Mass with the Sisters

The other night I had Mass with the Sisters (with whom I am staying in Rome) on their Society Feast Day. Their chapel was the simplest I had ever seen, with stark white walls, simple lighting, and eight chairs arranged in a semicircle. The altar was small, but lovingly adorned with flowers, a simple white cloth, and an open Bible. 

The priest, a longtime friend of the Sisters, sat with us, dressed in a simple suit jacket and black slacks. We were a congregation of eight. Sister Patsy read the Gospel with grace and conviction. “I am the vine and you are the branches.” And after a brief reflection by Fr. John, we participated in a sort of communal homily and prayer of the faithful, sharing our own reflections on the Gospel, as well as our hopes and the prayers that it invoked. 

When the time came for Communion, after the Sanctus sung in the Igbo language, we each stepped up directly to the altar. We were facing the congregation, in the exact position of the priest, for just a moment, before picking up a Host directly from the paten, dipping it in the chalice of wine, and consuming it. 

This was a leftover COVID protocol, yet it struck me profoundly. This, I thought, is what it means to have a seat at the table, a phrase that has come up again and again throughout my journey with the Synod. An abstract concept (what table? whose table?) became concrete in that moment, and I understood even more deeply the need for women and those historically excluded, to be granted a place to belong at this table. Not just the metaphorical table of the congregation, but the physical one, the altar.