The Slow, Undignified Death of a Rural Church

I thought Covid would have killed it. It should have, as an act of mercy. Better to die living than live dying, or however hippies put it. I do not speak of Anthony Fauci’s career but of a rural Saskatchewan parish a mere thirty minutes from my home. A Catholic parish that remains open to this day, though how or why I cannot say.

I recently attended Sunday Mass there with my wife and five children. We had to stop in before traveling onward to visit relatives. This small church is the sister parish of our usual hometown parish and, therefore, is serviced by the same young priest. It seemed low risk. 

The air had a crisp autumn chill as we pulled into the low-key town with an official population of about 500. We bumped along the pothole minefield known as Main Street—thanks local politicians—past the 50 Shades of Green Cannabis shop—thanks Trudeau—towards the tired, rundown-looking church—thanks Vatican II.

The parking area, a patch of yellowing grass that serves as a parking lot for one hour a week, was dotted with a handful of vehicles. As we spilled out of our van, faint reverberations of music drifted our way. A part of me panicked. Though the congregation was a mere thirty people or so the last time I attended—maybe ten years ago—the church building, being so small, can still leave precious little space for seating. But I was worried for nothing. There were three pews available. Most of the other pews were crowded with one person apiece. I suppose that’s better than being squished in with a dozen young children at a traditional Latin Mass. I’m just trying to sound positive. 

We snuck in, said a quick prayer, and then looked up—or around, rather—as the priest continued with the Mass. The building still had traces of a former beauty. The structure was traditional, facing eastward, and trimmed carefully with faded woodwork. Statues of Jesus and Mary at the front had culture and class. A high altar would’ve done wonders, I thought, but instead, a table altar was plunked down in the center. Also, the tabernacle was bumped to the side to allow the priest’s chair to take center stage. A few banners hung prominently, reminding the congregation that the post-conciliar Church is still being felt. 

And what of this congregation?

Ten people. Ten lonely parishioners.

No, wait. That’s not accurate. A dad and two older children were visiting a mom/grandma that Sunday. The Alberta license plate in the parking lot confirmed this. So, ten minus three means…

Seven parishioners.

They were all women. Most looked to be in their eighties. The youngest was a recently retired teacher. As mentioned, the women each had a pew. And they each had a ministry to do as well. Some read. Some took up the collection. Some proclaimed the prayers of the faithful. One busy lady had two jobs: bringing up the offertory gifts and passing out bulletins at the end of Mass. I hope the schedule-making minister takes it easy on her next week. Lest I sound mean, however, I should say that the women seemed very nice. Like old ladies that I would gladly sit around with on a cold autumn morning and drink tea while listening to stories of the great blizzard of ‘42. Pleasant ladies indeed. It's just that, well, I would never hand over the keys of a liturgy to them, that's all.

The retired teacher’s ministry was to play the electric piano and sing. Boy did she ever. Her left hand was a dizzying display of pace and rhythm that would be the envy of any polka fanatic. Boop bop, boop bop! bounced the bass riff as songs from my liturgically impoverished childhood enlivened the atmosphere. “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me will never die,” she grooved while the congregation kept a half step behind and a more than a half step off key.

Early into the Mass, my two-year-old son decided he’d had enough, and I carried him to the back of the church. No, I didn’t pinch him just to escape. Not this time.

At the back, the smell of musty cat urine and filthy, cobweb-filled carpet watered my eyes—my punishment for so willingly exiting the Mass. Meanwhile, my son was mesmerized by two gorgeous statues, each twice his size, crowding the tiny church entrance. St. Therese and St. Anne sat alone and seemingly uninvited—like they had lost their job to the felt banners many years ago. I thought about how these saints could have a pew each if they wanted. I also thought of how, maybe someday shortly, I would like to rescue these statues. Where would I put them in my house? And would it be proper to do so? Do they belong in a church? What if a church doesn't want them? Why are these things always so mixed up now? And why on Earth must we hide our past? 

The entire experience reminded me of whenever I go to a hospital. Thankfully it is usually for the birth of a child. But to wander down the hallways on such an occasion reveals a forgotten tragedy. Inevitably you will pass a lonely room with an older person stuffed inside. The person, from sheer boredom, will be asleep on the bed. The ominous blue glow of a television lulling—or mocking—the person away from reality. Away from belonging. Away from any form of love. It is a slow death, both undignified and unavoidable. For who can stay to watch and mourn? Who has time to spare? Or worse, who cares?

This small church, tucked at the back of this small town, has been left to its slow, undignified, and perhaps unavoidable death. It will be endured by seven old women in seven separate pews getting whatever it is they get out of this modern Church life. To the very end. The bitter end. Meanwhile, a family of seven sits alongside this particular Sunday. A family that pines for more—dare I say deserves more. A family that would give their left arm for the priest to stop what he’s doing, walk to the other side of the altar, drop to his knees, and begin, “Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me…” 

The young priest started preaching. It was an excellent homily. One on giving yourself to God. On surrendering yourself before the holy will of God. I needed to hear it. I like this priest. He loves to read and study. More than that, he loves his flock. He is a true man, and I can only imagine what it would be like if he had been sent to a true seminary. He’d make a tremendous traditional priest.

But he’s not one, nor is this a traditional parish. And I wondered once more: why is this Mass said here for these seven, much older, parishioners? Why can’t the other Mass, the Mass of the Ages, be said instead? I know of seven eager, much younger, souls who would have much to gain by this. Do we matter less? Or, is the hierarchy worried others will come to cherish the TLM too? I suppose they ought to be.

The Mass ended and we all took our leave. One set of seven pining for more from a Catholic faith with endless riches to give but under lock and key. Another set of seven pining for nothing more than to persevere through the slow, undignified death of their parish. Another Sunday accomplished. Until next week, or so one hopes. How much longer until there are only six? Then five? Then none? I am sorry for them. It shouldn’t be like this.

As for me and my house, we will remain traditional Catholics. Waiting.