God and myself fell out many years ago when I started dating the devil and he still refused to talk to me when the devil does to you what the devil does. But the family are over visiting me at the moment and as every Irish emigrant over the years has done, I have to pretend to the Daddy that I'm still a regular Mass-goer and that I flagellate myself nightly as he taught me to do as a child.
It may come as a surprise to people who know me for my hedonistic lifestyle, but there was a time when I wanted to a Priest. That was before I developed a liking for the pleasures of the flesh. I gave up my vocational intentions before I realised that being a Priest didn't preclude those pleasures and if anything would have improved my chances of obtaining them. I kept up the Mass going however through my teenage years because it offered the best way of seeing girls on their knees and was a chance to catch up with my mates on a Sunday morning to discuss the previous night's disco exertions.
Then I went to London and found that Mass consisted of old people and bitter old Irish Priests who never forgave the world for the fact that they got posted to Tooting. I stopped going completely when ITV started showing live football on Sundays. My family visiting me at the moment changes all that, as it means sleeping on the sofa for two weeks and being awakened by the first person up. This is usually my over religious Dad asking where the nearest church is.
On the first Sunday we were in Sydney and my sister brought us to the posh Mary Immaculate church. God seemed to have redecorated since I last visited and was now keen to impress the neighbours. LCD screens were prominent throughout the church and they delivered a crisp power-point presentation which kept the process running like clockwork and made the Mass seem like a merchant bank board meeting. The church was run by the Jesuits and as those pompous Soldiers of Christ are prone to do, the celebrant spent his sermon spouting Pop Psychology and musing on whether Hell existed or not. All I can say is that for the hour I spent there, Hell certainly existed.
As with many things, Melbourne offers a different perspective to the brash new money world of Sydney. My nearest Church is the Sacred Heart on Grey Street, a thoroughfare more famous for prostitution, drugs and homeless people. The Sacred Heart mission is there to minister to the less fortunate among us and most of them return the favour by turning up for 11am Mass. So it was an eclectic audience to which I introduced my family this past Sunday. We took our perch behind the bewildered and the merely confused and awaited the entrance of Father Petrulis. He entered in the manner of Barack Obama, pressing the flesh and beaming a beatific smile at the congregation. Instead of mounting the alter, he stood in the middle of the assembly and talked as though he was at a barbeque on St Kilda beach.
Straight away I knew this was more my scene. The choir consisted of six melody challenged old ladies who made up for a deficit in talent with gusto and enthusiasm, a reader who sounded like she was reciting the First Letter of St Paul to the Romans in the language in which it was originally written and a congregation who treated the sitting down, standing up part of the Mass like a Mexican wave.
The highlight however, was the part played by Matilda and Chiara in the process. They were making their First Communion and as there were only two of them, Father Petrulis basically allowed them to run the show including inviting them on to the alter to mimic everything he did which made the consecration of the Eucharist look like a disco dancing routine.
That was trumped however by the prayers of the faithful which consisted of a few eclectic prepared pieces on subjects ranging from congratulating the new American President to prayers for the welfare of all those who had drank and gambled too much during the Melbourne Spring racing festival.
Then it was thrown open to the floor when the congregation was invited to present their own prayers. We had an old lady who was concerned about unloved young people, prayers for unborn babies and sick mothers and somebody who I think was looking for lost keys. I was tempted to stand up and thank God for Arsenal’s great win the night before against Man United, but my nerve deserted me.
For his sermon, the Priest chose to speak about Richard Minouge who had passed away the week before. Richard was one of the many homeless people who migrate to St Kilda for the beach life and the tolerant attitude of the locals. The picture Father Petrulis painted of him was of real human being, with failings and virtues but with enough humanity to fill a church at his funeral. His point was that God’s spirit lives in all of us, if you look closely enough. It was as uplifting and inspiring as Barack Obama’s acceptance speech and for the second time in a week I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
This was preaching as it is supposed to be. Talking about real people and real heartfelt spirituality. I wondered how many other Priests would minister to the homeless and see God’s light within them. As I walked home I felt uplifted after Mass for the first time since those pre-puberty years and I thought of those lines from Wilde’s “Ballad of Reading Goal”.
The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.
