A Church
Musician's Lament By
Michael Olbash
In
a typical American parish, the selection of music betrays--and reinforces--an
irreverent approach to the Mass.
Reprinted with permission Apr. 15 (Catholic World Report) -
Most
CWR readers are probably familiar with the orthodox Catholic weekly newspaper,
the Wanderer. I do not know how that title was chosen, but as a conservative
Catholic musician with a considerable amount of training in organ, voice, and
liturgy, I certainly feel like "the wanderer" myself. I wander from
parish to parish, trying to find a community of people with whom I can share my
gifts without being forced to perform the usual "sacro-pop" that has
spread throughout the American Church like an unfettered parasite over the past
thirty years.
Since
my graduation from high school just ten short years ago, I have held
"Director of Music" positions in eight separate parishes, with my
terms of employment ranging in duration from six months to two years. I can't
seem to hold down a job. Sooner or later--usually sooner--I come to blows with
the pastor or a group of influential parishioners over the selection of
liturgical music.
A FAMILIAR
PATTERN
Here
is the basic pattern of what happens when I am hired at a parish. My first
order of business is to clean up that which has preceded me. I come in armed
with the instruction on sacred art and furnishings from the Constitution on the
Sacred Liturgy (124):
&
remove from the house of God... those works that are repugnant to faith and
morals and to Christian devotion and that offend true religious sense either by
their grotesqueness or by the deficiency, mediocrity, or sham in their artistic
quality.
When
they refer specifically to music, the Vatican II documents, and subsequent
Church instructions, are much more delicate in their terminology referring to
sacred musical arts. But their fundamental intent is still the same. A good
deal of the music performed in American churches today is simply not fit for
the house of God, and ought to be replaced.
Even
just playing one sappy song per Mass is like giving sugar to a toddler; it's
only a matter of time before the average individual in the pew will be demanding
more and more of the stuff. Unfortunately, the people in positions of power at
the parish level do not seem to understand that music ministry is not meant to
entertain. It is meant to express our unity, our reverence, our humility, our
awestruck wonder at the holy Sacrifice which Christ celebrates for us on the
altar. It is meant to give voice to our beliefs, to lift up the teachings of
the faith--not just to give everyone a warm feeling. Sappy music begets sappy
theology, sappy dogma, and sappy moral teaching. Today's Catholics, facing the
difficult challenges that come with living a moral life and defending the
faith, need more.
So,
I go about the task of replacing the mediocre music, carefully retaining and
emphasizing those hymns known by the parishioners which are worthy and
practical. I introduce a few new hymns every couple of months--repeating them
ad nauseam lest I be accused of not giving the assembly enough time to learn
this "new" and "unfamiliar" music. The "new" and
"unfamiliar" music that I champion, however, is Gregorian chant and
traditional hymnody--much as one might find in the Adoremus Hymnal or
comparable volumes. Since many parishes have now gone a full two generations
without ever hearing or learning the beautiful music of their heritage, it is
most certainly "new" and "unfamiliar" when they hear it for
the first time. I introduce simple Latin chants. In this process, I am doing
quite literally what some pastors have suggested that I should do: following
"the spirit of Vatican II." The Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy
instructs us that "the use of the Latin language should be preserved"
(36) and that "Gregorian chant as distinctive of the Roman liturgy ...
should be given pride of place in liturgical services." (116) One of my
liturgy professors once told me, "You know, my children never heard 'Holy
God We Praise Thy Name' in their entire lifetime. It is not their cultural
experience of the Church." Well, whose fault is that? Liberal pastors and
musicians have been deliberately depriving the faithful of the music of the
Catholic tradition. Certainly, it makes sense for non-Western cultures to use
the music of their own traditions in the celebrations of Roman Catholic
liturgies. But liturgists today are using the argument that we must use the
music of American culture. What is American culture? Is it Peter, Paul, and
Mary, or Brittney Spears? American Catholics had a culture; it was ripped
violently away from them in the 1960s and 1970s, and the void--the liturgical
vacuum, if you will--was filled with "deficiency, mediocrity, or
sham." The parish choir usually undergoes a transformation when I begin
rehearsing with them. A certain percentage of the members leave, since they are
no longer permitted to cozy up to the microphone and sing songs that make them
feel good, subjecting their friends and neighbors to their crooning while they
fuel their own egos. The parish cantors, particularly if they are volunteers,
may have a similar reaction. Many cantors have come to of the church as their own
private karaoke club, and many take inordinate delight in commanding the
microphone, giving their neighbors the impression that their singing is
extremely important--a critical part of their church-going experience. Yet
while there are always some defections, an equal or greater number of new faces
usually join the choir, anxious to learn something about music, and ready to
contribute to the process. Once I have disturbed the liturgical status quo in a
parish, the pastor is faced with an unsettling dilemma. If he is a comfortably
liberal Catholic, he eventually recognizes that he has a problem; he cannot
allow this traditional, orthodox music to take hold in his parish. So our
arguments begin.
One
of the pastor's arguments is usually that "the people are not singing
anymore." In most cases this is simply not true. The people are singing
better than ever, because they are now singing well-crafted music which makes
sense melodically--music which does not have long phrases and pauses or
syncopated rhythms--music which goes where an untrained performer expects it to
go.
But
even if it were true that the people were raising the roof of the church with
their singing of "All I Ask of You" or "Let There Be Peace on
Earth" before I arrived in the parish, would that be a convincing argument
against traditional music? Many people will happily fill themselves with candy
and ice cream when it is available, but their choice does not mean that those
foods are nourishing. By the same logic, a steady diet of "lite"
liturgical music is unhealthy for the liturgy.
In
any case, the pastor's solution to his problem is either to fire me on the
spot, or to push me toward resignation by forming a "liturgical
committee" with a membership carefully chosen from among his favored parishioners.
This committee will seen accuse me of having an "old church"
attitude, and failing to choose music that speaks to them and their modern
experience.
A
few weeks ago I was formally terminated from my most recent parish position at
a church in the suburbs of Boston. After two years of building up a program
that expanded the choir, promoted the singing of Gregorian chant and well
crafted hymnody, and generated widespread enthusiasm for quality music, I was
informed by the newly assigned pastor, a self-proclaimed
"progressive," that I was henceforth to provide a mix of
"contemporary" music along with my regular selections. Artistically
speaking, this is akin to serving a fine cut of filet mignon with Hawaiian Punch.
My differences with the new pastor proved irreconcilable.
Being
newly unemployed, I spent the next few Sundays wandering from one parish to
another. One week I found myself in one of Boston's most influential churches,
at a Mass that was regarded to be a "high" liturgy. There were six
paid professional musicians at the Mass, along with a dozen or so volunteers.
At first glance this appeared to be the perfect situation for a positive
musical and liturgical experience. But such was not the case. The music
resembled a blend of a slick Broadway musical and a yoga meditation tape. There
parishioners had been trained loudly to proclaim their "inclusive
language" adaptations of the prayers. ("Peace to God's people on
earth"& "for us and for our salvation"& "It is
right to give God thanks and praise.) At least two-thirds of the congregation
used the "progressive" posture, so that those of us who knelt during
the Eucharistic Prayer appeared to be the dissidents. (A toddler sitting behind
me whispered, "Mommy, why is that man kneeling?" Her response was
revealing: "Don't worry, honey; he just doesn't know how we do things
here.") By the time the celebrants marched out of the church, to the
beating of a native American hand-drum, I was ready to run for the nearest exit.
Soon
I will start work at yet another church-organist position. But in light of my
track record, I have to wonder how long it will be before I am
"wandering" again.
The
story has been the same everywhere. A few influential parishioners clamor for the
old Glory and Praise songs of the St. Louis Jesuits: selections like "Here
I Am, Lord," and "Be Not Afraid." I resist. These songs are
designed solely to tap the emotions. They can turn an otherwise reverent
liturgy into a group-therapy session.
Unfortunately,
many Catholics judge the quality of liturgical music by its ability to make
them cry, or to "speak to" them. And those who lobby for such music
are too often backed by parish priests whose goal is to "gather together
an affirming, inclusive, and supportive community." In the eyes of these
priests, the liturgy is a "dynamic faith-journey through the labyrinth of
life," rather than the holy Sacrifice of the Mass.
The
music that we used at Mass has a powerful impact on the way we approach the
liturgy, and the way we understand our faith. And any serious study of
contemporary Catholic liturgical music should lead the investigator to
recognize the ways in which many new hymns undermine reverence and faith.
The
hymns of the St. Louis Jesuits, however hideously they might be crafted as
pieces of music, at least are usually based upon Scripture and authentic
Catholic teaching. But other songs from the 1980s and 1990s--by composers like
David Haas, Michael Joncas, and Marty Haugen--are more frightening. Not only is
the music poorly crafted; not only are the words trite; not only are the
melodies shamelessly dramatic and emotional; but many of these contemporary
composers proudly identify themselves as theological liberals, and the
teachings that they subtly espouse through their music can be dangerous.
Personally,
I stopped performing the music of David Haas after he published Dear Sister
God, and presented a music workshop at which he and his ex-wife, composer Jeanne
Cotter, informed the participants of their "duty" and
"responsibility" to purge their parishes of "exclusive
language" in the liturgy.
Father
Jan Michael Joncas, the notorious composer of the drippingly saccharine
"On Eagle's Wings," is another serious offender, who promotes
misleading ideas about Holy Communion. His series of songs and rituals called
"Tableprayer" is used all round the country by women and
non-Catholics who act as quasi-celebrants, breaking bread and sharing wine at
meetings that tread dangerously close to profaning the Catholic Mass.
Marty
Haugen, a Lutheran whose music is probably performed more widely in American
Catholic parishes than that of any other composer, has produced ugly,
ridiculous hymns that emphasize the sun, the moon, trees, and dancing--all set
to primitive melodies that evoke a whimsical stroll through a field of organic
sunflowers.
Crack
open a copy of GIA Publication's Gather hymnal or the annual Music Issue from
Oregon Catholic Press, and you will find clear evidence of feminist theology,
an overwhelming amount of confusing (if not outright heretical) texts about the
nature of the Eucharist, and countless awkward "inclusive language"
revisions of familiar hymns. You will find dozens of songs and "psalm
settings" that are said to be "based on" or "inspired
by" passages from Scripture, yet completely obliterate the meaning of the
original text.
Consider
some of the most recognizable passages from the popular hymnals: "Let
peace begin with me." "Here I am, Lord; is it I, Lord?" "I
myself am the bread of life& broken and shared by Christ." This is the
music of a self-centered church, where the individual--not Jesus Christ--is
king. At best it is empty and sentimental; there is no reverence, no sense of
the holy or the transcendent, about it. This is the music of a secular-humanist
society, trying to assume the cultural identity of our Church.
MUSIC HAS
CONSEQUENCES
For
many Catholics, the 45-minute experience of Sunday Mass is the only time during
the course of a week that they will give any attention whatsoever to their role
in the world as Catholics. For still more Catholics, these encounters with the
liturgy--with the Church at worship--are not even weekly; they are limited to
attendance at weddings and funerals, or Mass at Christmas and Easter. What
information are these people receiving through their participation in the
liturgy? How are they being formed by their experience of worship?
Orthodox
Catholics might complain, and with ample justification, about the arrogant
priests and their talk-show banter. They might cite the homilies that, week
after week, provide nothing more substantive the sort of basic precepts that we
learn in kindergarten. They might talk about the homilist who bounces around
the aisles, or the celebrants who leap down from the altar to shake hands with
dozens of people at the Kiss of Peace. They might express outrage when the
words of the liturgy are altered or omitted. But are these the things that have
the most profound effect--the things that stay in the memory of a lukewarm
Catholic long after the Mass is over?
Very
few people will leave church on Sunday morning repeating the words of the
homily. But many will be humming the tune of the closing hymn. Music can have a
profound affect on the experience of the Mass, in a very subtle but lasting
way.
Rather
than explain my point in abstract terms, let me illustrate it with an imaginary
visit to a hypothetical parish: an ordinary American parish, where the music is
contemporary and the theology is "progressive." Most readers--unless
they are fortunate enough to live near a church with an orthodox pastor and a
cooperative congregation--will recognize familiar elements in this portrait.
Perceptive readers should also notice how the music shapes the worship.
HOLY
COMMUNITY
Walk
into church about ten minutes before Sunday Mass. You will hear the choir and
musicians hurriedly practicing for the Mass that is about to begin. Microphones
will be turned on everywhere, picking up distant sounds of laughter, rattling
of papers, and an occasional "Test: One Two. Check: One Two." If you
are new to the parish, Father Slick will probably come up to you and say,
"Hey! Thanks for coming out!" Then the lights will turn on, illuminating
the sanctuary with a flood of brilliance, revealing that the highest platform
in the entire church is the presider's chair, centered on a "worship
space" that resembles a stage. You try to say a few private prayers, but
you cannot fight the feeling that you are sitting in a Broadway theater,
waiting for the curtain to go up.
The
Mass begins with the singing of Marty Haugen's "Gather Us In," as the
priest walks down the aisle. We sing the words "gather us in" seven
times, extolling the virtues of "we" and "us" and expressing
our joy at what the community is about to do. When he reaches his throne in the
center of the sanctuary, the priest waits impatiently for the music to end.
When it does, he greets everyone with a hearty "Good morning," and a
few jocular comments about the weather or the local football team. Finally, out
from the midst of his banter, there emerges the Sign of the Cross.
The
Kyrie is not sung here, because the liturgy committee has rejected the
"old-church" approach that makes people feel guilty, and the use of
Latin. (It probably would not have helped to remind them that the Kyrie is
Greek--an even older language.) So Father Slick ad-libs his own penitential
rite, which is recited in English.
Ordinarily
this parish skips over the Gloria, but this week the choir director is
introducing a new setting. The congregation sings, as a refrain, "Give
glory to God in the highest and peace to God's people on earth." That
refrain is repeated over and over again, while the choir sings the verses. Even
a young child would notice that the word "his" has been replaced by
"God's" in each repetition of the refrain. What does this heavy
emphasis on "inclusive" language teach that child? Will he eventually
find it jarring to hear the sung "the old way?" And by the way, why
can't the faithful sing the Gloria in its entirety, rather than just a refrain?
The next piece of music is the responsorial psalm. Will we hear the appointed
Gradual of the day, which is specified as the first choice in the Vatican II
documents? No. Will we hear a dignified musical setting of the approved psalm
text as it appears in the Lectionary? No. We might hear the
"inclusive-language" Grail translation of a psalm, despite the fact
that Rome has revoked the imprimatur from the Grail Psalter. Still more likely,
we will hear a completely fabricated text: a sentimental rendering
"inspired" by a psalm that is deemed appropriate for the season. It
goes without saying that a few verses will be omitted, for the sake of brevity.
What does all this tell the people in the pews? If they are following along
faithfully in their missalettes, they must wonder why the psalm they hear is
different from the one they read. They might also wonder why portions of the
Sacred Scripture have been omitted, and they may conclude that the Word of God
is not as important as the celebrant's schedule or the cantor's showmanship.
Let
us not gloss over the Gospel acclamation. Gone are the days when a simple
"Alleluia" in chant would suffice. Now it has to be "Alleluia,
give the glory..." or "Alleluia, praise the God of truth and
life...," or some other arbitrary embellishment.
After
a homily (that uses the word "gather" about 47 times), and recitation
of an inclusivized Nicene Creed (heaven forbid chanting the Credo!) we will be
instructed to join in singing the song for the preparation of the gifts. (It is
not called an offertory hymn, even though the term "offertory" is
still used in Vatican liturgical documents.) This is probably the song that the
choir practiced most. They are strumming three--maybe four!--chords on their
guitars, and the MIDI-interface on the keyboard is at full throttle. The
singers are cradling their microphones, almost touching their lips, swaying to
their music, veins standing out in their necks as they croon. We notice all
this, because the pastor moved the choir out of the loft, down to the front of
the church, where they stand with their backs to the sanctuary.
Until
fairly recently, the keyboardist would improvise from the end of the
"preparation song" until the celebrant washed his hands in the
traditional Lavabo ritual. But now the parish has jettisoned that ritual; it is
considered passé.
The
Eucharistic acclamations are loudly strummed and improvised upon while the
priest recites the Eucharistic prayer. The Sanctus is embellished with extra
words and phrases. The Memorial Acclamation is Marty Haugen's "We
Remember" rather than one of the four approved texts. The "Great
Amen" is adorned with extra "Alleluia's" and "forever and
ever's" The Lamb of God incorporates a score of extra verses--with tropes
such as "Jesus, ancient wind," and "Jesus, friend of all."
This provides an extended time in which the celebrant can distribute Communion
to the dozen or more Eucharistic ministers.
At
Communion time, we are instructed to join in singing the refrain of the
Communion hymn. The General Instruction to the Roman Missal tells us that we
can use the antiphon from the Graduale Romanum, or the simple gradual, or have
the choir sing alone. But in this parish we follow the most enlightened
liturgical trends. Communion, we have been told, is a time for expressing our
unity. So we sing together--about sharing bread and sharing grapes, about signs
and symbols, not about the Body and Blood of Christ. One song follows another
(we can't help noticing that the ending of the second song resembles a ditty
from a popular children's television program) so that there is never a moment
of silence for private prayers of thanksgiving. This rite centers on the
community, and the feeling of community can only be achieved if the
congregation is constantly singing the simple refrain.
Finally
it is over. The priest, having told us to "Go in peace," adds a
cheerful, "Have a nice day!" And we join in the race for the parking
lot, as the choir belts out, "Our God Is an Awesome God."
I
am not a theologian or a canon lawyer. I am not a priest and certainly not a
bishop. I am an ordinary parish musician, with a few observations based on
experience, raising a desperate appeal from the trenches. There is a real war
going on here: a struggle for the heart and soul of the Catholic Church, and
the main battleground is the holy Sacrifice of the Mass.
To
be sure this battle is being fought on other fronts as well. There are
important struggles being waged in the seminaries, in the bishops' conferences,
in the press, in academe. But the widespread abuse of our liturgy should be the
primary focus of concern. Many Catholics are inclined to believe that liturgical
abuses are a result of theological dissent, sexual deviation among the clergy,
anti-Catholic bias in the news media, the secularization of modern society, and
other factors. I would urge readers to consider the possibility that liturgical
abuse is not an effect of these other problems, but their root cause.
Write
to Phil Lawler at Catholic World Report
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