One of the best parts about travelling abroad is the chance encounter with a stranger, or the unexpected happening not on the itinerary. On a summer’s day in Tokyo many years ago I wandered alone into an elaborate Shinto ceremony at an outdoor shrine attended by many dignitaries; it remains a cherished memory, the elaborate rituals of the ministers and grave solemnity of the attendees, my view into something no other foreigner saw that day. On this French pilgrimage something reciprocal happened Wednesday morning, June 15th, two days after finishing the march with a triumphal Mass in the cathedral. I was in the village, coming back from drying laundry, the laverie having opened automatically with a click of the lock at seven. Fifty minutes later, while winding through empty streets with a duffle bag stuffed with warm clothes I passed a solitary young Japanese man, holding a guidebook and looking around. He was tall and thin and decently dressed and normally I would have greeted him but I was in a hurry. I soon arrived at the gate outside the crypt door and stood around with the rest of our group waiting for someone to lead us down for 8am Mass. I noticed the young man not far away eyeing us; he must have followed me. I approached and he asked in halting French and then English why we were assembled. I told him “Pour la Sainte Messe … For Holy Mass” but that drew a blank so I invited him to attend with us to find out. We made our way down the dark stairs, past the side chapels, to the main altar area in the hall of the crypt, where the frescoes are fragmented and faded and much older than the church above. During Mass I helped him follow. He seemed to know this was something special and was reverent throughout. He followed the missal easily, better than one of my sons would have. (They were probably sleeping still at the hotel.) He did not seem bored at all but watched the action at the altar closely. Being there with him let me see the old rite with new eyes, taking note of the deep bowing by the priest and server, so consonant with his culture. He even knelt quietly on the cold stone floor, staying in place while the rest of us went for Communion. Afterwards he thanked me sincerely, smiling. Obviously not the usual sort of tourist activity for him, something to write home about. On the way out I told him, “ Voila la Sainte Messe. This was what this entire cathedral was built for, the Holy Sacrifice.” Not many tourists get to see that side of Chartres cathedral and as he walked away I gave thanks to Our Lady for having met the fellow, paying back a debt incurred when the Japanese let this gaijin hang around a shrine in Tokyo.
Austin Welsh MD
