The young man waiting at the door for guests to arrive ushered us into the village hall. Our elderly priest was rather alarmed by the Bollywood music blasting from the speakers; he wanted to sit by the door, looking for a quick getaway. Half an hour at the most, he said.
This was a new order of Catholicism in our rural Shropshire parish: big screens dominated with images of a paten and chalice, a pulsating Sacred Heart, and the First Communion candidate in her bridal outfit—an incongruous sight to us against the music. We were quickly plied with wine. The men were asked if they would like beer. Spirits? Nothing seemed too much trouble.
Then the evening began: a celebration of the First Communion of one of our Keralan children, a ten-year-old recently arrived in the UK, part of a large community of care workers. To our alarm we were called up on stage to be introduced as the priest and the children’s liturgist, to loud cheering and applause, and were invited to start the party by cutting the cake. Small pieces were to be placed in our mouths by the child. With Anglo-Saxon reserve, the priest extended his hand instead. It was an extraordinary role reversal. Out of his comfort zone, but with great dignity, he blessed the party, and we returned to our seats.
Pieces of the cake were then placed in the mouths of all the guests by the First Communicant, as everyone was invited in turn onto the stage.
Tradition has it that Christianity arrived in India with St Thomas the Apostle in AD 52. This must make it one of the oldest Christian communities in the world, and one which is still thriving—unlike many of the early communities of the Middle East. The Syro-Malabar Church which developed in Kerala has been described as “Indian in culture, Christian in faith, Syriac in liturgy”. In 1887, Leo XIII emancipated the community from a Latin hegemony that had dominated since the arrival of the Portuguese in the 17th century. Since then, it has been an autonomous Eastern Catholic Church. Key differences from the Latin Church—apart from the cake-giving—are the toleration of married priests, the use of intinction, and a recent controversy over the direction faced by the priest during the Eucharistic Prayer, which has caused serious discord. Perhaps Leo XIV will pour oil on these troubled waters.
There is also a particular reverence for Our Lady, which sometimes seems lost in synodal concerns. In our parish, the only difference that has caused any unease is the use of intinction—really because we are unfamiliar with it, rather than because it is doctrinally troubling.
The Keralans who have joined our congregation now fear for their future under Narendra Modi, whose nationalism and support for Hinduism over Islam and Christianity has caused some alarm. Five years ago, I was children’s liturgist at our church in name only. There were two children in the ageing congregation; one was an altar server and the other preferred to sit through Mass with his parents.
Then the Keralans arrived—and a Nigerian family—and more recently, four Zambian children have been baptised here. In this year’s First Holy Communion group, there were nine children, none of them white British. The monthly children’s liturgy group now has 18 regular attendees.
The face of the Catholic Church in the UK must be changing rapidly if these patterns are being repeated across the country. The usual celebration after Mass for new communicants—sandwiches, crisps, balloons and cake, with a glass of wine for the adults—seemed a paltry affair in comparison to the evening party hosted by the Keralans. The hall was full of people of different ethnicities and ages. The girl had invited plenty of non-Catholic classmates, and generous hospitality was offered to all, with delicious curries, dancing, and singing performances from children and adults alike. Sartorial choices ranged from miniskirts to saris, and the music was eclectic—from psalms sung in Syriac to “Sweet Caroline”.
At Mass that morning, the priest had spoken directly to the candidates. He reminded them of the Last Supper, and told them that they were about to become part of a long and deep tradition of receiving the love of God inside themselves, in the form of bread and wine—and that from that moment, God would be manifest in each of them.
Cultures and tastes in food, fashion, and music come and go, as people move freely across the globe. But this belief is the centre that holds. The reading for the Mass had been from Revelation, and it almost felt as though St John’s vision had come to pass: “There before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands.”
