Am I Even Catholic? On Disorienting Experiences of the Church
22nd Sunday of the Year
You might have an idea of the kind of guy who enters seminary right after high school, like I did. I guess you’d wager he had a strict prayer regimen, a robust understanding of the Church, firm convictions grounded in a deep understanding of theology, and, above all, a clear sense of his call.
I had none of those things.
At 17, I joined seminary with a sincere, but insecure, desire to be a priest, not a clue how to pray, and opinions that were right simply because I held them.
I grew up in a great parish with great people; and I had great opportunities there that made me into the young man I was and got me thinking about priesthood in the first place. But when I left Baltimore for Providence in August of 2011, everything I knew came from where I came from: home.
Nothing I had experienced prepared me in the slightest for the earth-shaking culture shock that was going to seminary in New England.
Back home, we called priests “Father” followed by their first name. They wore simple, black clerical shirts, often with the little, white tab sticking out or holstered in their pocket. Every parish had at least one Mass that was led musically by piano and guitars—in fact, during high school, I led one of those “folk” groups. I looked up mostly to one of the priests, who played in an Irish band and loved to quote television and movies. The pastor wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. He would trim the bushes around the church himself. It was home, and I loved it, and it was hard to leave.
It takes about seven hours up I-95 to get from Baltimore to Providence by car; but, as you make that drive, what you’re actually doing is travelling backwards in time to the 1950s. In New England, priests are referred to only as “Father Last Name.” They wear cufflinks and three-piece suits—at least, when they’re not wearing their cassock. Up there, the priests do gentlemanly things like smoking cigars, sipping espresso, and avoiding manual labor.
At Mass in New England, you’re far more likely to find incense, organ music, and Latin. I felt left out on Sunday mornings when most of the seminarians would gear up in full battle dress to head across town to serve the Traditional Latin Mass, while I looked for the parish in town that reminded me most of home.
It was culture shock to the core.
I share all this because I can sense something similar among you. I know a good number of you come from Baltimore (or somewhere similar) and the way we celebrate Mass here is probably not what you’re used to. One freshman told me, after she went to the seminary Mass last Sunday, that when Mass began, she wasn’t even sure if she was Catholic. I know what that feels like. I had entered seminary, for goodness’ sake, and I felt like I had joined a brand-new religion, because everything around me was different.
I know that change is hard. But what I want to tell you is that change is good for us, because change allows us to pull back the outer layers and uncover what’s essential. As the outward shape of the Church changed, I had to figure out what was still the same underneath—and the better I understood that, the better I knew what to do with the things that change from one place to the next.
When I got to college, I started out very skeptical and resistant to what I experienced there; but over time and as I came to understand it, my feelings softened. Now, over a decade later, I wear a cassock, with cufflinks, on Sundays. I celebrate Mass in a traditional manner. I prefer chant and hymns supported by the organ. I use incense as often as I can. And I think at least some of the Mass should be said in Latin at least some of the time. That wasn’t who I was when I entered seminary, but that’s the priest seminary made me into.
You might think the point I’m making here is that college made me “trad” and I want the same for you. But that’s not what I’m going for.
What I want to say is that the experience of Catholicism practiced and lived in a different way than what I had always known was good for me. It made me think. It forced me to develop principles and base my opinions and preferences upon them.
And, through it all, it helped me with two things that the Mass today prays for: pure religion and deep reverence. The Letter of James talks about “religion that is pure and undefiled before God” and the Collect asks God “deepening [of] our sense of reverence.”
What are pure religion and deep reverence all about?
Let me ask you: what kind of worship do you think God prefers? The kind you’re more likely to find in a typical parish or the sort that we’re going for here on campus? Do you think God would rather be praised with organ or with guitars? Would he prefer prayers addressed to him in English or in Latin? Is he more pleased by the simple or the solemn chant tone? Does he look more favorably upon vestments made of silk or of polyester? Does every single thing about the Mass need to be perfectly, flawlessly executed to get his attention?
Let me be clear: I don’t think the choices we make in celebrating Mass should be arbitrary. God gave us the Church, and the Church gives us direction and guidance on how we should worship, not just in general but down to the nuts and bolts. We should do what the Church commands and prefer what she prefers. But within that, there is space for legitimate diversity—and no two parishes, or campuses, on earth worship exactly alike.
But between the different expressions of Catholicism out there, though they may seem like they are worlds apart, I don’t think for a second think God really cares about where we pick our spots. Because none of our opinions or preferences matter in the slightest if we lack what’s far more fundamental and essential: pure religion and deep reverence.
These are interior virtues, not exterior forms. If we were to celebrate Mass perfectly by the book, with hours of rehearsal, and assiduous attention to detail but lacked religion and reverence on the inside, then it would all be for naught. And we know how God would respond, for Christ has already spoken, and we should heed his words: “Well did Isaiah prophecy about you hypocrites, as it is written: This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me.”
To put it simply, the visible sacrifice we make here must correspond to the invisible sacrifice we make in our heart—or it is no sacrifice at all.
You came to college as a person, and you will leave as a person, but not the same one. You will change in a thousand ways in the brief time you spend here. Change comes through experiences of something different. I understand and appreciate that change is hard and disorienting—but I assure you that change is good for you, because it’s been good for me.
Mass right now might seem like something you’ve never seen before—and that’s alright. Give it time. Come with an open mind and heart. Trust God and his faithfulness. Pray earnestly for pure religion and deep reverence. And may the Father, the giver of every good and perfect gift, give you everything to worship him, so that you may give him everything in return.
Homily preached September 1, 2024 in the Chapel of the Immaculate Conception at Mount St. Mary’s University.