Power to the People

I tossed up all week whether I should go to Brisbane on the weekend to attend mass at St. Mary’s South Brisbane. This is the church of Fr. Peter Kennedy, a priest in exile. To cut a long story short (and it’s a story that can be read in more detail and be better explained and understood elsewhere), the Catholic Church has sacked him for, amongst other things, unorthodox practices. I’m not a Catholic and I don’t follow any particular religious creed. I do sometimes yearn for a certain kind of spirituality but not through regular religious channels. I didn’t grow up in a religious household; in fact, it could be said that the church and all associated with it was ridiculed. Growing up in that sort of an environment made me wary of religion. So I didn’t go to Brisbane for any other reason than to try to see what all the fuss was about; and I guess I was about a month too late, as Fr. Kennedy delivered his last service in February; he was forbidden by the Archbishop to conduct any services after that date.

I caught the Greyhound bus on Saturday morning and got to Brisbane about 11. I walked along George St and met Megan for a quick lunch. She took me into a shop where she’d found a long flowing skirt that she thought would be perfect for me to wear to her 21st. We jammed into a cubicle together and tried on clothes, elbowing and jabbing each other in the process. Megan said when you look at us side by side in a mirror you would be hard pressed to think that we’re mother and daughter. We laughed a lot and took photos but the flash is too reflective in the mirror to post any. I ended up buying the skirt and a furry, felty studded vest that looks like a dead animal. Perfect for a Cowboys and Indians theme. Then we went to my favourite shop, The Tree of Life, Rebel and DJ’s to buy a pair of jeans for Meg. After hours of tramping around I left Megan with all the parcels and my knapsack at the ferry terminal and she caught the citycat home. I went to find the church.

I walked across the Victoria Bridge and saw the poster for "Buddy" - Drew and I have tickets for the May 10 matinee.

Then up to Rydges, got directions, then walked to St Mary’s. I just wanted to find where it was. I came across the Parish House first; there were three people there tidying up the garden and cleaning the concrete wall with a gurney. The Friends of St Mary’s gather there every Sunday morning and tend the fruit trees in the garden. I was invited to go there in the morning. I was a bit surprised at the church building itself. I felt it was a bit neglected; it could have done with some maintenance but I guess that’s been the least of their concerns since all the turmoil started. I wanted to go in but the doors were closed.

I left there and walked back to Southbank and sat under the Big Eye for a while, watching it go around.

Then I wandered down to the terminal and caught the citycat back to Megan’s. She met me downstairs and we drove to Mary Ryan’s for coffee and sat on one of the couches, reading through a patty cake cookbook until 6pm. Back at her unit we went over the design for her 21st invite; then went to have dinner. After that we drove to Bulimba to Riverbend Books and spent half an hour there, browsing. On the way home we swung by The Avid Reader bookshop at West End, just to see where it was; and it’s not far from St Mary’s so we checked out a parking spot for tomorrow. After showering at home and setting the agenda for the morning, we fell into bed.

I woke at 5am as I always do. We set off for the church and quickly found a parking space. I put $1 in the meter; as soon as the meter gobbled my coin, a man told us that you don’t need to feed them on weekends. We were way too early so we just walked and wandered and walked some more, talking and laughing as we went. We found a funky little café called Palador Fumior Salon, "a must for lovers of Cuban coffee, culture and cigars": I also found the doll hospital where, 28 years ago, my friend Kerry and I took my black and white, dilapidated panda bear to have him fixed – but the man wanted to cut his outer fur off and put new stuffing in him – but he wouldn’t have been the same bear then would he, so I took him back and we left the shop. I was 19 at the time and so was the bear – my grandparents gave him to me the Christmas after I was born (I was 3 months old by then). He’d been with me through many troubled times and had even had some trials of his own, especially at the hands of my two brothers. They would steal him and leave ransom notes; I often found him hanging from a noose on the clothesline. My great grandmother had tried numerous times to patch him. I still have him in his original condition; original eyes; original foam body and even a little of the original fur still somehow holds him together. He’ll soon be an heirloom if he’s not already.

After walking the block we came back to the front of the church and the doors were open; people were entering so we followed. We were 40 minutes early. We were warmly greeted and handed a service sheet; I bought a publication called “St Mary’s Matters”. We picked our seats. The sun shone through a high window directly onto us. A beam of light perhaps? Three singers and the accompanist practiced. More and more people kept arriving, greeting each other with hugs and kisses and joy and laughter; and the church was suddenly full. The pews don’t face the front in neat, organised rows as in a traditional church setting; they are arranged around the edge of the open space, three deep, facing inwards. A microphone and lectern stood at the bottom of the altar steps. There were a couple of pews on the altar. A team from Compass were there to film the service and record the faces (and stories) of the people of St Mary’s. Bob and Dorothy sat next to us; they have been coming to St Mary’s for 16 years; neither of them are Catholic. I asked them if they were following Fr Kennedy when he moves the church 2 doors down; ‘of course’, he said – ‘it’s not about the building, it’s about the spirit’. He said it was ‘dreadful what the church was doing to Fr Peter; it was very bad’. People had come and gathered evidence by stealth to use against the priest; I asked whom? Is it common knowledge who they were; he said ‘yes, it’s quite common knowledge' – and that 'they’re not exactly Opus Dei but a very similar group’.

People sat cross legged on the floor; kids played; two other children threw a stuffed toy back and forth to each other, high in the air. There was no formality; it was a very relaxed and happy atmosphere. There were several hundred people there, ranging in age from the very young to the very old; some well-dressed, some in shorts and thongs; some barefoot.

The mass started with an acknowledgement to the traditional owners. It wasn’t conducted by Fr Peter; another man opened it; a group of three women read a passionate play; the microphone was offered to the congregation so that they could say a prayer for whoever they felt needed one – 7 or 8 people came up – someone's mother had died, someone’s brother had lost his job, someone’s friend had had a stroke and wasn’t doing so well; it was really quite beautiful; we all linked hands; said the Lords Prayer; Terry conducted the homily from a cedar table in the centre of the room; communion was given and taken from here; a sign of peace was offered warmly and physically, with a handshake; it was all very inclusive, almost intimate. The congregation spoke the Sacrament of the Eucharist, traditionally the role of the priest. Fr Peter only spoke twice – once to acknowledge the teachers in the crowd who might have been afraid of the repercussions to their career if they follow him “down the road”; and again to talk about a book being launched on Thursday night, about the ill treated and forgotten beings of the world. He also spoke about how, in two weeks time, after the final mass at St Mary’s in its’ present form, the congregation would walk down to the TLC Building to familiarise itself with the new building, albeit a temporary one; and how there would be live streaming of the services from there so that anyone, anywhere can listen; he talked about groups forming to meet in parishioners homes and about trying to find a permanent new home for the congregation. He broke down here. It was a very emotional moment. Can you make out the name of the side street in the photo? There were 6 baptisms scheduled for after the service; a loud cheer went up when this was announced. Each baby was held up by a parent and the congregation applauded.

My take on it all – I liked it; I was surprised when it was finished, the time flew - but maybe that's because I was so focussed on trying to take everything in and remember every little detail; it wasn’t so rigid and ritualistic as the other masses I’ve been to; I can see why the disillusioned Catholic who still seeks spirituality might be drawn here; and for someone like me who has no real preconceived ideas of what should and shouldn’t happen in a church, what is acceptable and what’s not, it all seemed legitimate and above board. Of course, there’s much more to it than that but I see it with layman’s eyes, not practiced (or prejudiced) eyes. I could go back. In fact, I’m thinking of going back on the 19th for the last service in the old church, just to be a part of it. Megan’s take on it – “It’s not so preachy”.

St Mary’s Community in Exile is the new name of the old congregation. I hope it works for them. They seem to have something really special happening. I wonder if it can hold together outside the walls of the church building itself. They obviously think so; I hope so. If it can’t, there will be a lot of lost people, searching. This is pretty well where a lot of Catholics are today anyway. At least these people found their place; it would be a shame for them to lose it again.
We left St Mary’s and went to The Avid Reader where I bought a book. Of course I bought a book. Then we went to Toowong to print a draft of the invitation; once proofed, we ordered 150 copies; zipped to Indro to pick up a headdress for Gma to wear to the party, then to Herschel St where Megs dropped me. I walked to the Transit Centre from there and caught the bus home.

I had a very special weekend. I did something for myself, something that I really wanted to do instead of doing what I should do. I wandered around on my own; I sat and watched the people go by. I imagined myself living down there and working in a bookshop – I think I could do it for six months; in fact I think I’d like to do it for six months. Catch the citycat. Work in a bookshop. Live in a unit. Just for six months. Then I’d be ready to come back to the country. Maybe.