What does “Fever Pitch” (film, 1997) teach us about liturgy?
To be honest, this post has been churning in my head for twelve
months. The title has gone from “What
does the Football World Cup teach us…” to “What does the [rugby] Six Nations...”
to “What does the Cricket World Cup….”
All of these sporting events are festivals; a celebration of their sports. Assiduous preparations are made, invitations are sent out (though these invitations require credit card numbers) and the whole thing is eagerly anticipated. Some of the greatest stars of their realm are assembled from all over the world and a wondrous drama unfolds.
But what has often struck me most is the crowd. For them, the drama doesn’t start when the match starts. They have all been eagerly anticipating this moment for days or weeks, the excitement building up as the day draws near. They will know everything there is to know about their team and its players, eagerly feeding their hunger for more knowledge through news outlets and social media; and they will have debated with their friends as to who should be picked or dropped, what formation is best and what tactics they should employ.
They may well have found it difficult to sleep the night before the match, like a child on Christmas Night. From the moment they awake they are buzzing, impatient for the game to begin. On their journey they will joyfully acknowledge other fans – especially those wearing the same colours. As they get nearer to the great theatre they will start singing their cherished songs that identify and celebrate their allegiance. And, once the match starts, they live and breathe every moment. When one of their players scores a goal or a try or a six they experience unbounded joy and celebrate with great enthusiasm. When they concede a score or a key batsman is given out then the pain that they experience is visceral, as clearly evidenced by all their outward gestures.
They could not in any way be considered passive observers. They are part of the drama. Indeed, we often refer to the crowd as the extra player. A match played behind locked doors is a pale imitation without the crowd.
As I reflected on this I remembered a scene from the film Fever Pitch that is very enlightening. Paul (played by Colin Firth) is an Arsenal fanatic. Attending the match on Saturday is the source and summit of his life as a football fan; his whole week builds up to the match, and he feeds off the energy from that match until the next one. If he didn't attend a match then he would see himself as letting down his team and his fellow supporters. If you were to take away those football matches, his team, his community of supporters, then he would be a shell of the person that he was.
But Paul’s girlfriend, Sarah (Ruth Gemmell), does not get football at all. She is a total outsider to the culture of being a football fan. All his reasoned arguments fall on deaf ears. He takes her to a match at the old Arsenal Stadium, Highbury, standing on the North Bank, convinced that after this great experience she will “get it”. How could she not?
Of course, she didn’t get it. Everything was happening around her but she wasn’t living the experience. She didn’t know the songs and, even if she did, she certainly wasn’t going to join in with the singing. She didn’t understand what was happening on the pitch because she wasn’t familiar with football and was totally unfamiliar with the individual players. She was an external spectator to alien events that she didn’t understand and in which she hadn’t invested herself. In fact, not only was she bewildered by the whole thing, she felt rather threatened and frightened by it all.
Sacrosanctum Concilium talks about the laity having a “full, conscious and active participation” in the liturgy. This points to the quality of our participation. We are not meant to be passive observers, letting it wash over us with little thought or consequence.
So, what does Fever Pitch teach me about liturgy? Primarily that we must consciously approach the Mass as truly being the source and summit of our spiritual lives. That during the week we are Intentional Disciples of our faith - nurturing our faith, practising it, feeding it through prayer, reading and acts of charity; we then come together at Mass, in fellowship, to worship God and celebrate our shared faith; and from the spiritual blessings received at Mass we are energised to live out our faith over the coming days.
We could go to a Mass that has a thoroughly-prepared, well-executed liturgy with talented musicians and singers leading us; the priest could powerfully and beautifully break open the Scriptures for us in his homily and celebrate the Mass with reverence and dignity. But if we don't consciously and actively participate in the Mass, it remains for us only a duty; we are the stony ground on which the seed is scattered. And our lives - as individuals and as community - are the poorer for it.
All of these sporting events are festivals; a celebration of their sports. Assiduous preparations are made, invitations are sent out (though these invitations require credit card numbers) and the whole thing is eagerly anticipated. Some of the greatest stars of their realm are assembled from all over the world and a wondrous drama unfolds.
But what has often struck me most is the crowd. For them, the drama doesn’t start when the match starts. They have all been eagerly anticipating this moment for days or weeks, the excitement building up as the day draws near. They will know everything there is to know about their team and its players, eagerly feeding their hunger for more knowledge through news outlets and social media; and they will have debated with their friends as to who should be picked or dropped, what formation is best and what tactics they should employ.
They may well have found it difficult to sleep the night before the match, like a child on Christmas Night. From the moment they awake they are buzzing, impatient for the game to begin. On their journey they will joyfully acknowledge other fans – especially those wearing the same colours. As they get nearer to the great theatre they will start singing their cherished songs that identify and celebrate their allegiance. And, once the match starts, they live and breathe every moment. When one of their players scores a goal or a try or a six they experience unbounded joy and celebrate with great enthusiasm. When they concede a score or a key batsman is given out then the pain that they experience is visceral, as clearly evidenced by all their outward gestures.
They could not in any way be considered passive observers. They are part of the drama. Indeed, we often refer to the crowd as the extra player. A match played behind locked doors is a pale imitation without the crowd.
As I reflected on this I remembered a scene from the film Fever Pitch that is very enlightening. Paul (played by Colin Firth) is an Arsenal fanatic. Attending the match on Saturday is the source and summit of his life as a football fan; his whole week builds up to the match, and he feeds off the energy from that match until the next one. If he didn't attend a match then he would see himself as letting down his team and his fellow supporters. If you were to take away those football matches, his team, his community of supporters, then he would be a shell of the person that he was.
But Paul’s girlfriend, Sarah (Ruth Gemmell), does not get football at all. She is a total outsider to the culture of being a football fan. All his reasoned arguments fall on deaf ears. He takes her to a match at the old Arsenal Stadium, Highbury, standing on the North Bank, convinced that after this great experience she will “get it”. How could she not?
Of course, she didn’t get it. Everything was happening around her but she wasn’t living the experience. She didn’t know the songs and, even if she did, she certainly wasn’t going to join in with the singing. She didn’t understand what was happening on the pitch because she wasn’t familiar with football and was totally unfamiliar with the individual players. She was an external spectator to alien events that she didn’t understand and in which she hadn’t invested herself. In fact, not only was she bewildered by the whole thing, she felt rather threatened and frightened by it all.
Sacrosanctum Concilium talks about the laity having a “full, conscious and active participation” in the liturgy. This points to the quality of our participation. We are not meant to be passive observers, letting it wash over us with little thought or consequence.
"...the liturgical participant is engaged on two levels. As they take part in the liturgy an internal process is going on related to the meaning of what is being celebrated. At the same time, they engage with their bodies in the liturgical action - through physical movement, song, acclamation, use of symbols, bodily posture, and even stillness and silence. The internal and external dimensions inform each other.....the two necessarily operate interactively."
(SCM Studyguide to Catholic Liturgy; 2018; p23)
So, what does Fever Pitch teach me about liturgy? Primarily that we must consciously approach the Mass as truly being the source and summit of our spiritual lives. That during the week we are Intentional Disciples of our faith - nurturing our faith, practising it, feeding it through prayer, reading and acts of charity; we then come together at Mass, in fellowship, to worship God and celebrate our shared faith; and from the spiritual blessings received at Mass we are energised to live out our faith over the coming days.
We could go to a Mass that has a thoroughly-prepared, well-executed liturgy with talented musicians and singers leading us; the priest could powerfully and beautifully break open the Scriptures for us in his homily and celebrate the Mass with reverence and dignity. But if we don't consciously and actively participate in the Mass, it remains for us only a duty; we are the stony ground on which the seed is scattered. And our lives - as individuals and as community - are the poorer for it.
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