I must preface that I didn't know Fr. S. very well at all. I had
met him a couple times, but never really chatted with him. My more recent memories of him are within the past year, when he would come to holy mass at Guardian Angels parish, slight and quiet in his long black cassock, bent over in prayer throughout. He was there early and left late. He came on Christmas morning too; I would like to think he enjoyed the Gregorian chants as he taught Latin for many of his 70 years as a priest. My favorite thought, however, is this. Two weeks before he died, the children at our girls' school went to visit the nursing home where he had been staying for awhile. He was the person the children wanted to see most, but he was too weak and tired for visitors, let alone spending time downstairs listening to the songs the children had prepared for the retirees. When preparing to leave, we received word that he was awake and could see some visitors in his room. Rita and three schoolmates, three teachers, and Rita's Latin teacher were able to go visit. Rita recounts the visit as this: They had prepared some Latin recitations and hymns to sing for him. He was frail but happy to see them, and they did their recitations, which he loved. He then gave them an impromptu quiz on their declensions (uh oh!), which they passed, and then they asked him if they might sing for him the Victimae Paschale, the beautiful sequence from the Easter mass. When they started to sing, Fr. S. jumped right in and sang the whole piece with them. Before they left, he gave them his blessing...what a blessing it was. He was such a treasure. You may hear (and sing) the Victimae Paschale Laudes here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aueJzA1uCj0
The girls and I were able to attend his requiem mass on Monday. It was somewhat of a large affair with the Archbishop in attendance, one of the Resurrectionist priests, and several other priests participating, as well as several altar boys and two or three hundred of the faithful. And of course it was his beloved Latin mass. I recalled a letter he had written years ago and want to share it as well...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I began serving the “old Mass” as an altar boy in 1927. I am
now 88 years old, 62 years as a priest. As a lad, knowing the perfect
recitations of all the Latin Mass responses, I dealt with priests of every age
and devotion and I do not recall any who deliberately mumbled their prayers.
The churches were not air-conditioned in those days and in the hot summer days
it was not uncommon to omit the sermon; Low Mass might last for only 20
minutes, and Communions were much fewer in those days. Now with the Novus Ordo,
I have attended Mass in 10 minutes. A possible scandal.
The only scandal I can recall in the old days was people
sleeping during the sermon. Nobody complained about the Eucharistic fast from
midnight; nobody complained about Communion on the tongue or about the Latin.
In fact, we were proud of the Latin we knew. Non-Catholics marveled at the
piety and the reverence of the congregation and the head-coverings of the
women. Those were the glory days of the Church when our Catholic faith was a
family thing, a treasure we prized. Our faith was so much a part of our life
that it colored our moods, shaped our social activities, influenced our style
of dress, and flavored our conversation. How many families can make the same
claim today?
Last Sunday I experienced what perhaps was the greatest joy
of my priesthood. I could scarcely contain myself. Indeed, my cup runneth over.
I celebrated the Tridentine Latin Mass with a congregation of two hundred
people. It was like a repetition of my First Holy Mass 56 years ago. It was a
Missa Cantata — those sacred Gregorian melodies so fitting for worship: the
solemn Trinity Preface, the solemn Pater Noster, the Holy Gospel, and the
Orations.
My daily vernacular Mass has been a joy in my life, but
there was always something about this Tridentine Latin Mass that went beyond
all telling. I’ve found something that I had lost some 35 years ago. All those
years my heart ached for the Latin Mass that I had lost, always hoping that
some day, please God, I would find it. Last Sunday I found it. And like the
widow of the Gospel who found her lost coin and who called in her neighbors to
rejoice with her, now I was the one who wanted to call in the whole world to
share in my joy. It was like being away from home all these years and always
hoping that some day the permission for me would arrive to return home and
share again with my dear ones the joys of long ago. It was home sweet home
again. My joy knows no bounds.
My humble and ineffable thanks to our good Holy Father, Pope
John Paul II, the Good Shepherd who went out looking for all those abandoned
sheep to lead us back home again — to Rome, sweet home.
Would I go back to the new Mass? No way!
Rev. Charles Schoenbaechler, C.R.
Louisville, Kentucky
If anyone ever wonders why I love the Latin mass, Fr. S. describes it here for me.
Here ye him.
Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. +
After the funeral mass last week, I was in the back of the church with the girls, talking quietly with some friends. Angela was also pal-ing with a couple of her friends and I was keeping her in my peripheral to make sure she didn't cause any trouble in the meantime. I had not looked directly at her in a few minutes, and when I did, I observed her saunter over to the gorgeous large Michaelangelo "Pieta" replica statue, which depicts Our Lord in the arms of His Mother following His crucifixion. There was a kneeler in front of the statue. She knelt down slowly and just stared at the statue briefly. She carefully made the sign of the cross and folded her hands. I could see her lips moving. She kept studying the figures. She was kneeling there in front of Jesus; her head was almost up to where his hand was lying there before her. Ever so slowly she stood up and reached over the kneeler and placed her tiny hand in Jesus' hand and she gently caressed his wounds, carefully and sweetly. She must have done this for 30 seconds. I was tearing up; it was something you can't force, you can't teach. And I didn't have my camera to capture it to remember it forever.
