April 2006

Parish History Episode 60 Rector Gillow's Mass

In Rector Gillow’s time, from 1470 to 1483, a church had stood in the centre of Houghton for three centuries at least, perhaps for much longer. It stood there for one purpose: the celebration of Mass.

This rite, based originally on the words and actions of Jesus, at His Last Supper, on the night before He died, had been at the centre of Christian worship, in all lands, for nearly fifteen hundred years. In Gillow’s time Mass would have been said daily in Houghton Church, as in any other church in Western Christendom, by the parish priest, and by any other priests attached to the church, but it would be only on Sundays that the people of the village would normally have been present to hear Gillow, or one of his curates, speak the Words of Consecration.

In a small country parish the daily Masses would probably have been said, on weekdays, by one priest, assisted by one altar-boy, in an otherwise empty church, but in a large wealthy parish such as Houghton-le-Spring, there would normally be several priests, each of them needing to say Mass every day.

It has been computed that there were about forty thousand “secular” clergy in mediaeval England, in addition to about seventeen thousand “regulars” (monks, canons and friars). The number of seculars then was well over twice that of the clergy in the present-day Church of England, and today’s clergy serve a much greater population through many more parishes. Why were there so many priests then? And what did they do with all their time?

A few would not normally be seen in the parish church. These would include the priests in charge of chapels-at-ease, though probably that at West Herrington, the last survivor of those which had stood in outlying parts of the parish in 1300, had been abandoned before Rector Gillow came to Houghton. Other priests would be in residence in the castles or houses of those gentry who employed a private chaplain to say Mass in a private chapel. But quite a number would be employed, for little more than their keep, around the Rectory and the Church. Although each priest was expected to say Mass daily, he did not say it completely alone. He would be assisted by another priest or by an altar-boy. These altar-boys would normally live at the Rectory, and would be working as indoor or outdoor servants for the Rector, while at the same time they learned to read and write, in Latin and in English, and were training to become priests when they grew older. The surplus priests to be met with around the church were, in a sense, those altar-boys of a previous generation who had persevered in their studies, and who had gone on to receive Holy Orders, but had not been fortunate enough to obtain a benefice of their own.

Such assistant curates would, like the altar-boys, assist the Rector in working his glebe-land, and would be fed and lodged at the Rectory. In church, they would say Mass daily, and would also undertake many duties which would, after the Reformation, fall to the laity: they would act as parish clerk, sexton, verger, musician (if there was any music!), and bell-ringer. They would probably not be paid for any of these duties, however, and would work for their “keep” alone. Such cash as they might possess in their purses would probably have come from the saying of private Masses, with “intentions” for named persons, usually recently deceased persons, a relative of the deceased having paid the priest to say a Mass for the departed. The priest might, if he were lucky, obtain a fee from more than one person, for the saying of one Mass, but, being even more aware than laymen of the inevitability of Judgment, he would be unlikely to be so dishonest as to omit prayers for the souls of those whom he was paid to commemorate.

Such “Mass-priests” were despised by the scholars in the universities (who were usually monks or friars), and were frequently depicted as being all but illiterate, knowing the words of the Mass by heart, but nor understanding them. On the other hand, they seem to have been popular with the laity. Chaucer and Langland, the two leading poets of mediaeval England, both made mock of the “regular clergy”, the monks and friars, while at the same time showing an almost sentimental affection for the “seculars”, such as Chaucer’s “Poore Parson who would not cursen for his tithes”.

Such priests therefore seem to have performed their pastoral duties well enough, and they were also probably efficient enough in pronouncing the words of the Mass. But when it came to music, they do not appear to have achieved very much. At this time, cathedrals and monasteries possessed choirs, and in such establishments the singing of the Mass was often a very elaborate affair, with polyphonic singing, motets and anthems being added on to the core of the Liturgy, and with an organ accompaniment. But such refinements were almost unknown in parish churches. If Houghton had ever become a collegiate church (as had been proposed a century earlier), served by a body of a dozen or so senior priests, some development of church music might have taken place here, but as it was, the nearest approach to music to be heard in Houghton at the Mass was probably the sound of Rector Gillow and his curates intoning the versicles and responses.

One tradition, however, which was beginning in Gillow’s time, was that of campanology. For centuries, bells had been hung in Christian churches. They had been rung to summon people to church, for the Mass or for other reasons. They also sometimes informed the people of the times for private prayer. In major churches also, elaborate peals of bells might be rung for weddings, for funerals, or for victories in battle - peals which expressed emotions of joy, sorrow or triumph. But little of this would be known in a village like Houghton. One of the assistant curates would probably just jangle the bell, in order to summon the people to Mass.

The new fashion for churches, “perpendicular” in style, which arose in England (chiefly in the Southern counties) during the Fifteenth Century, did however see the building or rebuilding of many churches, most of which were provided with high, soaring towers. These towers served no military purpose, but they were excellent places to hang bells, and soon many parish churches were equipped with rings of bells, and this led to the formation of teams of bellringers, who learned to “ring the changes”, and to flood the village with appropriate melody when required.

Perhaps the art had not yet reached Houghton in Gillow’s time, but soon we would possess as good a set of bells as any other parish church in the area.

This art of campanology was an English speciality. Even in the lands of our nearest neighbours - the French, the Dutch, the Scots and the Welsh - church bells tended to serve a purely utilitarian purpose, and changes were very rarely rung. But the English countryside has, for the last five hundred years, resounded every Sunday with the welcoming chimes of bells.

It was well that so much effort was put into the art of campanology, as there was very little other music in connection with church services in those days, and the congregation at the Mass do not seem to have been very deeply involved in the rituals they witnessed. They would probably be kneeling in their pews in the centre of the nave, saying their own prayers (if not thinking of more world matters), and only vaguely aware of the murmur of the Mass, as the priest read on and on from his Latin books. If it were a dark winter day, the worshipper, even if in possession of a Latin missal, would not be able to follow the service, for, as in a modern cinema, there would be no lights, except for the candles grouped around the altar, and carried to the lectern when the lesson was to be read.

It was presumed that the eyes of the audience, or rather the congregation, straining in the gloom, would be directed towards the screen (not the cinema screen, of course, but the rood-screen, behind which the Drama of the Mass would be taking place). On most Sundays, none of the laity would take Communion, nor even say the responses to the Mass, and they would appear, to an outside observer, to be merely an audience, such as that which might be present on another occasion to see and hear a mystery play.

But this audience was not even, for the most part, watching and listening. It was assumed that they would be busy with their own devotions, and that it was necessary to attract their attention at the moment of Consecration (the moment when it was believed that the change from bread and wine to Body and Blood took place); and in order to make them aware of the momentous action taking place, an altar-boy would ring a handbell immediately the Words of Consecration were spoken, and the priest would elevate the newly-consecrated Host, so that all might see and adore.

This had been the custom since the Eleventh Century, and this practice had given a new emphasis to the Mass. The climax was no longer the Communion of the people, but Consecration; and Consecration for its own sake, so to speak, or at least Consecration as a means of creating merit for mankind.

These developments were producing a change of attitude in the laity, who were coming to see their church as a place for the adoration of that which was very sacred, but which was not readily understandable. They no longer participated meaningfully in church services, but rather bowed, curtseyed, genuflected and crossed themselves and lit candles in front of the images of their favourite saints, in ways that they had been taught, and said private prayers for their own intentions, but (except for the moment of Adoration at the time of the Consecration) they bothered themselves very little about what the professionals were doing behind the rood-screen.

They, or most of them, came to church to hear Mass on Sundays. In the towns, many of them came for other services as well. William Langland wrote, in “Piers Plowman”, that a man’s duty was

Upon Sonedayes to cease,
Godes servyce to hear
Both matyns and messe,
and after mete in churches
To hear their evesong,
every man ouhte.

“Every man ought”, and in towns some did, but few in the countryside attended any services other than the Mass; and only once a year would they take Communion. On Easter Eve they would come to confess their sins and to receive absolution, and then, on Easter morning, they would hear Mass and receive Communion.

There were also occasional services, chiefly “rites of passage” - Baptisms, Weddings, “Churchings”, Funerals - which were well attended. Such services mostly began in the church porch: where the souls of babies were exorcised before they were brought to the font; where the bride and groom made their confession, before making their vows at the altar; where the woman delivered of a child gave thanks, and was “purified”, before receiving Communion at the altar rails; and where prayers were said over the coffin, before it was brought into the church.

Prayers would also be said the day before a funeral, in the home of the deceased, and there would be a further service of committal in the churchyard, when the shrouded body of the deceased would be taken out of the coffin (which would be re·used), and would be lowered into the waiting grave.

Finally, on the evening of a wedding day, the priest would go to the home of the newlyweds (no “honeymoons” in those days), to bless the new home, to pray that the marriage prove fruitful, and, no doubt, to share in the wedding feast.

For centuries, this had been the way it was. There were no dissenters, at least none in public. A few “village atheists” might mock at the Church’s teaching, but only behind the priest’s back. While educated men like Chaucer were grateful for the ministries of many poor parsons, the average peasant probably took a more equivocal attitude to Rector Gillow: they took advantage of his ministry, but still resented the way that the Church seemed to require money (which could be more usefully spent on beer) in order to function.

Had the teaching of Gillow and his predecessors improved the moral and ethical standards of the people? Perhaps. Possibly, fourteen hundred years of Christian teaching had inculcated in the peasantry higher standards of personal morality than were to be met with in lands where Moslem or Hindu or Buddhist teachings prevailed. But kings and nobles - and, come to that, the princes of the Church - do not seem to have absorbed these high standards as well as “the man in the pew”.

And when, in the following century, European adventurers were to burst out into the world-beyond-Europe, they would appear as bloodthirsty and unprincipled freebooters. For that matter, even in Rector Gillow’s time,
Portuguese mariners had begun enslaving people in West Africa.

Dick Toy

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