Eshtine

St. Thomas of Aquin Parish, July 2, 1882-July 3, 2005

“Many a time have even the people of this generation been called upon to witness a ceremony like unto this in this, our beloved city.”

Today we celebrated the last Mass in English at St. Thomas of Aquin Church. Next week the last Mass will be said in Vietnamese, and then a procession will travel by car up to the new home for the Vietnamese Catholic community in St. Louis, Resurrection Church. So today was the farewell for…we’ve never had the right name. Not the “English-speakers” (that title could apply to most everyone at the “other” Mass), not “the Americans” (so could that one), not even the “non-Vietnamese” (half the crowd at the English Mass on any given Sunday was Vietnamese). Let’s just say this was the final Mass in English and leave it at that.

“What accommodations! What progress! Forty-five Catholic churches, and all of them needed in this city of less than 400,000 people!”

It was the final Mass at churches all across town. Parishes on the North Side, the South Side, all are closing, and all at once, which meant that people with ties to more than one place had hard decisions to make. Were you baptized at St. Boniface? Married at St. Augustine? Are all your friends at Transfiguration?
It was not a tough choice for me. I turn thirty this year. I’ve been going to St. Thomas nearly all that time, mostly in recent years to the Vietnamese Mass, but before that—I’ve sung in the choir loft, served as lector at the pulpit, given Communion where the altar rail used to be. It’s the only church home I’ve ever known.

“Churches for those who speak the English language, and churches for our great German Catholic population! Churches for the Bohemians and Poles and Italians! And though they are welcomed in all the others, a church for our colored Catholic brethren!”

St. Thomas became a parish in the days when Masses were in Latin and the homilies were given in the native tongue of the population. So St. Louis had “ethnic” churches, the closest being St. Anthony of Padua, a home for German Catholics. Some families—many who were Irish, other nationalities too, even some Germans who didn’t want to hear Mass in German anymore—petitioned the Archbishop for an English-speaking church. And he granted the request. The parish was named for the great theologian Thomas Aquinas; to call him “of Aquin” was to Anglicize the Latinization of his name (the town of his birth is called “Aquino” by Italians). The first Mass was celebrated 123 years ago next week at Alexian Brothers Hospital; the little church itself was dedicated in April of 1883.
It’s a parish that has seemed at death’s door for quite a few years. My class was the last to graduate from the grade school in 1989. Fewer and fewer people were showing up for Sunday Mass; folks moved out of the neighborhood and the folks who moved in either weren’t Catholic or attended church elsewhere; we didn’t seem to have the resources or the will to do much in the way of outreach to the community.

“When we consider the progress of the church here and elsewhere, what and how many thoughts come to the mind! But after all we need not wonder. It is only history—the history of our religion—repeating itself. The fact that the church lives at all is a miracle. And the fact that the church has made progress in every age, if not in one land, then in another, this is one of the strongest arguments of her divine origin.”

And then in 1997 the Vietnamese community was looking for a church to serve as its home base, and St. Thomas had new life. Every week we’ve had a packed house at the Vietnamese Mass; several times a year there have been processions around the block with chanted prayers and women in traditional dresses and banners and drums. We’ve celebrated Tet, Vietnamese New Year with dragon dances, firecrackers, and a lucky-money-laden tree in the sanctuary.
I’d been going to the Vietnamese Mass because it made me happy to see so much activity in the church—toddlers wandering the aisles, members of the Mother’s Club fixing rice dishes in Our Lady’s Hall. Going to the 8 am Mass would make me sad—there were so few people, and everyone sat so far apart from each other. It was like the emptiness was trying to win.

“The apostles went forth and taught the nations. They taught in Judea. They crossed the seas; they climbed the highest mountains; they traveled the sands of the widest deserts, and this that they might also teach the Gentiles.”

I had to go to this Mass, though, this last one for “the old parish,” as misleading a term as that is.
It was amazing. The church wasn’t packed, but there were three times as many people as there have been on regular Sundays. The women were in dresses, some even in hats or with chapel veils, the men were in suits. Ray, the lector, wore a bolo tie; he looked like a cowpoke in Sunday-goin’-to-meetin’ clothes. Vivian, my kindergarten teacher, was there. I had forgotten what it was like to know the names of almost everyone in the whole church, and it’s not like I’m good with names; I’ve just known them all for so many years, their names have gone into me like the names of the streets in my neighborhood. They’ve been my signposts for so long.

“Millions after millions, of all countries, and ages, and conditions, poor and rich, learned and stupid, noble and otherwise, men and women, young and old speedily and cheerfully embraced the apostolic doctrines. Who were these teachers—those apostles of the new religion? They were men not known; they were not wise; they were poor fishermen. Still at their preaching men cast aside the old laws of their forefathers dear to their hearts and heads, and with devotion received the law of Jesus Christ.”

In his homily Father Peter thanked us for being “grandparents, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles” to him. He pointed out how he was halfway across the world from the land of his birth (he, the server, the music minister and the man recording it all with a video camera were all Vietnamese) and yet we were all blood relatives because of the blood of Christ. His words rang true—this was a family gathering, a family reunion and a funeral.

“It is a law, in a sense, contrary to flesh and blood, a law which promises nothing in this world except crosses and tribulations.”

I started to cry during the singing of the “Gloria” and I didn’t really stop for the whole Mass. I wasn’t the least bit ashamed. Ours is a religion that teaches Christ was both fully human and fully divine; we believe, in other words, that both flesh and spirit matter. So when a body dies it is not wrong to mourn, and what is a parish but a body, and if it is gone its like will not be seen again.
Just because I believe in the Resurrection doesn’t mean that death isn’t difficult.

“I am not the preacher today; the occasion is the preacher. The ceremony explains itself. The cornerstone is a sermon. The walls soon to be erected will speak to you as you pass them. The cross on the spire soon to be raised over the church, over your lands and your houses and your things of earth, the cross, the blessed sign of salvation—how poor before the cross of Christ are the richest words of man—the cross will preach to you as you walk by beneath its shadow.”

We sang beautiful songs—“How Great Thou Art” at Communion, “Holy God We Praise Thy Name” as the recessional hymn—but the one that choked me up the most was “Whatsoever You Do,” a song I had never really cared for. As we sang:
When I was hungry you gave me to eat
When I was thirsty you gave me to drink
Now enter into the home of my Father
I thought, now this is a fitting song for the funeral of a parish. We are singing these words to this body, this community, the group both symbolized by the building and somehow bound to it, these men and women who all know this particular setting for the “Gloria,” who know the name of the organist who played here for almost forty years, who staffed the booths at parish picnics and gave out food at the pantry and who made quilts and who got baptized here or married here or buried their parents here. St. Thomas Parish is entering the home of our Father.

“In conclusion, then, I pray, and this is the meaning of the ceremony which will now begin, that God’s blessing through the intercession of St. Thomas of Aquin may descend upon this undertaking, upon the pastor and his people, upon those gathered here this afternoon, upon our fair city and great state, and may this blessing remain forever. Amen.”

All quotes are from the sermon given by Father Philip P. Brady at the laying of St. Thomas of Aquin’s cornerstone October 9, 1882.

Posted by eshtine at June 26, 2005 02:53 PM | TrackBack