I used to go to Latin Mass at 8.00am at Brompton Oratory, the 'embassy church' for the Catholic London embassies (next to the V&A Museum). Same thing. Half a dozen of us, scattered about the church. Brilliant theological homilies. Then, one Christmas, a sister-in-law asked if she could accompany me to Midnight Mass, so off we went.
To say the place had changed is an understatement. A choir singing some Mozart piece. OK. Red carpet? Red carpet, for the love of mike, down to the kerb, where a succession of embassy limousines were pulling up to disgorge the great and the good in all their glittering finery. Standing room only inside. It's the closest I've come to a 'cleaning the temple' moment! I mean, He's there in the crib and the narrative, straw manger, with the animals, etc., and they get a red carpet?
A bit of humility, puh-leeze! Is that asking too much? A sense of occasion?
There's the story of the funerals of the Princes, I believe, of the Hapsburg Austro-Hungarian persuasion, in the days when they ran a fair portion of Europe. The coffin is carried to the doors of the cathedral, which are shut. Someone hammers on the door, which opens, just. "Who goes?"
"Prince Frederick Whoever-whoever, Emperor of ... etc., etc. (A long list of titles)
"We know him not." The door slams shut. More hammering. The process is repeated. More second-tier titles. The door is slammed again. Third time lucky.
"Who goes?"
"Frederick. A servant of God."
"Enter."
That, is class.
To say the place had changed is an understatement. A choir singing some Mozart piece. OK. Red carpet? Red carpet, for the love of mike, down to the kerb, where a succession of embassy limousines were pulling up to disgorge the great and the good in all their glittering finery. Standing room only inside. It's the closest I've come to a 'cleaning the temple' moment! I mean, He's there in the crib and the narrative, straw manger, with the animals, etc., and they get a red carpet?
A bit of humility, puh-leeze! Is that asking too much? A sense of occasion?
There's the story of the funerals of the Princes, I believe, of the Hapsburg Austro-Hungarian persuasion, in the days when they ran a fair portion of Europe. The coffin is carried to the doors of the cathedral, which are shut. Someone hammers on the door, which opens, just. "Who goes?"
"Prince Frederick Whoever-whoever, Emperor of ... etc., etc. (A long list of titles)
"We know him not." The door slams shut. More hammering. The process is repeated. More second-tier titles. The door is slammed again. Third time lucky.
"Who goes?"
"Frederick. A servant of God."
"Enter."
That, is class.