The first indication that this was not my father’s or mother’s — or even my — old church came as I walked in the front door at St. Pius V church in Lynn for the 11:30 a.m. Mass.
There, to greet me, was Andrew Genovese, one of the religious education coordinators, who had a clicker in his hand so he could count me as one of the 60 church-goers who showed up. Like everyone else who walked through the doors, he had a mask on. Inside the door was Joe O’Connor, a Lynn physical therapist, who greeted me and gave me a dab of hand sanitizer.
The center aisle was blocked off with a long table, and ushers were deployed to escort me to my pew.
I was directed down a side aisle to a bench up front that was marked by two lines of tape — with enough room for someone with a generously proportioned derriere to sit between them — followed by two Xs. It seemed pretty evident. You could sit between the two lines. You could not sit where the Xs were.
For every bench designated for worshippers there was one that was not.
St. Pius is one of the larger churches in Lynn, and the sparseness of the attendees reminded me of the old 6:45 a.m. weekday Mass at Sacred Heart to which altar boys used to be assigned if they drew the proverbial short straw (which happened to me more than once in my young life, almost always in the winter).
The reverie was almost rudely shattered when the PA system Deacon Jim Hinkle was testing shrieked a little too much feedback.
“Nice to see you all,” Deacon Jim deadpanned. Sure, Jim. Nice to hear you.
I’d heard that there would be no singing — something that was corroborated by a parishioner at Star of the Sea in Marblehead, who said that not only was there no singing, but no humming either — something I thought rather odd.
Yet, at St. Pius, both the organist and cantor were in their usual spots. I wasn’t quite sure why.
This was doubly perplexing when Father Godfrey Musabe came out prior to the service to say that there would not be singing, except for “singing within our hearts. We can all do that.”
There was music. And there was singing, but only from music director Pat Caulfield and cantor Lorraine Picano.
Father Godfrey and Deacon Jim celebrated the Mass, which, aside from there being no collection, wasn’t much different than any other Mass, except there were no prayer cards and no missals. There was no “sign of peace,” but we at least had a few seconds to turn around and acknowledge people with a nod of the head.
I’d been told there would be a brief sermon, but Father Godfrey’s was rather standard length, explaining the deeper meaning of the Pentecost — the Holy Spirit being defined as a unifying force.
Because there were so few participants, communion, even though it needed a bit of choreographing, went uneventfully. My Star of the Sea spy tells me it was a bit more cumbersome in Marblehead, but strangely, his service took 10 minutes less than mine (50-40 minutes).
Where we went in one door, we went out another. There was no chance to do the usual apres-Mass mingling in the aisles. And even in the parking lot, on a gloriously beautiful and almost autumn-like morning, there was little socializing.
When the decision was made to limit socializing to 10 people or less, thereby making public worship impossible, the lament was that such gatherings are communal. Bringing people together for a common purpose, especially to worship and to pray, only strengthens the bond. Or, to quote Father Godfrey, it provides a unifying force.
I do not wear my religion on my sleeve. I was not one of the ones making noise, and lamenting, the lack of live Sunday Mass. I can’t even say I watched the video stream St. Pius provided.
But Sunday, I saw people I hadn’t seen in three months. The last time I was in a church we were halfway through Lent. We observed Easter — maybe the most important holy day in the liturgical calendar — via live stream.
First Communions would have come and gone by now, yet there are hundreds of Catholic 7- and 8-year-olds still waiting to receive theirs. Ditto Confirmations, weddings, funerals and other special observances.
I think the last time I saw Father Godfrey was when I interviewed him about the Boston Marathon. Jim Hinkle is a friend, and I haven’t seen him since I don’t know when.
There were people there who I only see at Mass — people like Jon Lazar and his wife, Noreen. It’s been a while since Lazar has had the opportunity to poke me in the ribs over something that I’ve written.
Returning to Mass Sunday was one big indication that life as I knew it back on March 12 — when I officially began the social separation experience — is slowly returning to some semblance of normalcy.