Mass, in a time of lunacy

When I was a young man I lived in the parental home at the very poorest end of Virginia Water in leafy Surrey.

In those days there really was still a 'poor end' to this Surrey enclave, now I read that the average house price is in excess of £1 million.

Such is the way of the world.

Just a short distance away lay the rambling Franco Gothic towers that is now divided by gated apartments for uber rich yuppie types and one of London's most prestigious Universities, the Royal Holloway, part of the University of London.

But, in my day, it was not merely a seat of academic excellence, (part of it was a Women's College) it was.....can you guess?

A lunatic asylum.

I'm not sure if I may still call it that, perhaps I should have called it a home for the mentally challenged.....but then, I am not very pc.

This magnificent old building, more architecturally akin to Molesworth's St Custards than a seat of learning, or an asylum for that matter, also housed a Catholic Chapel for the inmates to attend on Sundays and Holydays and, as my home was within half a mile (and the parish church five miles distant), we availed ourselves of the opportunity to attend Mass regularly.

This made for interesting experiences.

The residents were a varied lot apparently from all walks of life proving that madness, as with any illness, is a great leveller.

You never really knew what would take place in the course of, naturally, a Latin Mass (this was the mid 1960s).

One resident whom we called affectionately 'Old Thumper' would stand at the Confiteor, Sanctus and the Domine non sum dignus to noisily but reverently thump his chest three times.

Others wandered around the Chapel and even the sanctuary at will.
Most of them muttered or shouted, often in falsetto tones, at various times during the Mass; unnerving at first but we soon, in a strange way, felt quite at home

The celebrant always proceeded with the Mass as if all intruders into the holy area were invisible; nothing could interrupt the unfolding Sacrifice that was taking place.

They soon got used to me and my parents and paid us no attention whatsoever.

 And we, at times, as the changes in the liturgy began to unfold, we felt that, maybe we should be locked up with these poor souls also.

The whole Catholic world was going mad.

I recall one holy day of obligation where I was able to attend an early morning Mass before setting off to work.

Before Mass commenced I knelt in the Chapel surrounded by the usual residents when I heard the sound of clinking, of chains being rattled and of the shuffling of feet.

The noise drew closer until the Chapel door opened and in came ten or twelve inmates, manacled at the hands and shackled together.
These were the serious cases, the dangerous ones that could not be trusted to attend Sunday Mass when there was a sizeable 'lay' congregation present but, on a weekday with only one or two non asylum folk in the congregation, the authorities had allowed it.

And, certainly, my pulses quickened a little.
This was definitely adding a new dimension to attending Holy Mass.

This was positively medieval in aspect; I had never imagined that the mentally insane could be treated in such a fashion but then....how do they control such people? Is medical sedation any better?

The Mass proceeded almost without incident until, at the Consecration, a large, heavily built male (now unshackled), marched to the altar rails and performed the most basic functional act in the centre of the aisle.

Again, the Mass, quite rightly, continued without pause, despite the lavatorial noises that accompanied this act.

The poor demented man was led away and asylum attendants cleared up the mess.

Such experiences may appear bizarre but they did truly represent the nature of Holy Mother Church.

If this sanatorium had been around at the time of Christ, I felt that He would have been there, ministering to them and embracing their needs.

It emphasized that the Mass is for all, regardless of their secular or physical state.

 As for their spiritual state, the Irish have a phrase for people so afflicted.

They used to say that: "Their minds are with God" and I think they were right.