Musings After Midnight: Easter - August 2004

There aren't many entries here; it was a pretty troubled time for me, as the first piece suggests. The two long musings are mostly doctrinal, not personal.

Hope in Pandora's Box (April 21)

What was in Pandora's Box? The miseries of the world: disease, plague, sorrow, depression, envy. And one other thing. As Hesiod writes, "Hope sole remain'd within, nor took her flight, Beneath the vessel's verge conceal'd from light."

Why hope? Most people look at hope, the remainder, as either cover for the evils, or a gift enclosed in a moment of compassion. I've heard another version. At times like these, I wonder if that's true. Perhaps hope was enclosed, and remained, not because of Zeus' compassion, but because it was the most pernicious evil of all. Perhaps?

Low Church, not Low Faith (May 9 and 30)

A few weeks ago on this page, in the Isaiah musing, I stated a disdain for choir chanting, Latin, violins, and other complex music settings at Mass. More generally, I prefer a service style that tends toward "low" church. When I use this, it's relative in contrast to "high" church. It's not in the strict Anglican sense, or the articles of faith sense, described in this Catholic Encyclopedia piece. High and Low Masses are an old Catholic term, so I thought I'd start with some history.

Up until just before my birth, the Tridentine Mass was the standard worship form of Roman Catholicism. Introduced after the Council of Trent, in 1570, it served until the Novus Ordo Missae was introduced in 1969. There were various forms. A Pontificial High Mass was one sung by a bishop and choir. When the Bishop was unavailable, but a priest, choir, and deacon could serve, the High Mass was celebrated with chant and incense. Poorer churches, who could not afford or staff fully, had a spoken or Low Mass. As with any change, the Novus Ordo caused a lot of controversy. Some people objected to the loss of mandatory Latin. I have read complaints about vestments, direction, simplicity, communion in the hand, communion under both kinds, women near the altar, lack of Gregorian chant, and the disadvantage of laity understanding things. A simple Google search will find many defenders of the Trent service. It is not the point of this article to argue fully on this subject. Briefly, the change to Latin (from Greek) was primarily political in the fourth century. Later, Trent never dogmatically condemned the vernacular, rather preferring Latin and standardization as a means to counteract challenges of Protestantism. The so-called "uniformity" had exceptions in the Ambrosian and Mozarabic Rites, as well as various religious orders.

After three weeks more thought on this issue, I realize it comes down to two concepts, tempo and participation. For those of you who don't play competitive bridge, the term tempo is used to describe the speed at which one makes bids and plays. To quote from the Laws of Bridge, "Calls and plays should be made without special emphasis, mannerism or inflection, and without undue hesitation or haste." There's a natural pace, and breaking that pace has consequences; it's improper, and can be considered cheating. Tempo is one of the reasons I don't play serious bridge, actually; I greatly prefer collectible card games, where the bluff of tempo is rather important. I generally play quickly, and like when other people play quickly. A slow player frustrates me, or one that stutters and constantly changes tempo.

I also like that tempo in my worship. It's not that I want a shorter service; the daily Mass often feels too rushed for my tastes. It's about flow. Even cadence, keeping a pace, keeping the air alive with words - that's what I want. Slow tempo is fine, as long as things keep the speed. I grimace when someone talks about bells during the Consecration, because to me they're like slaps to the head of the flow of the Eucharistic prayer. (Actually, I suggested to one such supporter that I would just slap them instead of bells. Well, to me it's the same result.) When an organist takes four or five warmup notes before a Great Amen, I cringe; the beauty of a chanted doxology, ruined. Too frequently, when the musicians get hold of a liturgy, it becomes a series of stops and starts, like a beginning card player. Spoken Masses, the "Low" form, hold their tempo tighter, and so I prefer them.

Back to the musicians, and the second point, participation. In my mind, the Mass is the expression of the people of God. To do that, the people need to express. The General Instruction states the role of a choir in number 103, including "fostering the active participation of the faithful through the singing." Additionally, the 50-70 minutes within a Mass is the primary worship of many parishioners. While everyone spending more spiritual time would be nice, a realist cannot understate the importance of activity in the limited time frame. I understand that my background in American evangelicalism markedly colours this area. So it does. I find Mass more praiseworthy when I hear my neighbor in the responses and songs, when the priest avoids unwarranted attention by steering clear of big fancy chants, when the organ and choir do not overpower any attempts at singing.

Too often I see a Mass choir acting like a Gospel choir. Instead of a worship aid, they become the worship, choosing a difficult song, like Latin when few people understand (except at Calvert), or multipart harmony, or range outside the average one octave. I really like Gospel music, and Gospel choirs; I spent a good deal of Easter Sunday watching and listening to Gospel Challenge on TV One, sort of a low-budget AME American Idol. That's not Mass music, though, and I don't want it there. Mass music should foster the goal of the service - commemoration of the life, sacrifice, and renewal of our Lord. "Low" Masses, with less complex pieces or even spoken parts, allow people to have greater confidence and better entry into the commemoration. If you're not sure about this point, experiment. At a typical parish Mass, compare the proportion of people who say a response against the proportion that sing. I have, and the spoken word triumphs. That gets people involved, and draws them actively to the path of transformation, where I want to walk.

There's Something About Mary (June 4, last two paragraphs June 28)

Catholicism in the public sphere has had a busy couple of months. Senator Kerry, homosexual advocates, various bishops, Iraq, abortion, and sexual abuse fallout have combined into a giant mess. There's no good solution remaining; all options will be painful and incomplete. It's going to take a long time for me to ponder over all the positions, and likely even longer to write about them. I've had a breakdown type of day today, winding up with me curled up crying, then taking a nap, two things not good for my progress. I swallow too much of my anger. Thus, the first piece of this exploration is going to be negative. It's my mood.

The American Catholic Church today has an obsession with Mary, occasionally bordering on Marydolatry. Many of you, imaginary readers, are screaming now, looking for tracts, clutching rosary beads, checking on excommunication laws, or some such. Before we go farther, I'll give you a minute, and collect my symbols.

Recently, I was looking at days of obligation for various countries. The 1983 Canon lists ten, three relating to Mary. The American Bishops have reduced that number to six, but kept all three related to her. Other countries have taken a more balanced approach. For instance, Ireland has two Marian days out of six, England one of seven. Canada and Australia keep the minimum, one Marian day and Christmas. [Historical aside: Holy day count has changed over time. At the time of the Revolution, Americans celebrated over 30; this became 11 in 1777, and 10 in 1789 with the removal of St. George.] As with many things, the choice doesn't appear strange on its face, and it's not. The bishops have full rights to make that choice, and the United States has Mary as a patroness. But it's highly symbolic.

Another symbol is closer to home, in my current house of worship. Some basement space was cleaned and converted to house a bench, a kneeler, and a monstrance. That makes one adoration chapel. The symbol here is the holder of the consecrated host. It's a huge statue of Mary, in comparison to the small bread. I have great difficulty praying there - it feels like worshipping a Goddess. Yes, I know it's not, but it's uncomfotable.

My last symbol is experiential. I know many people have a devotion to Mary. Some, I think, have a worship of her - but that's an individual story for another time. In this argument, the interesting thing is that these people are almost uniformly ultramontane and retrogressive. Here I use ultramontane to identify those that prefer strong hierarchy in the church, and a more direct style led by Rome. That's not me, even though by the standards of the 1914 definition, I am ultramontane. I use retrogressive to describe those who say that civilization is in decline, like my dinner conversationalist one night who thought that returning to the 14th century order of things would be better. Beyond the simple metric of life expectancy (in 1850 America, half of all humans born died before the age of 30), there are other improvements - maybe I'll post a list sometime. As a starter, how else would you be reading this?

Although a statistician puts relatively little faith in ancedote, the accumulated weight has become very heavy. I've meditated on this question for a couple weeks, searching for illumination. This question has surprised me because of my vehemence about the subject. Even three years ago, I kept a rosary in my bag, but now I see great danger. Right now, I want to learn why the hierarchial (conservative/traditionalist, though that's unfair to them) wing is so Marian. One possibility is that because the current pope favors Marian devotions, the highly following have adopted the ways. For lots of people I know, including me, John Paul II is the only pope we can remember. A related possibility is anti-Protestantism. In America, Marian thought, devotion, and such is basically limited to the papists. By charging down that route, Catholics emphasize their own identity - Baptists don't have rosary beads. The cost goes beyond attempts at ecumenism; it excludes and cuts off paths for Protestants to look at the main church. More distressingly, it cuts off paths for Romanists to learn and grow through the good developments of the new movements. There are enough adversaries around that we don't need to retreat from potential allies.

A more theological hypothesis might be what I consider a concept of mission, as sub-mission. Mary gets portrayed, rightly or wrongly, as pliant; after acceeding to the Lord's demands, very little appears about her actions. She's behind the scenes. There are some exceptions, like the wedding at Cana, but that's sort of a behind the scenes request - helping with the cooking. The readings at Sunday Mass yesterday, the 27th, dealt with the costs of following the Lord, those like Elisha who could, and others who could not. In the homily, the presider spoke about people who made great sacrifices of personal faith, a feel-good testimony approach. Key, though, was that these people took active stances, the full mission. Relying on quiet Mary as role model is too passive, too sub, at least for me. Overall, I just don't know. What is it about Mary?

Two longer pieces, depression and hope and worth, will be of interest to those reading this blog. Be forewarned that they are true and painful.