St Mary's South Brisbane was so packed out, I was up in the loft with the cameramen and tourists. I asked the man beside me where he usually sat, assuming that like me he was displaced from his nest by the swarming crowd below. He was visiting from NZ and remarked that there was no visible priest. I advised him to read the story online as the last thing I wanted to do was give a history lesson to a rubberneck or engage a temple spy in small talk about the validity of medieval frocks on priests. I wasn't feeling very inclusive today.
Princess and Angel escaped from the crowds and decorated the tree beside the hostel for homeless men, using old newsletters from the skip beside the sacrestry, already overflowing with the detritus of impending exile. These children have a clarity of purpose and poetic licence that manifests thier connection to this place in ways adults would baulk at yet recognise.
Next week is the last Mass for this community in this beautiful church. I am reflecting on morphic resonance and the accumulation of hopes and prayers that have saturated these walls. I am finding it hard to detatch from the location. This is indeed a sacred site. It is not about following Father Kennedy, rather following a relevant and inspiring model of a catholic community. I don't know if it is possible for me to go down the road to the Trades and Labour Council hall. I know, I know...It is not WHERE we gather but WHY that is important.
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