The Last Mass
“The Church which is the Body of Christ participates in the offering of her Head. With Him, she herself is offered whole and entire ... The lives of the faithful, their praise, sufferings, prayer, and work, are united with those of Christ and with His total offering, and so acquire a new value.”
Now that our community’s six-year Cherish the Flame journey is complete, the Lord has made it beautifully clear what our next “building project”should be: building up community by caring for the needs of our aging Sisters. We are blessed to have a multi-generational group of nuns here at St. Joseph Monastery, and for those of us on the younger end of the spectrum, it is a profound privilege to serve those whose long lives of Passionist consecration have laid the foundation for our own vocations.
Some months ago, one of our younger Sisters wrote a poem inspired by experiences she has had while ministering to some of our elders. In it, she explores the theme of caregiving from the perspective of the Baptismal priesthood. While certain men are called to the ordained, ministerial priesthood, all baptized Christians are members of this broader priesthood, which enables them to offer their own lives in union with the sacrifice of Christ in the Mass. In this sense, those of us who care for the sick and the suffering are serving as “deacons” or “concelebrants” at the offering of their personal “Mass” of life!
The poem is rather long, but with the recent passing of Sr. Mary Magdalen it seemed particularly appropriate. We share it here in the hope it blesses you in whatever way the Lord is working in your heart at this time …
The Last Mass
I steal into the chapel quietly,
My vestments woven out of prayer and praise,
The chrism on my brow from decades past
Still fragrant with its sacerdotal grace.
Today, however, I come to assist
Another priest whose life and love are dear
To me, yes, all the dearer as she mounts
The altar steps to offer her Mass here …
For this profoundest liturgy, I am
A simple deacon – or, perhaps, still priest –
But mute concelebrant who stands aside
And silently assists at a great feast.
Whichever one I am, I see it not
As limitation or as slight to me;
No, it is privilege beyond all words
To stand so near, assisting so humbly.
The chapel walls are plain, of palest cream,
The altar draped with linens soft and worn,
The humble atmosphere belying what
Great mysteries in this small space are born.
The Dominus vobiscum breathes in words
Of quiet, simple welcome as I tread
Across the sanctuary floor to take my place
Near Victim-Priest, the Body and the Head.
The Kyrie sounds forth incessantly
In cries of pain that gather in a sigh
The echoes of a suff’ring, sinful world
And with them beg for mercy from on high.
The Scriptures’ proclamation now I hear
Not with the halting ear of flesh and blood,
But with the heart aflame as I behold
The Word Incarnate fixed upon His Rood.
Not here the clouds of Tabor, or the glow
Of awesome miracles and mighty deed –
Instead, He treads with weary step along
The bloodied avenues to Calvary.
And from His parchéd lips, now live again
In this His Bride, His Priest, His precious one,
I hear the sermon of a heart whose love
Has been so long, so dearly, hardly won.
Then, how the Intercessions stir my heart!
Their silence is a music He can hear.
My soul repeats the cry, Lord, hear our prayer,
And almost sees the Father bend His ear.
The Offertory, slow in majesty,
Now sees my trembling hands the Host embrace
Of living flesh that soon will be transformed
Upon the altar, gently, filled with wordless grace.
The words of epiclesis are not said,
And yet I read them writ upon the face
Of one whose life of joy and pain is now
So simply for the Spirit making space.
I, too, within the silence of my heart
Breathe prayers of longing, Come, O Spirit-Love!
And only in the darkest light of faith
I see the advent of the Guest, the Dove.
The Consecration – it’s beyond my reach,
A mystery that must needs be received,
And so I know the miracle is done,
The Transubstantiation is achieved.
In awe and wonder I can now behold
More clearly Christ’s own features on the face
Of one whose life has been conformed to Him
More closely every passing, anguished day.
The Ecce Agnus Dei gives me pause,
As here I see the Crucified enfleshed
And even in this hour of deepest pain
The promise of the Resurrection blest.
A deep unworthiness enrobes my heart,
And beating breast in wondrous disbelief,
O Domine, non sum dignus, I cry
Before the sacred, solemn mystery.
I have received Communion, mystically,
For I can sense the Lord within my heart
Anew, through this His precious living Host,
From whom I must regretfully depart.
The Ite, missa est falls from my lips
So loath to break this silence that still speaks,
And with a smile that says a thousand words,
My Sister-Priest now bids me go in peace.