Goodbye, Father Fossion

The only time I have ‘encountered’ Father Fossion was on Pentecost, May 2004. I was only a one-month-old Catholic then. I remember helping with the church decoration for our feastday that year and then rushing into church for the 11.00am Mass. I was told the Archbishop and Father Fossion were guest celebrants. I don’t even know what that meant to me, not knowing what an ‘archbishop’ was, much less to be able to comprehend who Father Fossion was. All I knew was that he used to be a priest at Holy Spirit, a good priest – but then, in all my one-month of being a Catholic, all priests are good! – so there was little to distinguish him except that he was supposed to be really old.

At 11.00am, the bell rung for Mass and the congregation stood for the entrance hymn. The altar boys, lectors and priests processed into church. I was peering to get a good look, as that was a High Mass, the grandest one besides Easter Vigil that I had ever experienced then, and when the entourage finally came into view, I saw an old European priest struggling down the aisle and Father David reaching out to help him as he made his way to the sanctuary.

I remember that vividly because as he came into sight, and I saw how frail and determined he was, I choked on a sob. And I found myself weeping at that sight – I was simply moved, and I wasn’t the only one. I don’t know what happened. I never met the man, never knew anything at all of him but that sight of him huddling along gave me a glimpse into the kind of shepherd he was.

I don’t remember if he gave the homily that year but when he spoke, he made some comment about how unnecessary it was for a church to be air-conditioned and looking so smart and beautiful. And he expressed all this in a most disgruntled way.

For someone whose closest experiences with God stemmed from non-airconditioned, traditional, old churches like Novena Church, St. Joseph’s (Bukit Timah) and St. Joseph’s (Victoria Street), I understand that sentiment perfectly. There is something in hot, stuffy and uncomfortable old churches that brings one nearer to God, even if it is only an imagined closeness.

But I had come to love Holy Spirit, a home that I had known as it stands today, never having been at the old church or owning a single recollection of how it looked like before. So when Father Fossion made those remarks, I could understand what he was saying but I remained stubbornly loyal to this parish I had come to know as it is and to love.

At the same time, I felt a little sorry for our parish priests and parishioners who had worked so hard to build the parish into what it is today. I wondered how they felt.

But nobody seemed upset by his remarks. If anything, as I carefully glanced around, I saw knowing smiles on parishioners’ faces. Today, I know those remarks are typically characteristic of Father Fossion.

These are all the memories I have of Father Fossion, captured within a one-hour Mass three years ago.

And as our parish held the wakes and funeral Masses for him, I found that I really wish I had known him. As we said goodbye, literally when someone shouted out in the viewing gallery at Mandai as his coffin proceeded into the furnace, “Goodbye, Father!” to be echoed by the same words from different parts of the room; as Father Andrew finally broke down, I felt once again, the feeling I had felt over the last few days, that I was so envious of these people who had met, known and been showered with the love of one of God’s true shepherds, a gift I had only felt a fraction of.

In Father Frans’ words, “In Father Fossion, something of heaven has come to be in our midst.”

And so, I remain grateful for that Pentecost Mass three years ago, even if that is all I have of him.