Messe Mit Monchs:

In which we celebrate Morning Mass with a group of Capuchin Monks

                It was our last morning in Salzburg, and there was something I really wanted to do before we left.  While on the Kaputzinerberg two days before, I'd noticed that the Monastery had their church service schedule posted for every day of the week, and thought it would be a very neat experience to attend one.  The only problem was, during the week the service was held at 7:30 a.m.  There was only one thing to do... 

              I kicked Isabella and Anneliese out of bed at about 6:45, and we were dressed and had climbed up the hill to the monastery by 7:25.  They were interested in going, but not so excited about the hour, and a little nervous that we'd be the only people in attendance.  ("Well, if there are two or three other people there, I'll be happy," I'd told them reassuringly the night before").  No one was in sight when we reached the church.  We waited outside for a few minutes, unsure if we should go in or if it was even open.  The door was open, though, and at about two minutes ‘till, we went inside.  The vaulted white church was empty and still, and the ironwork gate into the nave locked, though occasionally faint rustling came from the direction of the altar.  We decided to sit down on the wooden chairs in front of the gate and wait to see what would happen.   

                At about a minute before the Mass was due to start at 7:30, there was a slight sound, and a young monk wearing a crisp brown robe opened a door in the wall of the Maria chapel to our left.  He whispered something which I didn’t catch.  “Hmm??”  “Messe?” [“Mass?’] he whispered, cupping his hands to his mouth.  “Ja,” I said, and he held the door open wider and gestured us to come.  In awe of the privilege of being let into the monastery, but also in a trepidation verging on fear, we wordlessly followed him down a short, brown-tiled passage along a courtyard, through a door on our right, and into a small, private chapel hidden behind the altar of the church.  He gestured for us to sit down on the padded bench nearest to the door, and then crossed to the other side—we sunk to it with almost shaking knees, stealing glimpses upwards to see three other monks, one younger, two older, sitting quietly against the wooden paneled benches praying.  We sat in silence, terrified that our unfed stomachs would grumble or that we would breathe too loudly.  Another older monk, wearing a white collar and glasses came in the door, and gave us a questioning, but not really unwelcoming, look. 

       A few minutes later, a tall priest with glasses, wearing a white vestment over his brown monastic robes came in, and we stood and began the service.  The richness of the hymn singing, the sound and sincerity of the chant, was amazing.  At first I couldn’t even recognize the hymn as the page I had in front of me, and only joined in on the last verse, but it was a beautiful  sound.  All the prayers, readings (Amos and Isaiah, about the worthlessness of insincere offerings; Matthew, about the driving out of the demons into the pigs), and hymns were in German.   I started whisper-translating the readings, but Isabella quickly and very shortly breathed, “Don’t translate!” out of fear that they would hear.

                 Then it came time for Holy Communion.  Isabella couldn’t go, because of the gluten, and I couldn’t remember the word for blessing, otherwise I would have explained and asked it for her, but she told us to go ahead, although she whispered “They’re going to think I’m a horrible person!”  She stayed seated, but the rest of us stood in a loose circle around the altar, said the Lord’s prayer (in English, for Anneliese and I), and passed the peace (“Danke,” said Anneliese in response, I whispered “Peace be with you.”)  Then they passed out the bread, and brought the cup to each to drink.  Afterwards we went back to our seats, prayed, and sang another hymn.  The priest ended with something like, “Des Friedens Gottes sei mit dir.” “Und mit deinen Geist,” we answered, and the priest quietly exited.  We waited a moment while they went to the door, and hesitated uncertain as to whether we should follow.  Through a complicate sequence of looks, the monk in charge of the novices signaled the young monk to signal us to follow him, so we did, down the passage, and to the door into the church.  We said a quiet “Thank you,” in German, and stepped through into the church, and then out of the church into the morning sun.    

(This is the main church at the Monastery; the Chapel is behind the Altarpiece.)

Cemetary at St. Sebastian's

       After the service we swung by St. Sebastian's to pick up our luggage, explored their famous Friedhof ("Cemetary" where Mozart's wife and father are buried) for half an hour, trudged to the train station, and caught a train back to Munchen.  From there we rode the S-Bahn to Ottobrunn, repacked our luggage to include all the stuff we'd left there, and said goodbye to our Cousins Klaus and Heidemarie before taking yet another train to our friend Conny's house in Tutzing, by the Stanberger See.  

           Bis bald!  Johanna (and Anneliese and Isabella)