Becoming Catholic:
Making It Hard

Part II: The Problems Begin

The sanctuary of St. Mary's is devoid of statues, and the pews are arranged in a semi-circle. We chose to sit in the side pews, and I soon discovered the problem with this configuration: I spent most of Mass staring at the parishioners across from me - observing their dress, their mannerisms, their parenting skills. This became an especially great temptation during the homily, which lasted twenty minutes and was delivered without manuscript or notes. My father, who for part of his career taught homiletics, warned me: "If you are going to preach without a manuscript, you actually have to be much better prepared." Many priests don't seem to know that rule.

I might have put up with the preaching, but the music was another matter altogether. This parish had well over a thousand members, so I could not understand why it did not have a choir. Instead, we were led in song by a large, well-dressed, perfectly coifed woman who stood at the lectern and sang with great emotion off-key into a microphone. The alternative to the song leader was the intensely earnest folk group with their three guitar chords. My first call as a pastor had been to a small rural parish with an average attendance of ninety and a choir of five. It boggled my mind to think the music and singing in that parish was superior to what I was now experiencing.

One Sunday, after singing the words to "Here I Am Lord" (I, the Lord of sea and sky. . . . My hand shall save. . . .), I turned to my husband and said, "Why are we always pretending to be God in these contemporary Catholic hymns? It strikes me as a bit presumptuous." I then began to notice the inordinate number of references to "I," "me," and "my" in the hymns I was being asked to sing. (As I later read in Thomas Day's Why Catholics Can't Sing, the music "oozes with an indecent narcissism.") Before long, I was standing arms crossed refusing to sing at all.

One day, while I was driving with my five-year-old son, a piece by Bach came over the car radio. "Mommy," my son said, "This is Mr. Bach. We listen to his music in church. I mean we used to listen to him in our old [Lutheran] church. Mommy, can we go back to Mr. Bach's church?" I know Bach is not the be-all and end-all of the worship experience; nevertheless, my husband and I decided we could not attend a parish that undermined our attempts to instill in our children a love of the great liturgical and musical traditions of the Church.

Next stop, St. Catherine's. Here, I experienced the mega-church, Catholic style. St. Catherine's has an excellent organist and a large choir, but they sing the exact same music as St. Mary's, only it is more annoying because the better the performance, the more schmaltzy the music sounds. The monsignor at St. Catherine's is a genuinely nice guy, and his liturgies reflect that fact. The sanctuary, which is really a big brightly lit auditorium, is perfectly designed to draw attention to him at all times. We did not last long at St. Catherine's. After visiting several other parishes, I began to despair of ever finding a satisfactory place of worship.