Critical mass

Amidst all the talk about the materialistic evils of a new secular Ireland having supplanted the old evils of Catholic hegemony, it’s easy to forget that every weekend thousands of people - and not all of them staunch Irish Catholics either - attend Mass to worship their own personal Jesus. In an operation so closely co-ordinated it’d put a SWAT team to shame, Hot Press deployed a team of crack (as opposed to cracked, or crack-addicted) writers to more-or-less simultaneously attend selected temples of worship around the country. The nature of these services, and the writers who attended them, varied wildly. Olaf Tyaransen managed to take Mass in Galway Cathedral without causing the holy water fonts to bubble. Craig Fitzsimons partook in an African service in St Peter's, Phibsboro, and visited a Mosque on the South Circular Road without tongues of fire descending upon his fevered brow. That brazen hussy Anne Sexton took it upon herself to darken the door of the Church of the Three Patrons in Rathgar. Dermod Moore witnessed a marathon Russian Orthodox Divine Liturgy in Harold’s Cross. Kilian Murphy, a veritable glutton for deliverance, attended a Chinese Mass on middle Abbey Street and a Mormon service in the Church of Jesus Christ Of the Latter Day Saints in Terenure. And that’s just for starters.
Look upon their works, ye mighty, and weep!

RUSSIAN ORTHODOX DIVINE LITURGY, Harold’s Cross Road, Dublin 6

The observer effect refers to changes that the act of observing will make on the phenomenon being observed. Anticipating that slipping in the back of the Russian Orthodox Church of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul in Harold’s Cross, Dublin, would echo a wonderful experience I had visiting a church in Moscow, I was taken aback on arrival when I saw RTÉ broadcast units were camped outside, preparing to transmit the service to the nation. The floodlit interior of the converted Anglican church, with cameras everywhere and microphones dangling from the balcony, all served to diminish the experience a little, to render it a bit more self-conscious for everyone, as awkward gaps cropped up, waiting for the cue from the floor manager. It turned my intended private role of unobtrusive observer into de facto membership of an invasive heathen horde. But that’s not to say that the experience was spoilt; far from it.
Orthodox Divine Liturgy (Mass is not the correct term for it) is, basically, delightfully, a solemn, haunting, participatory opera. Its form has not changed in over a thousand years, and as ritual, it is hard to imagine it could be more theatrical, more evocative, and better designed to provide a sacred space for people to get a sense of the numinous. It lasts up to three hours, and takes the form of a dialogue, chanted and sung, between celebrant and congregation, represented most of the time by the choir.
A superb little choir of seven sang in this service, but on two occasions, the 100 or so strong crowd joined in and sang majestically all around me, the rhythm dictated by the metronomic hand of the earnest deacon. The priest, Father George, a relatively young man, led the team of seven concelebrants, and I felt he was fully committed to his mission, with a sweet, soft voice that was calming and moving. His sermon was extempore, given in Russian first, then in a charming, halting English; his enthusiasm and directness was affecting. He was excited! I found his immediacy in the middle of this ancient ritual refreshingly engaging.
There is a fluidity and informality to the morning that is surprising: people wander around to pray and move as they wish, but coming together at various times in intense devotion. Everyone stands, although there are a few seats for those that want them. There isn’t a sense that people are watching or judging, and the repetition of the metania, a stylised genuflection in front of an icon, involving kissing it and touching the floor and elaborately blessing oneself, is a gesture that each person makes their own.
Worship is the central pillar of Orthodox Christian religion, and this is its main rite. I found myself transported to a reflective, soulful place during the morning, intensely private, full of grief that I still cannot bring myself to get over how most Christian religions, including Orthodoxy, really don’t know how to respect my sexuality, as someone who is gay, and condemn it in annihilating terms. But I’m still glad I went. I ended up participating in something special, and for a while I felt no longer the observer. I’m grateful.
Dermod Moore

THE CHURCH OF THE THREE PATRONS, Rathgar, Dublin 6W

The Catholic Mass is rather like a pantomime – the congregation has to make the correct responses or the whole thing falls apart. But instead of gleefully shouting, “He’s behind you!” we are there to solemnly intone lines like “Lord have mercy.” Not as catchy – but despite the fact that I have been to mass only a handful of times in the last 15 years, the responses are hardwired into my brain. Also hardwired are other less spiritual responses – restlessness, boredom and a desire to fidget.
A bit like a Westlife album, The Mass at the Church of the Three Patrons in Rathgar doesn’t offer any surprises. Unlike the more fervent branches of the Baptists, you’ll never attend a service where the congregation might start a conga line, faint with emotion or fall on the floor babbling in tongues. Not that the good citizens of Rathgar would want that, but it might liven things up a bit.
The only surprise is the number of young people in attendance, not with their families, but apparently of their own volition. Who says the church is finished? Not these people. As the priest mediates on the Lord as loving father, I find my eyes glazing over only to be woken every few minutes by a screaming baby – every church needs one.
If you were considering converting, this service wouldn’t set you on fire. Still, there is one thing to consider – Baptist services can go on for hours, but the Mass is only 45 minutes. And at the end of it all, I want to say is praise the Lord – the Mass has ended!
Anne Sexton

ST. CATHERINE'S CHURCH, Tacumshane, Co. Wexford

When I told my beloved that I was going to Sunday mass, she ashen-facedly asked me who’d died. This was understandable as, apart from funeral and weddings, I haven’t been to a Catholic mass since I came to the conclusion at the age of 15 that the Catholic Church was an organisation I wanted as little truck with as possible.
St. Catherine’s Church is in Tacumshane, a village in south Wexford with a handful of houses, the Mill House bar and restaurant, a small school and a church. The church is modestly if neatly set out, with none of the gaudiness found elsewhere.
Bang on the advertised hour of 10 o’clock, (concert promoters please note) Father Colm Murphy arrives on the altar before a congregation of about 50, mostly over 45 and two-thirds female, in a church about one-third full, plus a few small kids. I note the scarcity of “the lads”.
The congregation join in the prayers with focused devotion, as if their presence reflects commitment rather than social pressure. One reading is based on Christ’s teaching the disciples to pray, including the familiar advice “Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you will find”, etc. The Priest’s sermon takes up the theme, and he stresses the difference between proper praying and merely saying prayers. He has a calm, articulate delivery, with no fire and brimstone, or coded references to locals up to no good, as was common when I was growing up. Although his reference to the way prayer is treated in the “Penny Catechism” prompts dark memories of my first teacher Biddy O’Neill beating said book into us, while, unknown to herself, beating the religion out. Parts of the sermon and readings are lost through a couple of kids indulging in harmless audience participation, but there’s no music, so no wheezing organ or folk singers to distract.
When, exactly 34 minutes after starting, Father Murphy instructs us to “go forth in peace”, everybody promptly leaves in an orderly fashion, some exchanging nods and a couple of words as they leave. All in all, a harmless way to spend a half hour, but if Van were to ask me “Did you get healed?” I’d have to say no. For that, we took a walk later by a nearby lake with two saintly dogs, Smokie and Zoe.
Jackie Hayden

ST. BRIGID'S PARISH CHURCH, Belfast

The righteous toll of church bells announces its curtain call. The faithful come flurrying, packing the venue to three-quarters capacity. And what a venue! St Brigid’s is a wonder of beautiful red stonework, ripe curving walls, all arranged in a soft symmetry that shepherds the audience’s view stage-wards. And what a stage!
The crowd is diverse: there are young families, teenagers and an older, hardcore contingent. Hair freshly blue-rinsed, the diehards jostle for a place near the front, their devotion unrelenting. They’ve caught all the shows, know all the words, and come the moment of call and response won’t be found wanting. Indeed you can almost hear their collective intake of breath as he takes the stage. The man...
Resplendent in flowing green stage attire, the priest provides a central, riveting presence. He is ably supported by his backing band, four orange-clad fluorescent adolescent altar girls and a gruff, straight-talking reader – who not only dispenses pithy one liners, but does a cracking Bono impersonation. “Let us pray that our world leaders can come together in the cause of peace,” he says.
Finding his righteous groove, the priest becomes increasingly animated. Beginning to stride determinedly, left to right, his hands become a blur of impassioned gesticulation as he exhorts us to give it up for the man upstairs.
The set list is full of big hitters, numbers on love, hate, hope, the fallibility of humanity and those pesky old favourites, impure thoughts.
All told it’s been a masterful display by the veteran performer, his earnest riffing on classic material delivering a set that engaged the audience in head, heart and spirit. In fact, my dears, it’s been nothing short of religious.
Francis Jones

AFRICAN MASS, St. Peter’s Church, Phibsboro

Forgive me father, for it has been approximately two decades since my last confession, and if I were to explain exactly how much I’ve sinned in the interim, we would probably still be here well into the middle of next summer. I’d like to think I’m open-minded enough to consider myself agnostic rather than atheist: I find the concept of God only marginally less ludicrous than that of the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy, but can’t help detecting an arrogance in the attitude of those who profess to dismiss the possibility entirely.
I’ll admit to enjoying selected passages of the Bible - specifically, Sodom & Gomorrah and Ezekiel’s psychedelic visions - but still find it ballistic that anyone could take this stuff seriously. At any rate, it’s not an issue to which I habitually devote long hours of thought: if there is a good God, he’ll reward the decent and send the rest through the trapdoor to suffer through a never-ending Red Hot Chili Peppers gig with guest squawking from Kate Bush. If, on the other hand, God is the sort of vengeful, judgemental wanker the Old Testament appears to indicate, then we’re all fucked completely, and there’s no point worrying about it.
Anyway, I can’t say I felt the old boy’s watchful eyes bearing down on me as I trundled along to St. Peter’s church for a Sunday mass which chiefly services the city’s ever-expanding African community. Though practically the only whitey in the place – it reminded me of a Goldie gig I attended once in Brixton – I was struck by the warmth and friendliness of the congregation, and how laid-back and relaxed the entire atmosphere was.
My enduring recollection of attending Mass as a kid is the fact that no-one, bar the priest, seemed to enjoy the experience in any way, shape or form: even the faithful clearly perceived it as something to be endured. Possibly for African cultural reasons, this was a far more joyful and exuberant affair. The singing was whole-hearted, the priest had the sort of sing-song African accent you could happily listen to all day, and hordes of little kids frolicked freely around the church, running around to their hearts’ content without anyone grabbing them or ordering them to sit down, shut up and behave.
OK, I can obviously think of more enjoyable ways to pass the time, but while I wouldn’t dream of doing it again in a hurry, I had a reasonably pleasant hour and didn’t contemplate making a dash for the exit at any stage. And finally... “The Mass is over, thanks be to God.” Amen to that.
Craig Fitzsimons

CHINESE GOSPEL CHURCH OF DUBLIN. 49 Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1

Gospel churches provide an added incentive to go to Sunday service. There is the possibility, after all, of hearing some genuinely uplifting music – a far more appetising prospect than the formulaic hymns that are squeezed out on a pipe organ at the average Irish Mass. But, while there is likely to be more entertainment on offer, especially for an outsider, surely the tendency for it to become a routine, or a chore, is common to all gigs of this kind?
Pop down to your local church, and it’s easy to spot people among the congregation who are merely going through the motions, often as a means of appeasing the more religious members of their family. Would the same attitude be discernible at the Chinese Gospel Church Of Dublin? There was only one way to find out...
As the service gets underway, the atmosphere leaves something to be desired. It’s like watching an unheralded support act – many of the congregation appear as uninterested in the ceremony as a 12-year old sulkily enduring a mass their parents have dragged them to. The ministers and musicians, however, do look as if they are getting into it, and as the show rolls on, their enthusiasm begins to inspire at least some of the congregation.
Deacon Kam-Hay Sin is the chief vocalist today, and he is accompanied by singer/guitarist Deacon Tommy Kyaw-Tun, who also (hesitantly) translates all spoken passages of the ceremony into English. The singers are backed by a bassist, pianist and drummer, and the overall sound is exultant and melodic. As the gig goes on, there is a great deal of fist-clenching and passion on the “stage”, and the absence of any hectoring or self-righteousness is striking. One might describe the ensemble’s performance as being full of good-natured enthusiasm, though it does occasionally slip into “over-enthusiasm”. There are moments when you feel just a little bit embarrassed for them!
The music acts as a kind of soundtrack: a song recedes during a spoken passage of the ceremony – the preaching comes courtesy of Pastor Cedric Chau – but the pianist continues to play the core melody gently in the background. It adds a dimension to the event, making it an interesting and entertaining experience: those of us who had to endure more staid forms of organised religious worship during our formative years would be entitled to feel just a little jealous.
Alas, there is significantly less enjoyment to be had once the music stops. Towards the end of the ceremony, evangelist Gary Tsang delivers a long talk – devoid of music, and accompanied by PowerPoint, it thoroughly fails to stimulate.
For most of the ceremony, though, the preachers and musicians remained wreathed in smiles. They seemed to be both joyous and sincere. I think I’ll give them a miss next time they’re in town – but they deserve a round of applause all the same...
Kilian Murphy

THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS (MORMON FAITH) LDS Chapel, 48 Bushy Park Road, Terenure

In a church like this, there is little chance of slipping in unnoticed. Upon arrival, a self-appointed (and, it has to be said, rabidly enthusiastic) greeter named Gerry is positively gagging to show me around. A cynic might suggest that he merely spotted an opportunity for conversion, though I’m not so sure. Mormonism is not always accorded proper respect, so its followers go out of their way to make the church as friendly and accessible as possible for outsiders. That’s probably all there was to it...
The sum total of my previous interaction with Mormons had amounted to no more than a few minutes on the doorstep, palming off white-shirted, twenty-something American missionaries with a few appropriate nods and a quick goodbye. In other words, I have encountered Mormons in Ireland, but I don’t know any Irish Mormons.
Naturally, there is a greater sense of community here than in more mainstream Irish churches. The ceremony itself is curiously structured, as there is no single figurehead to provide a focal point. Instead, Ministerial duties rotate, so several members of the community are asked to perform a brief talk on selected pieces of scripture. The first of these is given by a woman who, I am informed by a member of the congregation, has only converted to Mormonism in the last 18 months. She has the air of someone who has recently encountered a personal tragedy – there are regular hints at this throughout, and her voice cracks with emotion.
The watchers take her outpouring in their collective stride. But this is the emotional high-point and we are allowed to coast through the rest of the ceremony: there are some pipe-organ hymns and the ritual passing of bread and water, but for the most part it is predictable stuff. Still, they seem like a positive and cheerful lot. What they believe in is another matter entirely.
Kilian Murphy

POLISH MASS, St. Audoen’s Catholic Church, High Street, Dublin 8

If you’re wondering where all the pretty girls are early on Saturday evenings, then look no further than the Polish mass at Saint Audoen’s Catholic Church. It seems unlikely that anyone in this youthful congregation could remember Wladyslaw Gomulka’s goons. But Roman Catholicism is, evidently, still quite the thing for this New Irish community. Even the presiding priest is, judging by the giggles, a boyish joker. His musings and the pleasingly folkie-Eurovisual musical accompaniment bring the running time up to an hour, but the service, delivered entirely in the language of Stanislaw Lem, seems to breeze along at a respectable pace.
It’s not simply the age profile that seems at odds with this archaic ceremonial. These are not the polyester-and-side-parting kids who normally line up for the best seats in the house at such gatherings. These are guys with dreadlocks, chicks with cute razor bobs and much of the same crew you might have witnessed at the WWO gig late last year.
Even one’s inner atheist – the nagging voice that chastised Christopher Hitchens for not going far enough in ‘God Is Not Great’ – can’t deny some sweeping sense of history. Saint Audoen’s Church of Ireland just next door is the oldest church in the country. The great organ here, in its Catholic neighbour is a grandiose affair forged at the height of 19th century romanticism.
And now we have this nice-looking Polish group to enliven the Hibernian gene pool. It’s a shame that this welcome biological future is tainted by such a stale ideology.
Tara Brady

JUMU’AH, Islamic Foundation of Ireland, South Circular Road

“All Brothers and their sons are welcome” states the sign, pointedly. Yep, it’s a babe-free zone at the mosque today. The service is conducted alternately in Arabic and English, and though his English is undoubtedly far better than my Arabic, it must be said that I didn’t fully catch the presiding imam's every word.
On the whole – and I’m aware that it may have been largely down to the novelty factor – an hour’s Jumu’ah thoroughly trounces Catholic Mass any day in terms of its appeal. This particular service took place in a compact mosque on the South Circular Road: the audience was 100% male and at least 80% bearded, with my good self providing the only thoroughbred Euro-Caucasian presence.
My chief concern was to avoid doing anything unwittingly blasphemous. As you’d imagine, I’m not the most devout of Muslims – in fact, I’m not a Muslim full stop – so I hadn’t the faintest clue how one is meant to conduct oneself during Jumu’ah, and decided the best policy was to basically imitate everything everyone else was doing. Since nobody stared at me, narrowed their eyes or pointed accusing fingers at any stage of the proceedings, I assume I didn’t put a foot wrong. It was a close shave, though: milliseconds before I walked in, I suddenly remembered that one is required to enter the mosque barefoot. (The presence of several dozen pairs of shoes at the entrance should probably have served as a hint, but I suppose I hadn’t fully woken up yet.)
The prayer service was intriguing: you sit cross-legged on the floor (pins and needles inevitably set in after about 20 minutes), while the imam launches into an incantation which begins with the declaration “Allah u akbar” (“God is great”) and continues in similar vein for quite some time before he commences the English part of the recitation. As I’ve mentioned, my Arabic is non-existent, so I was heavily reliant on the latter: content-wise, it wasn’t strikingly different from Catholic teachings, with uncontroversial promptings about being kind to people, looking after one’s neighbours and generally helping old ladies across the street. If my ears did not deceive me, the word ‘hellfire’ was mentioned more than once, suggesting that a dim view is taken of any bleeding-heart forgive-the-sinner tolerance nonsense.
Maybe it was the stifling heat, but something almost spiritual did seem to shoot through me. As the imam chattered away in Arabic, an overwhelming sense of calm and serenity descended, a bit like a Valium without the fatigue. It hasn’t receded yet, either. The big test will undoubtedly arrive later when the twin temptations of pork sausages and intoxicating liquor loom into view, but as of now, I feel almost sanctified and might even go back some day for more.
Craig Fitzsimons

SUNDAY MASS, Galway Cathedral, Galway

Weddings and funerals aside, I haven’t attended mass since my mid-teens. Even so, the routine of the ritual – or countdown to the cigarette – is forever mentally ingrained.
Imagine my shock, then, when, upon arriving a couple of minutes late for midday mass in Galway Cathedral, I find that they’re already giving out communion.
“What newfangled fiendishness is this?” I gasp. “Some kind of fast-food Body of Christ service for busy-busy Celtic-Tiger congregations?”
Eventually it dawns that this is actually the towards-of-the-end bit of the 11.15 mass. The next mass isn’t until 12.30pm. Times have changed – and so obviously have mass times. Shit! It was always midday in my day.
Annoyed, I leave and take a stroll by the banks of the nearby Corrib. When the bells for the next mass start to ring, I’m at least five minutes away. The tolling stops mid-dong with an electronic squelch. Obviously nobody’s breaking a sweat pulling any ropes, so I don’t kill myself getting back to the church on time either. Fair’s fair.
Curiously, this is to be my second time inside a church this week. Last Tuesday night, I attended a stunning live performance by Josh Ritter and Hilary Hahn in a church high in the Swiss Alps. Against that, today’s gig probably doesn’t stand a chance.
Galway Cathedral used to be the city prison, and it’s still a big, grey and austere building. It’s undoubtedly imposing but, like most of the churches in this country, it’s not especially impressive architecturally. Inside, though, the ambience is pleasant enough – cool but not cold, with high echoing stone walls and ceilings, and some nice murals. There’s even a shop, though having stocked-up on Duty Frees on the way back from Switzerland, I don’t need any cigarettes. Nice touch, though. Convenient.
Appropriately enough, the interior is in the shape of a cross with the altar bang in the middle, allowing a choice of angles from which to view proceedings. I sit towards the front row of the eastern wing, giving me a side profile of Fr. Michael Screene – a dark-haired and bespectacled 50-something in a green... dress.
The offertory is sung quite beautifully by a woman in her early 30s, followed by a more sombre reading from the Book Of Genesis by another female. My ears instantly pricked up when I heard the words Sodom and Gomorrah. However, they pricked down again when I realised that it wasn’t the English couple I once interviewed who perform a particularly extreme live sex show.
The Responsorial Psalm is also sung (with some nice organ accompaniment), but by the time of the second reading, I’ve tuned out the biblical mumbo-jumbo and turned my attention to my fellow worshippers. Back in my teenage years, mass was always good for spotting talent (though chat-up opportunities were rare).
As the Sawdoctors sang, “I useta see her up the chapel when she went to Sunday mass/And when she’d go to receive, I’d kneel down there and watch her pass/the glory of her ass.”
The place is a little more than half full, but, sadly, there are no glorious asses in evidence from where my own is parked. Nor are there any black or Asian worshippers. It’s an all-white congregation, ranging in age from about nine months to 90.
The mass breezes along unmerrily, and I play follow the leader. Stand, sit, kneel, stand, bless yourself and mumble, sit, kneel, etc., etc.
Fr. Screene’s sermon is to do with his interpretation of the second reading. His thesis is that blood is thicker than water, but closeness to God is thicker than blood. That’s why we call him ‘Father’. Oh – and God too!
It’s not exactly riveting stuff. In fairness to Screene, he’s not one of the local priests (he doesn’t mention it, but apparently he’s done a lot of missionary work in Russia) and I think he was just filling in for someone else. So it’s a grand sermon rather than a great one.
There’s some more standing and mumbling and then everybody shakes hands and says, “Peace be with you” (which, if you could somehow manage to take a seat near the object of your teenage affections, was always a high point). Sadly, there are no cute teenagers in my vicinity. I shake hands with the old lady behind me and the old man in front of me. Someone else begins to reach back from the pew ahead of him, but I wave them off (with a smile). Too much effort.
A jingly-jangly sound echoing around the walls signals what turns out to be the mass’s sole shake-down. Despite my reservations at contributing to the numerous legal bills of what Christopher Hitchens describes as “the biggest and best-organised paedophile ring on the planet,” I throw in a few coins to avoid social embarrassment. I don’t want anybody to think that I’m stingy. Besides, I’m getting paid to be here.
Business concluded, it’s soon communion time. Having had it many times before, I hadn’t planned on tasting the tasteless communion bread, but I’m surprised to see that wine – sorry, the Precious Blood of Christ Our Lord – is also available. Better still, nobody else seems to be availing of this generous offer of free booze. I head for the bar and get served immediately.
A middle-aged woman nods gravely and hands me the golden chalice. For a brief second, I feel like a king. The translucent liquid it holds is the colour of a sick baby’s urine so I sip rather than slurp. It tastes sickly sweet, like warm and flat Red Bull. Handing the chalice back, I almost blow my cover by instinctively saying, “Cheers!” She looks surprised rather than offended.
I quickly head back to my seat and bury my head in my hands, deciding what pub to hit afterwards (Monroe’s eventually gets the pleasure).
After communion, time thankfully seems to speed up. A couple of people even leave, obviously feeling that their Catholic duty is done for another week. Prayers are offered for the faithful, the starving in Africa, the terrified in Darfur, the innocent in Iraq and the underpaid in Corporate Banking. Surprisingly, there’s no mention of our flooded-out neighbours in England.
And that’s pretty much it. The organist plays Screene and his assistants off their stage. 45 minutes all told. To my surprise, everybody applauds the music at the end. Or maybe they were just delighted it was all over.
I leave not feeling any holier than I was when I went in. Not that I’d expected to. Of course, going to church doesn’t make a person religious or good, any more than going to university makes a person educated or smart, but if it helps people through their week then I’ve no problem with it. It just does absolutely nothing for me. And actually seems quite silly and simple-minded.
Eight hours later, I’m sipping a cold beer in the Róisín Dubh, watching Howard Marks onstage eulogising hilariously about the joys of smoking beneficial herbs. It’s much more my kind of communal religious experience.
Olaf Tyaransen