“Come on, people, now, smile on your brother…” filled the airwaves in my kitchen yesterday morning. Now that brings back memories of an uncertain period in my life. 1969 was a good year if you were a folk musician, and the Grassroots had by then joined other rockers, like Bob Dylan (only ever depressing with his lyrics) and Joan Baez, all hoping to cash in on the implications of the Catholic Church’s revolution. Pope John XXIII had sent shock waves across the Catholic world when he rolled out “Vatican II” in 1959. With this extreme modernization of the Church, communities began to examine from a new angle their own bridges, wondering how troubled indeed were the waters flowing beneath. Social justice was top of the list of causes to be taken up in the 60’s and 70’s. People in that day, yes, hippies, if you will, allowed their disaffection to shape their worlds, at least the part of it over which they felt they could exert some control. Enter the folk mass.
Bishops, cardinals, and monsignors may have grumbled, but they couldn’t argue that a restlessness was consuming their congregations. For most parishes, compromise was the only solution if numbers meant anything; high mass in Latin could go on, and for the bongo aficionados, a “vernacular” mass was added to the limited menu.
I welcomed the alternative. I wouldn’t characterize my response to the folk mass as pleasure, per se, but acceptance. I had never enjoyed the Latin mass, although it’s doubtful that enjoyment was one of its objectives. As many years as I attended Latin mass with the inscrutable Monsignor Meehan presiding, I could never crack the code; those words just rose and fell around my ears, and taunted me with their secret meaning. And the droning, oh, the droning; wake me up when it’s over!
So, I rode that boat ashore, right over to the Parish Center, a grand-sized building recently constructed to accommodate the baby-boom generation. This is where I make a full disclosure. I didn’t love Folk Mass; I loved, however, the promised honey-glazed donut that was the reward for sitting there (and sometimes standing and swaying to the music). There were other advantages, too; the mass ran about 10-15 minutes shorter than the version over at the church proper, you could carry the tune and sing the lyrics more easily, you could play along with “the band” with your own acoustic guitar (if you so chose), and your attempts to track who was there and who was missing were less easily detected due generally to the more restive atmosphere. As you might conclude, I may have missed the real point of it all.
The absolute worst experience at Folk Mass was the day that I had just swung my gaze back to the front of the hall, (clearly just checking the flock). Sister Julia Francis was standing right in front of me with a tambourine in her outstretched hand. I shook my head vigorously as if to convey the obvious, which was, No, you’ve got it all wrong! I have no sense of rhythm! Please, I beg you, take it away! As I tried to impart silently all these panicked thoughts to her, she calmly stood there until I took the tambourine from her. Needless to say, Allelu that day lacked a certain percussive brilliance. (I learned that day not to sit in an aisle seat.)
Unsurprisingly, the liturgical wars are still being waged in earnest, and although Pope Benedict made up lost ground during his tenure by, among other things, promoting the Latin mass, our new Pope espouses a much more liberal ideology, one that naturally embraces a customized approach to mass. Fit the shoe to the foot, in other words. (I reject the logic that if only Latin mass were to be offered, your greatly shrunken congregation will reflect a more pure following. It's just snobbish). There has been fallout, to be sure, with a more permissive culture. The purveyors of ermine capelets ranging around St. Peter’s Square today, for example, are bewailing the loss of high-stylin’ Benedict, primarily because priests, bishops, etc. nowadays prefer to rock (if only to enjoy the financial savings) the laid back, nylon-sporting fashion choices of Francis. In response, the traditionalists who would disparage Frank’s embrace of Folk Masses and all that they imply, mutter about how Michael can take his f-in’ boat and row it elsewhere; clearly, it’s not welcome ashore.
*“Sacrae Liturgiae Catholica in Discrimine rursus” means, I think, “The Catholic Liturgy is in Danger again”, but my Latin is, well, you’ve figured that out.
This story takes me back but to a slightly more recent time. In May of 1974, after a period of some uncertainty, I moved from Cape Cod back to Bridgewater to live at 1777 South Street with Papa Joe and Nana May. Papa Joe was not well, was weakened by cancer and had not been to mass for quite a while. He was not driving anymore. During one mid-summer Saturday, I offered to take both Papa Joe and Nana May to Mass the next day, Sunday. I had not been to Mass in a long time either and had recently escaped from my circumstance of "living in sin". Perhaps by going to church I could be reclaimed but if nothing else, this would be a help to my most devout grandparents.
ReplyDeleteThe next day, the three of us went to the 10:00 Mass at the Saint Thomas Aquinas church. There were two masses being said, one upstairs and one down. Since Papa Joe couldn't climb stairs anymore, we went to the downstairs mass which was right at street level.
The mass was going along swimmingly until the sermon. I did not know this priest, having been away from the church for 4 years. I assumed that this priest was just part of the regular rotation of priests assigned to the parish. The priest introduced himself to the parish and said he had come from the Lakeville parish. He had been asked by the local parish to fill in due to some conflict with the Folk Mass which left not enough priests to cover all the masses being said.
Then, he started a harangue describing the Folk Mass "as a cancer on the side of the church" and that having a folk mass was "creating a schism in the church", and "how would people know which was the right way to observe mass". Obviously, something had been going on while I away. Next to me, I noticed Papa Joe hanging his head. Eventually, the mass ended. As we walked out to the car, Papa Joe seemed very unhappy. As we drove home, Papa Joe said, "I am never going to Mass again."
After returning home to the farm, little by little the story came out. Some years earlier, before Papa Joe had become too sick, he had been asked to play the organ for the Folk Mass and had done so. He had been very happy to provide his services to the "folkies" and had come to enjoy the enthusiasm. To be confronted by this priest with his views on church orthodoxy during the mass we attended had offended Papa Joe deeply. That incident was it for me too.
Tom, heartbreaking is what comes to my mind when I read your comment. It was a truly sad moment for Papa that we comprehend through your expression. Papa loved music and I like hearing that he was willing to go with the times and play for the folkies. Pass up a chance to play? Nope. I wish we could hear his playing again.
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