Catholic Ireland's tradition of the Station Mass, a rural farm's incredible 1960s prep

The Station Mass, a deeply rooted Irish Catholic tradition, carries with it a history of resilience and faith. Originating during the Penal Laws when priests risked their lives to celebrate Mass in secret, this cherished custom evolved into a rural community event held in family homes. For one family in the 1960s, hosting the Station Mass meant more than fulfilling a religious duty—it was a labor of love, a source of pride, and a test of their social standing. 

The tradition of the ‘’Station Mass’’  dates back to a time when the Penal Laws were in effect in Ireland.  Catholic priests had a bounty on their heads if they were caught celebrating Mass. The priests and faithful risked their lives by having Mass in secret wooded areas, changing the locations (stations) so as to stay ahead of ‘’priest hunters’’. With the repeal of the Penal Laws, Mass was celebrated in houses. The tradition continued through the centuries. 

I remember back to the Stations we had in our house in the '60s. Our catechism taught us that at the consecration of the Mass, Jesus was ‘’really, truly and substantially present” at the Mass. We were in awe of the honor of this taking place in our house. We believed that the blessings that would come from this would be many.

The social pressure for ‘’doing the Stations right’’ cannot be underestimated. For our Station Mass we would not be outdone. To this end, we whitewashed all the outhouses. The farmyard dung pile was tamped down with many cartloads of sand. It took many cartloads of gravel spread over the barnyard to cover potholes. Sand and gravel was laboriously sourced from the beach nearby.

In the meantime, inside the house, the women had scrubbed and cleaned every corner. The white linen tablecloths and alter cloths, strictly reserved for the Stations, and only saw the light of day every five years were washed and starched. 

The kitchen table, which would become the priest's altar was posing a problem. My father was the measuring stick for being roughly the height of the priest. By unanimous vote, the table was thought to be too low for any respectable altar to look. The priest could not be expected to bend low to retrieve his sacred vessels. A few neighbor men ‘’with good sense’’ were called in to see if they could come up with a solution.

Hoisting the table onto chairs did not solve the problem. Now the altar was too high. After much head scratching and cups of tea one man declared that a few inches sawed off the table legs and once resting on the chairs would make the ‘’altar’’ close to regulation size. The handsaw was brought out and after much botched sawing and finger measuring it was declared ‘’close enough’’. It was a quick solution to a vexing problem. 

The food for the Station mass was the next important issue. Certain protocols had to be adhered to and may as well have been written in stone. Butter had to be turned into butterballs.

The day before the Stations a woman known to be a skilled butterball maker arrived at our house full of importance and produced her butter paddles. My mother produced a mound of butter and the woman turned it into a mound of butterballs. The paddles had tiny ridges so each butterball had ridges. So much better than the plain ones seen at other Stations.

Sugar for the priests tea had to be sugar cubes in a bowl with sugar tongs. Brown sugar was a must for the priest's porridge (oatmeal) all items hard to find in a rural village in the 60s.

The most difficult to procure though was a grapefruit, something any respectable Station table could not be without. Mercifully one woman had occasion to go to a town far away and returned with the goods. We could all exhale. 

Now, a no less important job was to figure out the placement at the priest's breakfast table. It was generally considered that it should be ‘’those who could best talk to a priest’’.

The Ecclesiastical table sat six. There was much jockeying for these positions as it established one's standing in the village. ‘’Wrong’’ placements caused much bad feeling for a long time to come.

In the case of our Station Mass some of these positions were already taken. The woman who made the butterballs was rightfully assured of her place at the table. For the woman who tracked down the sugar cubes, brown sugar and possibly the only grapefruit in the county it was no contest. For the man of the house, it was an honorary position. That left two coveted openings to the discretion of the woman of the house.

Two women who had walked in from the mountains in the morning were chosen by my mother. It was a not-too-subtle message from her to bring low those who thought they were best qualified to talk to a priest. Yes, even in this poor rural village there was a pecking order. 

The morning of the Stations arrived and  Mass was celebrated at the cobbled-together kitchen table/ altar. The neighbors marveled at its great height and some could not resist taking a peek under the altar cloths to see how this was achieved. Breakfast was then served to the priest along with his band of diverse diners. 

When the priest departed, the Stations were officially over.  The neighbor men went home to milk the cows and feed the chickens. The women stayed on for breakfast and gossip and to do a postmortem on the "Station Mass". 

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