughed and sneezed. I had no handkerchief and to my shame spent much of the Mass struggling with the notion of shaking his hand.
I was repulsed, but told myself that Christ showed us by example the importance of touch long before the psychologists wrote about it – and Christ touched the lepers, those deemed unclean.
“He is the poor Christ,” I told my shrinking soul. “It will be a privilege to touch his hand.”
And, shake his hand, I did. I also looked into this man’s face. And received not just the gift of peace, but great joy. As St Rose of Lima would say, after suffering comes grace.
Giving children puberty blockers is false compassion
Common sense and true Christian compassion has prevailed at Stormont – an all too-rare event. So, blessings on Mike Nesbitt, the unionist health minister, for persuading the assembly to put an albeit, temporary, ban on puberty blockers. These drugs have been given to children confused about sex and cause sterility and other health problems. This ban came after transgender activists threatened to use Northern Ireland as a backdoor to bring these drugs into GB, where Labour has already banned them. Giving these drugs to children is false compassion. No child is born in the wrong body.
‘Why are you persecuting me?’
The scripture from Acts 9:4 came to mind, after the ordeal suffered by six Christians who were arrested in Paris this month. They were on a bus painted with the words, “Stop attacks on Christians,” and have since been released. These Christians were in France to protest the Last Supper parody at the Olympics. Meanwhile, Isabel Vaughan just received £13,000 (€15,344) from West Midlands police who admitted no liability after she was arrested for praying outside an abortion clinic, a “protected” public space. “Soft persecution” compared to the thousands killed in recent years in North Korea, Somalia, Libya, Uganda and Yemen. “Why are you persecuting me?” the words of Christ to St Paul before his conversion. Why indeed!