Scottish Catholic Observer

As a compulsive people-watcher, it’s often struck me that you can tell a lot about a Catholic if you find out what time they go to Mass on a Sunday. Of course, in many rural places, any Mass at all is a blessing, but for those of us in the central belt or the cities we generally have a choice about when to attend Church on the Sabbath. And generally we plump for one of four options: Saturday Vigil, early Sunday, prime Sunday and late Sunday. And despite having that choice every week we are creatures of habit, so you see the same faces at the same Mass week in, week out.

Of course, any Mass is a good Mass, and in these days of declining attendance hats off to everyone who still makes that weekly commitment, but it’s intriguing to see how people make entirely different choices—allowing us to chisel out a few revealing observations about why different people favour different times.

Let me start with a confession—I’ve never cared for a Vigil Mass. It’s purely personal and irrational, but there we are. Of course, they’re a vital boon for people who have worked through the weekend in our seven-day society, or if you’re travelling on Sunday. Those are both situations in which I’ve taken advantage of a Vigil and been glad of it. And when I do I can’t help but notice there’s always a slight giddiness at a Vigil, a wee bit of Saturday night glee that is refreshing, if you’re not used to it.

Yet as an every week habit it strikes me as a touch sneaky, fulfilling your obligations ahead of schedule, like a teacher’s pet of a student.

There is an obvious difference between Saturday and Sunday: a day of action and a day of reflection and prayer. After the working week, Saturday is a day to celebrate, and Sunday a day of rest, in which context the Mass sits much better than in the later.

But perhaps this is down to a degree of envy on my part, as being organised enough to know the decks need cleared on a Sunday and therefore that a Vigil would be a wiser choice is a level of efficiency I’ve never been able to achieve.

Indeed, part of the reason I currently favour an early Mass on a Sunday is that it lets me pretend I’m more organised than is the case. In truth this has been forced on me by family life—the ‘early’ Mass doesn’t seem so early when you’ve been up since six with a toddler.

Still, I’ve come to the view that there’s a tremendous amount to be said for starting Sunday at church. The early crispness of the morning greeting you as you stride up the steps, the nod of acknowledgment from your fellow ‘earlier’ that’s there’s no lazing about for you! And a good blast of moral clarity and spiritual rejuvenation does really set you up for the day. Although looking around at my fellow early birds, perhaps we do share a slight sense of self-satisfaction.

Still, I’m sure in time, I’ll graduate to the main event. The Sunday prime around 11am, usually the best attended, biggest Mass of the week, the best music, with the most happening: lots of kids, loads of families, the natural choice, the default setting.

This you feel, is where the ‘people’ people congregate, where the social aspect of Faith is in full effect, where we find the people who like people and where the presence of children mean it’s usually the most joyful.

Despite approving of all these things, I’ve never felt fully at ease at one of these, for reasons I can’t quite pin down. Some hipster sense of not wanting to do the obvious, or perhaps my slightly ungracious dislike of lengthy queues struggling with the business.

Certainly I reserve my true affection for the Sunday late. A ‘Sinners Mass’ my gran used to call it, and I’ve always liked it just for that reason. Despite the hour there’s always a rushed air to the congregation, running in from somewhere, a late choice after shaking off a series of bad ones. Generally, this happens around tea time, although St Aloysius’ in Glasgow has one at 9pm, which I was once told was the last Sunday Mass in Western Europe — the Jesuits being no strangers to a bit of last-minute redemption.

Perhaps it’s a favourite because it feels like the Mass for those who need it more, for the lost sheep, for prodigal sons and daughters. Certainly that’s how I’ve stumbled in more than once, and in its sheepish, uncertain air, found peace.