Religion, French style  ·  2002-12-26

The Eglise Saint Sulpice, which from the outside looks like a cross between Notre Dame and the Parthenon, is impressively cavernous in the feeble candle-light of midnight mass. I and my fellow mass-goers are successfully awed like countless before us. In 2002 however, it seems the awe quickly wears off.

To the strains of the opening organ recital, there is much chattering and giggling and general fin d’année merriment. This only partially subsides during the service itself, which consists of more pieces of organ music interspersed with a series of monotonously delivered readings which might or might not be in Latin. By my careful calculations, no more than 10.4% of the assembled flock are paying enough attention to judge. Shopping bags are rummaged through, mobiles are shamelessly checked for new messages, conversations are pursued in a whisper. The three presiding multi-ethnic priests are fighting a losing battle – this congregation is burdened by more weighty considerations than religion.

The atmosphere only finally stiffens with communion. At this most absurd juncture of the Catholic ritual, the devout suddenly get serious. Queues form solemnly and silently. The process of feeding and watering takes a small eternity, but people stay patient. Perhaps it’s because they’re on the home straight now.

With the serious business over, the organ pipes up again for a closing blast. The music meanders around in a way that makes one wonder if it has been written down. The happy church-goers filing out don’t look as though they are listening.

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