The sanctuary is the
focal point of the celebration of Mass. Three elements stand out: the Altar or
table, the Ambo, and the Presider’s Chair. Each carries its own symbolism and
meaning.
The Altar is the place where bread is taken, blessed, consecrated, broken, and given to the faithful. It is usually raised slightly so that it can be seen clearly, set apart from the rest of the sanctuary and the wider church.
The Irish Catholic Bishops Conference issued a short but significant document last year entitled “Why Sunday Matters”. This Sunday, I address the following question they posed:
Do we need to review Mass times or the number of weekend Masses?
The answer to that, I think, is patently obvious: yes!
The Roman Catholic Church recognises seven sacraments. Most Christians agree that Baptism – the sacrament of initiation – and the Eucharist – the sacrament of unity – are foundational, and that the other sacraments, sacramentals, and rites flow from them. Every sacrament is an outward sign and a means of inward grace. In Baptism, water and oil form part of the celebration; in the Eucharist, bread and wine – which become the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ – are essential.
How do we make space for people in church? Could we run an experiment in one parish in just one diocese? A practical step for pastor and people might be to remove the fixed pews and introduce comfortable, upright chairs. These could be stacked neatly to the side when not needed. For Mass, the chairs could be arranged in a semi‑circle around a central communion table, creating a stronger sense of community, participation, and closeness.
What is the first thing that catches your eye when you enter a Roman Catholic church? For many, it is the altar—and often the tabernacle. In older churches these were usually aligned on the same visual axis, the altar built into a retable that housed the tabernacle. Since the late 1960s, however, altars have been brought forward so the priest can stand behind them facing the people. In some churches the tabernacle was also moved, either to a side altar or to another clearly visible and dignified location. Where this happened, the altar naturally became the dominant feature on entering the church.
To look forward we need to look back first. It appears that most Roman Catholic
Churches, in Ireland, were designed, constructed and laid out in the early to
mid-19th Century. It was a time of rising confidence and a thriving
but small Irish middle class after the catastrophe of the famine years. The long persecution of penal times largely ended
with the Emancipation Act of 1829.
Typically, rural churches or chapels were simple but functional laid out in a cruciform shape with the sanctuary in a small space at the Eastern end of the central nave or aisle. There were statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary and often of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the side altars to the right and to the left of the sanctuary, that is, in the North and South transepts. Devotional candles were a frequent sight.
Sunday 22 March 2026
Meditatio: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” (John 11:16)
We stand before the sealed tomb with the two sisters of Lazarus, their much‑loved brother now dead and laid to rest. Jesus himself is “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved,” and he weeps for his friend. It is a moment of suspense. What will happen next – and where do I stand in this story?
What would Saint Patrick make of St Patrick’s Day in Ireland in 2026? One thing is sure – faith in the living Christ is his message to us today. Although we do not find explicit references to the Eucharist in the two writings associated with his name – the Confessio and the Letter to the Soldiers of Coroticus – we can be sure that Patrick brought with him the Christian faith and the associated practices, understanding and established norms of the land from which he came.
In this and following blogs I explore some possible ideas for making better use of existing spaces in our churches.
A word by way of context: as we are only painfully aware, Mass attendance is in freefall over recent decades, priests are ageing but here and there a few little green shoots of hope are sprouting up, unexpectedly.
Last Sunday I reflected on how our experience of Mass might
be enriched. Today I turn to a related question: what makes our Sunday
celebration come alive?
From time to time it does us good, I think, to step outside
our own parish and savour a different atmosphere or approach. Earlier today I
attended Mass in my local “Mother Church”: the Cathedral of the Assumption in
Carlow, a town of some 30,000 souls in the South East of Ireland. The Cathedral
serves one of the town’s three parishes.
I was not disappointed.
Yesterday evening I was kindly invited to join Muslims at
their centre in Kilkenny to share an iftar meal. The iftar is the meal Muslims share beginning
precisely at sunset each day of Ramadan. It was a privilege for me to join the
event.
Of course, as a Christian I did not participate in the religious rituals and prayers used by Muslims. I remained in my place quietly and prayerfully as others recited the prayers including the various postures used throughout the world. It was a humbling experience to be welcomed and to show solidarity with those who share a common humanity and a common belief in the One, Merciful and Almighty God. Though we understand and relate to God in different ways we are called to live in friendship and mutual care according to the precepts of good religion.
My late uncle, a Columban missionary priest, served in China
and Burma at various stages between 1946 and 1966. I recall his stories about children playing at
an open-air mass in some very basic conditions in a village mountains. This was a far cry from the fine architecture
and marble church of Dalgan Park where he completed his seminar training in the
early 1940s. For Fr Michael, children
were always of central importance in any family gathering. And, on those
occasions when mass was celebrated, devoutly and properly, on the kitchen table
there was a job for everyone including the smallest.
Introducing children to the mass takes time and patience especially when they are not used to the surroundings, actions and sights associated with mass. If a kind, calm and warn environment is created this can help to put children at ease and lead them in curiosity to a place of encounter.
When I was a child, going to Mass was simply what families did. In this part of Ireland, well over 90% of households attended every Sunday. When I stopped going as a teenager in the 1970s, it was unusual enough to be noticed.
About thirty years ago, I first became aware of a real shift. Sunday congregations were suddenly older. Families still came, but in smaller numbers, and the age profile was unmistakably changing.
Continuing on from yesterday's blog, I consider once again the grounds
for the practice of first Holy Communion in the Roman Catholic Church. The present-day
sequence is as follows:
Baptism → Holy communion → Confirmation
This sequence, which has been in place since the early decades of the last century is a relatively modern practice and was fairly unique among the main branches of Christianity up until recent times.
At this time of year, most parishes across the world in the
Roman Catholic Church are preparing children for the reception of first Holy Communion.
It is a special moment on the spiritual journey undertaken by families who wish
that their children be admitted to full eucharistic communion with the worldwide
church. It is no small thing to receive
the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus Christ. Jesus once told his
disciples:
‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs’ (Mark 10:14)
Hopefully, all of these children will continue to experience the blessings of attending Sunday Mass on a weekly basis wherever they are. It is, of course, a family choice and parents are the guardians and the exemplars. If the Eucharist means a huge amount to us then we will take the time, effort and trouble to make it a top priority every weekend no matter what.
Sunday 15 March 2026
Lectio Divina:*
Meditatio:
“We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day” (John 9:4)
Commentary:
What? A blind man presents himself to Jesus in the presence of the disciples. Immediately the question arises: Who sinned? Who was to blame? You see (pardon the pun), a condition like blindness—or poverty, or any of the many burdens known to modern humanity, from divorce to exclusion—must surely be someone’s fault. It couldn’t simply be. It must have a cause rooted in someone’s bad behaviour, or in the failings of their parents. If we are honest, we may even detect traces of this warped thinking in ourselves.
Sometimes people question why bother with church or prayer
or mass? We search for reasons as to
why, nowadays, so few attend mass on a regular weekly basis. We speculate about
the manifold influences of secularism, popular culture, relevance, the
scandals, the pressures of life and so on. But, perhaps there is a more basic
root cause of a lack of attendance?
What if people really felt wanted and welcomed at their local parish mass and community? What if their experience of joining with other believers (including people with doubts, questions and struggles) was so uplifting and so life-giving that they wanted to come back the next week?
The Irish Catholic Bishops Conference issued a short but significant document last year entitled “Why Sunday Matters”. In the remaining Sundays of Lent I am going to explore, a little, a few aspects of this document and some of the questions raised therein. Today, I explore the following question:
“How can I enrich my experience of Mass and make it a central part of my life?”
I suggest just a number of approaches:
Sunday 8 March 2026 Lectio Divina:*
“If you knew the gift of God” (John 4:10)
Commentary:
Typical of Lent as we
draw closer to The Great Feast of Easter the tone and length of Sunday gospel
reading become heavier and longer. Enter John this Sunday.
Jesus crosses a ‘frictionless and seamless border’ as he left Judea and started
back to Galilee going through Samaria.
Now we are sitting
near a well in a place called Sychar. It is a special place of religious
significance. It is in the middle of the day. A traveller stops there for rest
and for some of that precious cool water. ‘Give me a drink’ says the
traveller. That was fairly direct and concise! The conversation
opens up. There is a play on words with deep, deep significance like the well
of Jacob. Jesus reveals himself as an unusual Jew. He is speaking in a
public place to a woman and a Samaritan woman at that (‘They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman’ - v. 27).
Now, Samaritans were a
somewhat different breed to the Jews but not that different as not to share
Jacob as their common ancestor and the first five books of what we know as the
Bible as authoritative scripture. In other words, they were very much outside
the pale as far as Jews were concerned but they were frustratingly near enough
in theology, expectation and ethnic roots. Does any of this even sound remotely
familiar to an observer of religious-political-ethnic identity on the island of
Ireland?
When Jesus said to the
Samaritan woman ‘Give me a drink’ he was about to prompt a discussion that led
from the ordinary and immediate thirst for water to a deeper, spiritual and
lasting thirst for new life. On the latter point, it is us – the Samaritan
woman and everyone no matter what tribe or creed or colour or orientation – who
thirst. We thirst to be understood. We thirst to be set free of the images and
representations that in which others may try incarcerate us.
The conversation at
the well leads to a realisation on the part of the Samaritan that she is
speaking to someone extraordinary. She returns to her family and tribe and
something has started. Other outsiders from this Samaritan tribe seek out this
unusual Jew. They invite him to stay in their town and Jesus ‘stayed
there for two days’. We have no further details but we may assume that,
according to John, at least, there were some interesting conversations
happening over 48 hours or so. They knew, also, that they had encountered
something wonderful and precious for ‘many more believed because of his word’
(v. 41).
They said to the woman, ‘It is no longer
because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and
we know that this is truly the Saviour of the world.’ (v. 42).
There are many strands
to this story from the 4th chapter of John but we should not
miss that point that Jesus is, here, signalling a new departure from the
religious culture he grew up in. He is reaching out to other tribes and
‘religions’. It sits uncomfortably with the way we might want to represent
Christ through our own particular tribal or nationalistic lens.
Talking and
hanging out with the ‘wrong’ people
Talking to people who
are very different by reason of background, orientation, status or outlook in
life says something about us. Not infrequently, to be seen talking and
associating with the wrong people – people who do not belong to ‘us’ or who
come from the opposite or even enemy side in whatever stance, struggle or
contestation ‘we’ are part of – attracts negative comment. Taken to its
extreme, expulsion or marginalisation may be the price of ‘talking to the other
side’ or sharing in their feasts. Hard borders and high walls run deep in our
societies and in our hearts. The physical and visible borders and walls are not
even as significant as those invisible ones that separate us from each other.
This is where enmity and strife originate.
The unfortunate aspect
of many human associations and belongings is that such belonging can be
exclusive, excluding and sectarian. We are right; they are wrong. Justice and
truth is on our side; wickedness, folly and betrayal is on the other.
Honesty with
ourselves
For the approaching week we might reflect on the very first line of the ‘Confessions’ of the
spiritual patron of our island:
I, Patrick, a
sinner, a most simple countryman, the least of all the faithful and most
contemptible to man.
(see also 1
Timothy 1:15).
Perhaps a ruthlessly
honest appraisal of where one is at is the best antidote to sectarianism,
superiority, presumption and exclusion.
We would do well to
aim to live by the Wesleyian maxim of ‘friends of all; enemies of none’ even if
it is not possible to fulfil this at all times and with all peoples. It is
worth the try.
Everyone has made their own journey of human development. Along the way we were nurtured physically, emotionally, culturally, linguistically and spiritually by our parents. Twelve years ago on this day I said goodbye to my mother who had lived a good and long life. Her quiet, unassuming and warm personality helped shaped my experience of childhood. For her and, indeed, for most of her generation faith was a key part. And the practice of one’s faith was very much centred on the Mass. I am very grateful for that.
A great plague has infected the world: sadness, anxiety, division, hatred and despair have invaded many minds and hearts. Atheism has taken hold. There is no God, it is claimed and there is no life after death. Ultimately, our lives are deemed meaningless except in so far as we subjectively give it meaning, so they say. And this stance means that for us there is no absolute right or wrong except what I think or what we think; there is no ultimate reality or truth outside opinions, interpretations and self-determination.
In the offertory of the mass the bread and wine are taken, blessed and offered. They are not, yet, consecrated. This part of the Eucharist is particularly important because it links directly the temple liturgy of the Hebrews with the Christian Eucharist. The early celebration of the Eucharist among Jewish Christians shaped the mass as we know it today. The Jewish table blessings - Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu – are incorporated into a new celebration initiated by the Lord Jesus at the Last Supper.
.jpg)
The one sacrifice and memorial of the Lord’s passion and resurrection has many names:
Eucharist – eucharistein or giving thanks.
Breaking of bread – found in many places of the New Testament including 1 Corinthians 11:24 (“and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”).
Every part of the Mass echoes scripture from start to
finish. In the communion rite the Priest
says:
Lord Jesus Christ, who said to your Apostles: Peace I leave you, my peace I give you…
This comes from John
14:27:
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.
Silence is increasingly rare in the noisy, fast‑moving
spaces where we work, socialise, and even worship. Noise has its place when it
carries good conversation, shared purpose, or lively activity. But it becomes a
burden when we grow dependent on it—when every pause must be filled, every gap
bridged, every quiet moment avoided.
Our liturgies, too, have become crowded with words. Jesus cautioned against multiplying words in prayer, yet the way we engage in Holy Mass often leaves little room for stillness. We feel compelled to speak – aloud or inwardly – and we hurry to fill every space. In doing so, we risk losing the eloquence of silence.
It is often said that the Irish “do death well.” A time of bereavement is usually marked by deep family and community support, and it is taken for granted that friends, neighbours, and extended family will show their respect for the deceased by attending the funeral Mass. In many other cultures, funerals are more private occasions, attended only by invitation. Not so in Ireland.
