From the Heart of the Shepherd

From the bulletin for The Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (2025 July 27)

The Eschatological Adventure, Part 11: “After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth…”

Far from the shadow of the WorldSpire–indeed, at the end of the earth–bells were ringing, calling those within earshot to Mass. No matter that the Sacrifice had not been offered for over three years now–neither for this local community nor, as far as they were aware, anywhere in the world. The chimes were a summons to another Liturgy, the elders in Jolianna’s parish had said, the Heavenly one, in which they hoped soon to partake. 

Jolianna was just finishing her chores in the kitchen. Hearing the bells, she promptly renounced the task at hand and turned off the faucet. “Draw me after You, Good Jesus, and let us make haste,” she prayed in a whisper with the words of the Song of Songs, ”And bring these feet of mine, O King, into your chamber.” Entrusting to the angels the vegetables she had been washing there in the sink, she reached for a towel to dry her hands. Then, walking briskly to the door, she snatched up her parka that hung by the entrance and threw it on as she went out, bracing for the cold. 

The long corridor that connected the wing for unmarried women to the chapel was not heated, but it was protected from the elements. Through the windows that lined the passage, Jolianna could just make out the features of the bleak landscape outside. The timid Antarctic sun had yet to rise–it wouldn’t for several hours–but a faint glow emanated from beyond the northern horizon. Towards the south, only darkness. 

There would be no Mass, but those who could gathered all the same. Nor would Holy Communion be offered. They would feed on the Word, and then adoration. Even if a believing priest could be found alive, celebrating the Mass would have been impossible. Wheat bread, like all gluten-containing products, had been classified a controlled substance by the Ministry of Science, and its cultivation and possession was now a hate crime, in deference to the vast majority of the population that was deathly allergic to it. And though the community here lived in relative isolation from the WorldCompact and its formidable police force, they were hardly free of their influence.  

Fortunately, however, the Eucharist remained in their midst, at least in Jolianna’s parish, in the form of the Blood. A cast of wine had been consecrated by the last priest to visit the parish, years ago now. Its precious contents were allowed to flow only for First Communions and viaticum, as it was not known how long the present circumstances would endure. Meanwhile, the faithful would have to content themselves adoring the Blood of Christ from a distance and making acts of spiritual communion with as much fervor as they could. “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for the Righteous One,” the elders liked to remind them, “for they shall be satisfied, when the Day dawns.” 

Jolianna was hungry in both body and soul that morning, and these words came to mind as she moistened the fingers of her right hand on the Holy Water sponge as she entered the parish church, dedicated to the 28th century martyr, St. Tultan the Iowan.   

As she found her place in the bare octagonal nave, the chanting had already begun, but yet not the liturgy proper. She fell to her knees before the Ark of the Blood and exercised a profound awareness of the Presence. A moment later, the bells ceased to ring, and she stood with the others as the liturgy began. The presiding elder intoned the first verse of the antiphon, with the rest of the men joining in and the women rejoining in alternate verses:

The Spirit and the bride say, “Come!” / And let the one who hears say, “Come!” / Let the one who is thirsty come! / And let the one who wishes take the free gift of the water of life. / He who testifies to these things says, “Yes, I am coming soon.” / Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. Alleluia. 

In that Year of Our Lord 3032, there were, in fact, about one hundred and fifty such “parishes” hidden throughout the harsh climates of the world, each offering its own version of this liturgy in its turn. The size of each varied considerably, but all told (the angels, of course, had them numbered) there were 144,023 Catholics left in the Church militant. 

And their foreheads bore the seal of the living God, though they hardly could have guessed it.

From the Heart of the Shepherd: The Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time