One of the pitfalls of becoming a Catholic educated in the faith is that occasions for outrage rise exponentially. One of my favorite parts of Mass as a baby Catholic was joining hands to sing the Our Father. Now I dread the touch on my arm — or the occasional poke in the ribs — that signals that someone isn’t listening to my “I don’t hold hands at the Our Father”-body language.
As I learned more about Liturgical Correctness — have you noticed that “liberal” Catholics are Politically Correct and “conservative” Catholics are Liturgically Correct? — I struggled with maintaining a sense of worship while a Mass would circle the Pit of Relativity. I wasn’t interested in signing up with radical Traditionalism but I sympathized with the outrage radical Traditionalists feel when liturgical rubrics intended to safeguard the dignity of the Mass are treated as menu options at Cafeteria Catholicism.
One article that helped me during this time was a piece Jimmy wrote on maintaining spiritual peace in the midst of problems in the Church. I especially took heed at the image of outraged congregants becoming spiritual fruitchuckers and my prayer at Mass for spiritual peace would often consist of “Lord, please don’t let me become a spiritual fruitchucker.”
Fortunately for me, over the years that I’ve attended, my parish has improved. So much so that I would unhesitatingly recommend it to anyone seeking a Good Parish in San Diego. A lot of the longstanding liturgical abuses — everything from a missing altar crucifix during Advent and Easter to a horde of EMHCs gathered ’round the altar — have been swept away. Parish life has also improved: We are blessed with perpetual eucharistic adoration (the establishment of this being the point at which I detected the shift to parish orthopraxy) and with regular retreats, missions, and seminars offered by solidly-orthodox lay speakers.
That’s why I was caught off-guard this past Sunday. Here’s what happened:
Because this Mass hosted the third Lenten scrutiny for the RCIA, we used the alternate readings, which meant that the Gospel reading was the raising of Lazarus. I closed my eyes in disgust when three of the lay RCIA facilitators traipsed up to the altar to join in the “interactive” Gospel reading — something only supposed to happen on Palm Sunday and Good Friday. But it was when one of the lay readers cordially invited us to sit for the Gospel that I had to choke back some heated commentary of my own. It had been awhile since this particular abuse had occurred but this time I managed to lower the kneeler without thumping it against the floor in outrage. (My solution to previous invitations to sit for the Gospel had been to kneel — a more profound sign of reverence than standing — rather than contribute to the spectacle by being the lone person standing.) When the “players” proceeded to use a translation not found in my missalette, I dropped my head into my hands and spent the Gospel reading praying for spiritual peace.
The show over, the priest gave a good homily but one that seemed strangely brief. Immediately we found out why: The rest of the time for the homily had been given over to a lay speaker there to encourage everyone to attend a Lenten mission he’d be conducting this week. Although I’d have preferred for the priest to have given a short homily and then invited the layman to speak during the period for announcements — he could even have mentioned at the end of his homily that the layman would be speaking during the announcements to let the early-birds know not to run out during the announcements — I found myself enjoying the talk and looking forward to the Lenten mission. Surely, thought I, the peace I’d prayed for had been granted.
Then came time for the priest to impose hands on the elect. First, though, we sat through a litany of the personal hopes and needs of each candidate. “Free X from bondage to procrastination,” chanted our cantor, “That he might find resolve in you.” Obviously X and his fellow candidates in RCIA had been asked to plug in the vice to which they were enslaved and the virtue they prayed would replace it. (Curiously, at least three candidates wanted to be freed from Demon Procrastination, so I wondered if the RCIA director had suggested it as a Sample Vice that could penned into the "vice" blank.) As I’ve done for several Lents now, I once again gave thanks that my RCIA experience in this parish ten years previously had not required me to bare my soul like this. There’s a reason the Church moved from public to private confession over a millennium ago.
Finally the priest imposed his hands and prayed over the candidates, so I thought we were blessedly done with this and could move on to the Creed. Nope. First the congregation was cordially invited to extend their hands to the elect and pray along with the priest. Then we were to “welcome” the elect with a hearty round of applause. To all the world appearing mean and curmudgeonly because I did not want to join in this, I prayed but did not extend my hand and settled for aiming a bright smile of welcome to the elect rather than applaud.
Finally, finally, it was done. The elect were sent back to their seats and we could continue with the Mass. But by this time even the priest apparently was so disoriented that he completely forgot to lead us in the Creed and the prayers of intercession, instead skipping directly to the offeratory. While the congregation was busily singing a hymn of repentance (I kid you not), I flipped to the Creed and, sotto voce, read it aloud. (I’ve found that even a memorized prayer is hard to recall when everyone else is singing a song.)
So, did I leave that Mass angry? Thankfully, no. By the time Mass was over, my spiritual equilibrium was back in place. Certainly grace played its part, but I also reminded myself how rare such spectacles had become at this particular parish. I reminded myself of the overwhelming good this parish has done, and not because I had been in any way directly involved in shaping the parish’s liturgical or communal life. A host of good people, clerical and lay, could take credit for that. All for which I could take credit — and even the credit for this that was mine was limited because God deserved most of it — was for triumphing over the temptation to become a spiritual fruitchucker.
This story is a long lead-in to another post. How do we avoid going rad Trad when the temptations to do so can sometimes be overwhelming? How do we prevent righteous anger at genuine problems in the Church from eating away at our souls like dropped acid and turning us into bitter, disaffected souls isolated from the mainstream of Catholic life? I don’t have the cure, or even an inoculation, to radical Traditionalism, but only some suggestions that may help. Those suggestions will be the focus of an upcoming post.
