A far cry from the stately cathedrals and roomy sanctuaries that I frequented during my adolescent flirtation with the priesthood, our multidenominational ship's chapel is a stark, square room, not even as spacious as the living room in our Navy house in Japan. This evening slightly more than twenty seafaring "mackerel snappers" fill the room to celebrate the anniversary of the Last Supper, the first event of the Easter Triduum.
I field a phone call from the ship's doc just before Mass, but still arrive on time as I travel less that 800 feet of passageway from my portside forward stateroom to the chapel all the way aft on the same deck. The little room fills up with a motley crew of worshippers this evening. Everyone came from some important activity supporting our national maritime strategy here in the Western Pacific; variably dressed in dark blue coveralls, working khakis, the new "aquaflage" Navy working uniform, and one very senior officer in a flight suit. We starkly contrast Father (CAPT) Sal in his flowing white vestments. But we are here. That counts.
Father Sal kindly considers Mass an opportunity to relax and regenerate our spirits from the hectic 24/7 ops tempo on this Flagship. The chairs have kneelers, but their use is optional. So is standing. One is perfectly welcome, encouraged even, to sit throughout the service. I find that very refreshing, and unexpectedly comfortable. Father Sal's calm, soothing voice contributes to that comfort. I wonder if he's ever considered being a hypnotist....
Today we will do things a little differently, says Father, because it is a special celebration. "Maundy" Thursday is not only for celebrating the Eucharist, but also for commemorating Christ's ultimate display of humility and service by washing the feet of his apostles. "As I have done, so you also should do." And so we shall. Responding to the immediate in-unison furrowing of brows, he reassures us that we will not wash each other's feet. We will wash hands instead. The collective sigh of relief conjures up an image of the Holy Spirit descending upon us, but that's a different liturgy on another day. The very senior officer inwardly rejoices that he doesn't have to unlace his flight boots, nor reveal his non-regulation socks to the junior worshippers present.
The Mass begins as usual. The ship's Command Master Chief is barely into the first reading when a 1MC announcement breaks the calm: "Smoke, smoke, smoke. White smoke in compartment ta da da da da da..." No one moves because we know this is just one of the regularly repeated damage control drills that the ship conducts to keep sailors sharp and ready. For the remainder of the service the stacatto voice of the Damage Control Assistant (DCA) periodically intrudes to bark out directions to the entire ship. I secretly wonder (because Peevish is not here to whisper it into my ear) why ship's leadership chose to interrupt the Catholic Holy Thursday celebration vice the Protestant version the hour before. For that matter, why interrupt either?
But we do continue. After Sal's typically succinct yet meaningful homily, we move on to the washing of the feet/hands. We proceed in the random order of our seating, not by rank or position...exactly as Jesus would have had us do if we truly intend to emulate his humble service. Thus the very senior officer in the flight suit has the honor of pouring water onto the hands of a young Ensign. Fumbling with the pitcher's lid, he inadvertantly releases a gush of water that splashes out of the bowl onto her blue coveralls. He smiles sheepishly at her, hands her the towel, and returns quickly to his seat, there to contemplate the subtle effects of aging on one's fine motor coordination.
During the portion of the Eucharistic Prayer where we remember the dead, Father Sal mentions my cousin Rob, who last weekend was murdered on his southern Arizona ranch by an illegal immigrant. Sal is from El Paso and Hispanic. He gets it. His support since my cousin's death has been Christ-like. I am very grateful for that and for his unsolicited prayer for Rob and my family on this very Holy Thursday. Silently I remember Marcia and Jim (who died on another Holy Thursday), and also Vivian and Stuart (who grew up on the ranch where Rob was killed).
Sitting near the back of the room after communion I take note of the number of young women in the worship group...a couple of junior enlisteds and several Ensigns and Lieutenants Junior Grade. All in the twenty- something age range. Yes, I see a few young men too, but we've always had men in the Navy. For sure, women serving on a surface combatant are no longer a naval novelty. But without having the actual data, I opine that the ratio of women to men on this occasion exceeds the Navywide number. The particular optic of these squared away and highly capable young women sailors worshipping in a ship's chapel far from home and loved ones impresses me, and subtly suggests to me that the Navy's future is very bright. (There is a future DCA, XO, or CO in that group.)
I'm reminded of something that a lady friend used to say to me over twenty years ago: "God so loved the world, She didn't send a committee."
Amen to all of that.
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