Posted on 04/05/2007 12:54:38 PM PDT by Pyro7480
As part of the scary fringe of society that American liberals call “church-goers,” my family always checks out the local church before deciding to move to a new neighborhood.
We have some experience with this, having moved 11 times in 15 years. We’ve also changed churches without moving. If church shopping were a felony, I’d no longer be able to vote.
I am a ruthless church shopper, not because my family spends so much time in a sanctuary, but because we spend so little. I figure if we are going to spend only an hour or two each week in formal worship of the Almighty, it better be a quality hour, one with a challenging sermon, soaring music and no Game Boys in the next pew.
This is why we spent the better part of Lent shopping for a new church. The Game Boys did me in.
Here is how it began. A year ago, we had to move (again) and found a home we loved on two wooded acres in a charming New England town. As soon as we ditched the real-estate agent, we drove around, looking for confirmation that this was the right place for us. We found it: lots of runners and cyclists, smiling people walking Golden Retrievers, an old-fashioned town square, an occasional horse and rider, and — thanks be to God! — a gorgeous, grey-stone church just two miles from the house.
Now, I know there are many people who have meaningful religious experiences inside ugly churches, but I’m not one of them. I dislike modern structures that resemble gyms with crucifixes, with their rows of folding chairs. I want a church that looks like a church; the grander, the better. And this one looked the part. It was both majestic and simple, with stained glass befitting an anteroom of heaven. It was old. It was loved. Surely the people who worshiped within appreciated beauty and recognized its importance in the adoration of the Creator.
So, seduced by century-old stonework, I registered at the parish right away, skipping the month or two of church shopping that I usually put myself through. There was one Catholic church in this town — on Church Street, no less! — and we were going to be part of it. So, we moved, unpacked and, on the next Sunday, showed up for the 10 o’clock Mass and discovered we couldn’t all fit in the pew.
Now, as Catholic families go, with four kids, we’re hardly pushing the reproductive envelope. But, inexplicably, the pews at this church seat four adults comfortably, five snugly, and so somebody had to sit on a lap. Okay, we could deal with this, and even the kneelers designed by de Sade.
But, over the next few months, we discovered things we could not deal with, starting with the attire of our fellow worshipers.
Fleece and denim prevailed, with Spandex close behind. Washing appeared to be optional; ironing discouraged. Men collecting the offering wore T-shirts from their latest 5Ks. Whole families went to Communion in blue jeans with ragged edges that dragged on marble floor. Altar servers wore cowboy boots and Crocs.
For a while, some children were wearing Heelys in the fellowship hall, until the church posted a sign saying they were no longer allowed because they weren’t safe. WEREN’T SAFE? How about because they are disrespectful and inappropriate?
But we were new; I said nothing. These people may be dressed for a horse auction, but at least they were going to church. We would continue to dress up, believing that God (if not our neighbors) was deserving of our very best. More than once, someone would smile at my four-year-old, conspicuous in her smocked dress and polished shoes, and ask what was the special occasion was. “Uh….. Sunday?” I thought to myself, but kept quiet.
We kept going. The music, mediocre from the start, deteriorated. The church had a glorious organ, but the music was — how to put this kindly? — putrid. It was a bizarre mix of bad-old and bad-new, with too much synthesizing and background vocals that suspiciously sounded of recordings. The senior priest, frustrated, would wave his hands from the altar, trying to get mute people to sing.
But how could we? On a good day —- say, Christmas — the music resembled “Up With People” without the people. Who wants to sing along with that?
We kept going, even as a sixth of the congregation would arrive after the Creed and a quarter would leave after Communion. We kept going, even though no one seemed to know when to kneel or to sit; the lector would hurry to the microphone to say “please stand.” We kept going, even though no one ever welcomed us to the parish or acknowledged the checks we wrote each month. We kept going, even as people carried on conversations, not only in the allegedly quiet time before the service starts, but even while the Mass was under way. We kept going, as the altar server read the prayer book while the priest delivered his homily, as cell phones rang during the Eucharistic prayer, when a teenager in front of us checked a text message during the offering.
But then two kids in the next pew played Game Boys while waiting for Mass to start.
We stopped going.
Now, I won’t exaggerate the offense. The children played the Game Boys with the sound turned off and they put them away when the Mass began. Their parents were nicely dressed, and the kids were well behaved. But how much can one get out of worship when the preceding moments involve electronic images of Yu-Gi-Oh! characters? What kind of people expect so little of their children? What kind of priest expects so little of his congregation?
The Second Vatican Council begat the “folk” Mass, which was sometimes called the “hootenanny” Mass in the 1960s. It was supposed to attract young people, with guitars and tambourines and weepy ballads only vaguely related to God. (In high school, I sang in a folk choir that once passed off the Beatles’ “Let It Be” as a communion song. McCartney’s lyrics referred to his biological mother, Mary, not the Virgin, but whatever.)
People dressed down for the folk Masses, usually celebrated on Saturday or Sunday evenings, and that was okay in that setting and at that time. But somewhere along the way, people got the idea that what’s fine and appropriate for 6 P.M. Saturday is acceptable at 10:30 A.M. Sunday, and in many churches, that’s where we are today: Torn blue jeans and untied hi-tops have become our Sunday best. Every service is a hootenanny now.
A church, like any organization, reflects its leader, so as much as I may admire the faith of men and women who surrender their earthly lives to God, I hold them responsible for cowboy boots on the altar. Of course the parents are responsible first. But if the parents don’t do their job, then the pastor must step in. And if the pastor doesn’t do his, the bishop must, and so forth. Pope Benedict seems to sense a truth: At this point in the Church’s life, a little formality will do us some good.
So bring on the Tridentine Mass, and the new missal language, vernacular be damned. Make use of kneelers, and candles and incense, and if the service needs to be longer than an hour, let it. If it’s worthwhile, who will object? Make demands of your congregants. Give them reason to come, with sermons that don’t insult their intelligence and music that won’t make them groan. Pay musicians and singers if you must. A meaningful worship experience requires mystery and awe and beauty, all of which are conspicuously absent in too many churches today.
Two-thirds of professed American Christians will attend an Easter service this week. By Pentecost, seven weeks from now, attendance will drop by more than a third, and pastors will bemoan the loss of the lily-and-poinsettia crowd. But the lilies will be gone, of course, and by May, you’ll be hard-pressed to find any choir presenting a soul-stirring rendition of the “Hallelujah Chorus” as my grandmother’s church does every Easter. We can’t all be at our best every day, of course, but our churches must strive to be at their best every Sunday — not just twice a year. Then, maybe we can recapture the meaning of the words “Sunday best” before the phrase slips into antiquity.
A postscript: Not long after the Game Boy incident, we learned that the senior pastor at this church was retiring. A new priest soon arrived, a young and enthusiastic man who sings the Eucharistic Prayer and, while friendly enough, seems the sort who might lay down some rules. He recently announced that the lector would no longer tell us when to stand — we would have to figure that out on our own! — and there has been incense on the altar of late. We are encouraged. We will give it another try. It is, after all, a pretty church, and convenient. We don’t have to arrive early to get a seat; usually, there are plenty of pews.
— Jennifer Graham is a writer and editor in the suburbs of Boston.
**Americans need to understand again the theory of appropriate dress**
Agree all the way. Bumpo!
When I say hiring leaders I include staff singers. My former episcopal choir director took that one step further and started hiring all of his students from his university job until there were 15-20 staff people, and they weren’t necessarily any better than the volunteers. The attitude seemed to be if they could just get the volunteers (said with a bit of a sneer) out of the way everything would be great.
yeah, OLW.
That is a beautiful Church. I love the altar rails and high altar. It’s awesome.
Last night the fire alarm went off during the Procession to the Holy Sepulchre, during the singing of the Pangue Lingua. It goes off all the time, but that was particularly obnoxious.
We sang the Pangue Lingua in English and then the congregation simultaneously sang it in Latin, which I liked. I was feeling irritated that we do so much Anglo stuff and not enough Latin and then I realized that we had sung three anthems during the service and they were all in Latin.
When I’m in a mood to be POd, I’ll find *something* to be POd about.
I try to firgive them if they applaud AFTER the mass, particularly if it’s for the paid organist. During the service is definitely a faux pas.
It’s great except when the fire alarm goes off during the mass! It’s a new building, and I’m constantly amazed that a new church was done so well.
And the acoustics are incredible.
Jesus had nice enough clothes that the Roman Legionaires all wanted them.
The Catholic Church is "the people".
Both my current choir and my former ECUSA choir are/were very welcoming of volunteers. Current choir is no-audition (that wasn't true of the ECUSA choir - even regular members had to audition once a year).
The problem is the tension created by wanting volunteers on the one hand, and having certain basic requirements for the volunteers on the other. Singing difficult music takes not only serious application, but also certain basic talents such as recognizing and holding pitch, tone production, and sight-singing. If somebody presents themselves to sing and can't do those things, you have a choice to make . . . and that's where the trouble lies.
Staff singers ameliorate the problem somewhat, because even mediocre singers are like sheep - if they have no leader they just mill around and bleat, but if they get a lead over they can follow with confidence. So with staff to anchor each section, you can take people in the choir who otherwise wouldn't be able to manage.
I have no formal musical training, other than having taken piano lessons forever, and singing in church, high school, and college choirs more or less forever as well. But it's all O.J.T.
I guess I'm now a professional because I got paid for a wedding gig once! (only took me 50 years or so to become a professional . . . < g > )
:-). I meant the author, not you, but if you like the adjective, help yourself from the dictionary!
However, in reference to the author, I don’t think there’s anything good, true, or beautiful about going to Mass and focusing on what the rest of the congregation is wearing. Just my opinion, of course.
Two problems: they don't know how to sing in ensemble, and they have massive egos (you NEED a massive ego if you're going to survive in the cut-throat world of professional singing. I've stood on the sidelines and watched for almost 50 years, and my mom was a professor in the music department of a local university.)
Me, I'm just a journeyman alto without much of a voice in terms of quality or volume. But I have a good straight tone with no vibrato, a good ear, and I can read music. I study my part, and if I do get lost (I won't say I never lose my place!) I know the other three parts well enough so that I can jump back in within a measure.
That's more valuable for a choir than a coloratura soprano who can't blend and is used to an accompanist following her.
The music is so bad that I don’t want to hear it. There’s no way I’m going to sing it.
LOL! A lady in my Renew group was recently complaining about the “operatic” singing at her mother’s Methodist church. Maybe they hired college music majors ...
. . . slight pause to go to the piano to retrieve the music folder . . .
Palm Sunday: Vexilla Regis (chant), Popule Meus (Victoria), Nolo Mortem Peccatoris (Morley). Latin Mass parts (chant based, composed by our choirmaster) for first Sunday
Holy Thursday: Ubi Caritas (Durufle), Ave Verum (Byrd), and Pange Lingua (in its entirety)
Good Friday: Popule Meus, Adoramus Te (Palestrina), When Jesus Wept (Billings), O Bone Jesu (Palestrina), and O Vos Omnes (Victoria)
Easter Vigil: Mozart Mass in C Major (Spaur-messe, KV 258), Laudate Jehovam (Telemann), Litany of the Saints (Becker) (the only modern work in the Triduum . . . relatively inoffensive and we had to put something modern in to mollify the Haugen/Haas fans)
Easter Sunday: Same, with the addition of the Cesar Franck Psalm 150.
AND the best news of all . . . we have successfully jettisoned the Haugen "Massive Cremation"! We alternate two chant-based Masses of our choirmaster's composition, one in Latin and one in English. He's a very good composer (apparently unhandicapped by a doctorate from Juilliard).
Where is your church? I didn’t know there were churches that didn’t use Gather or bubble-gum “Jesus is my Boyfriend” music. :)
Well, the issue of people wanting to make a joyful noise when that’s ALL they can make is a constant one. We have a lady with Down’s Syndrome (funny how you only see them in CATHOLIC churches) who can’t read music or sing a lick, but she has her spot in the back behind the risers, and she vests, and processes, and goes to communion with us. Sometimes I’ll be trying to find a pitch and she’ll pipe up and make it even worse, but I don’t mind, don’t mind one bit.
As far as talent, I think if a parish has the ability to do difficult music, that’s great, but there is plenty of great music that is not difficult that even small parishes can do. There have been several volumes of ‘Easy Anthems’ published, as you know.
I think I’m a lot like you. I never get picked to sing solos, but I (almost) always know my part, and I *like* reading new music. I enjoy the adrenaline rush of preparing the music on a weekly basis and whoosh! on to the next piece. I get bored drilling and drilling and drilling a piece for a concert.
Methodists loooove the big vibrato. Sets my teeth on edge.
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