Matching Tracksuits

The first time I attended a church other than the one I grew up in, I was shocked at how utterly different the service was compared to what I was used to. When the pastor began, "Our scripture for today is...", I immediately began wondering how in the world one could possibly have a sermon with one scripture. I was so accustomed to sermons that often amounted to an artillery barrage of verses that having a sermon with only one verses seemed like having a car with only one wheel.

As I visited other churches, I found that not only did every denomination have its own liturgy but also every single church within a denomination might have its own version. Going to churches in other countries, I imagined, might uncover even more differences.

Today, one can find a liturgy to fit whatever mood one might be in. Looking for something heavy on entertainment? Head to the nearest mega-church. Looking for a calm, quiet, predictable service? Look for Methodists or Presbyterians. Want a little danger in your worship? Seek out the few remaining snake-handling, strychnine-drinking Pentecostals in the hills of Appalachia.

The Catholic Mass, however, is different because it's the same. No matter the country, no matter language, no matter the culture, the Mass is the same. Before Vatican II and the introduction of Mass in the vernacular, it would literally be the same wherever one went. And here's the thing that really impresses me: it's been that way for centuries. The Mass of today would be recognizable, more or less, to Thomas Aquinas as much as it would be to G. K. Chesterton. Certainly, the hymns would be different, and the use of the vernacular (as opposed to Latin) would probably seem odd, but the heart of the Mass itself would be comfortingly familiar to both men.

I realize I'm using broad strokes here: there are certainly minor cultural differences in the Mass, and the Catholic church isn't the only church to achieve this liturgical homogeneity. But one thing is certain: it's had this homogeneity longer than any other institution in the West, and there's something to be said for an institution that can be that grounded in the past and the present.

Even those who know nothing about Catholic theology know about Catholic cathedrals. Religions in general have a way of inspiring great architecture, for sacred objects and sacred time requires sacred space. St. Peter's, Notre Dame, Hagia Sophia, Canterbury, Chartres, Reims, St. John the Divine, Westminster Abbey, and seemingly countless others tend to be top tourist destinations even for non-believers. Everyone wanders in, looks about, and inevitably looks up -- which, at least in the case of Gothic architecture, was the whole point.

The scale is impressive enough, but for the faithful, cathedrals can be only grand, for they house the "body, blood, soul and divinity" of Jesus, according to the doctrine of the Real Presence. Whether one believes the doctrine or not is somewhat irrelevant: the designers, builders, and curators of the cathedrals did, and those attending services did and still do believe it. If one believes that Jesus is really present in the host (which is the heart of the doctrine of the Real Presence), then it's only logical to build the best tabernacle imaginable to house said host.

This goes a long way in answering the objection a friend from the States raised as we wandered in and out of churches in Krakow just K's and my wedding. "How does this help anyone spiritually?" he asked. The Catholic answer is, "They weren't built primarily for man but for God."

Whomever they were built for seems almost irrelevant when I'm standing in the middle of a soaring cathedral, wondering at the engineering required both to design and to construct such spaces.

Among the elements that sets Catholicism apart from almost all other Christian denominations is the notion of the sacred embodied in the physical. There are a host of sacred objects in Catholicism, while Protestantism considers almost nothing on Earth sacred. Only God is sacred, say Protestants, and that was indeed one of the myriad motivations for the separation of the Protestant denominations from the Catholic church.

Having grown up in a Protestant group (though it would have never called itself "Protestant," it was: if it's not Eastern/Greek/Coptic/etc. Orthodox or Catholic, it's Protestant), the notion of a sacred object was completely foreign to me. It smacked of superstition, of primitive belief that bordered on idolatry.

Websters.com defines sacred as follows:

1. dedicated or set apart for the service or worship of a deity
2. a : worthy of religious veneration : holy
   b : entitled to reverence and respect
3. of or relating to religion : not secular or profane

I grew up, I suppose, with only the second definition; the first definition is more Catholic, though.

In Catholicism, one can't help but be overwhelmed by the number of sacred objects. At the top of the list is the consecrated host, but there are numerous others: the Bible is sacred, especially the Gospels. One will notice this immediately in the how the priest handles the volume of Gospels the priest uses in the Mass reading. Yet it's not limited to the Bible and host: the church itself, the crucifix, the vessels used in Mass, the altar itself, rosaries, statues, and icons are all in their own right sacred.

This is where the Protestant accusation of idolatry arises, especially with the use of icons and statuary. It seems to be a direct violation of the commandments.  Yet Catholics aren't worshiping these objects (except for the consecrated host -- but that's an entirely different theological knot) and in fact condemns such as idolatry.

What I like about sacred objects is they force one out of normal routines and require a reverent thoughtfulness. In a culture in which only radical individualism seems to be sacred, such thoughtful moments are welcome.

 Catholicism has silence built into it. Silence in Catholicism is everywhere. Walk into any medieval church in Europe and the silence is almost audible. It's as if the walls and icons of the churches produce their own silence, a counterbalance to everything going on outside its walls.

The traditional Tridentine Mass has moments of silence, and that silence even made it into the Novo Ordo Mass: the priest holds the consecrated host up and is silent; he lifts the chalice of consecrated wine and is silent.

A chapel dedicated to the adoration of the Sacrament is silent.

Monks and nuns take vows of silence.

The Catholic Encyclopedia writes of three spiritual principles behind silence:

1. As an aid to the practice of good, for we keep silence with man, in order the better to speak with God, because an unguarded tongue dissipates the soul, rendering the mind almost, if not quite, incapable of prayer. The mere abstaining from speech, without this purpose, would be that "idle silence" which St. Ambrose so strongly condemns.
2. As a preventative of evil. Senica, quoted by Thomas a Kempis complains that "As often as I have been amongst men, I have returned less a man" (Imitation, Book I, c. 20).
3. The practice of silence involves much self-denial and restraint, and is therefore a wholesome penance, and as such is needed by all.

Silence is indeed "needed by all," particularly in today's techno-world. It's one of the great mysteries to me why so many people like the dazzle of multi-media mega-churches: these churches incorporate technology as liturgical baggage; it seems the church is to be a place of worship and contemplation that shuts out the world.

In most Protestant churches, it's always the center of attention. Front and center, the pulpit is the center of all eyes, all ears. In mega-churches, the stage has replaced the pulpit, but on the stage, there is a lectern of some sort, making it clear the high point of the service is the pastor's sermon.

Protestants sometimes suggest that Christ is not the center of the Catholic Church, but it's hard for them to make such an argument when the pastor is the center of theirs. The sermon is the center of the church service, and so the pastor's personality, wit, or erudition is what ultimately brings congregants to this or that church. In mega-churches, it's often a combination of the show and the sermon.

In a Catholic church, the pulpit is always to the side. The priest's homily is not the reason people are in attendance, and as such, the pulpit is tastefully moved to one side.