It Finally Happened— I was forced, out of Respect, to leave a Mass…

I am a father and I have a son who is 17. He is industrious and a hard worker. He often works on Sundays but not until the afternoon. This particular Sunday, he needed to go in the morning. What that meant was he could not attend our usual 9am Traditional Latin Low Mass. No problem. He and I will attend a local Diocesan Novus Ordo Mass in the evening because we’re not THOSE type of “trads” who reject Vatican II. We recognize the Novus Ordo as completely valid.

Then, we attended the 5:00 PM evening “Mass” and remembered WHY we attend the Traditional Latin Mass.

I put Mass in quotes above for a reason. I use the word “Mass” the way a man who stumbles into a Chuck E. Cheese after a three-day bender might claim he “went to a restaurant.” It’s technically true. But, just like the cardboard pizza and 6 ft stinky rat at Chuck E Cheese, this “Mass”, ontologically, was a war crime against the living God.

The warning signs arrived before the Entrance Procession began. First, the guitarist—yes guitarist—counted out before bursting forth in all his strumming glory. Then came the Gloria—the hymn the Church has sung for over a thousand years while empires rose and fell—which had been castrated into something that sounded like a Methodist youth lock-in soundtrack.

“GLORY! GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST!”

Over and over so it became a chorus. The chorus was beaten into the ground so relentlessly I began to suspect the music director was paid by the syllable and had a boat payment, a midlife crisis, and a desperate need for applause. Yet, I endured it. I told myself God had survived Arianism, the Borgias, felt banners, and the entire decade of the 1970s. He could survive this. I offered it up like a good little Catholic and tried not to be judgmental.

Then came the Gospel Acclamation, and I discovered there is a hard limit to what can be offered up without being forced to compromise respect for Our Blessed Lord and the rock of Peter.

But first: let’s talk about clapping.

At some point in the last fifty years, some liturgical vandals looked at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass—the unbloody re-presentation of Calvary, the moment heaven opens and God Himself becomes present under the appearance of bread and wine—and thought, “This needs more pep.” After all, nothing communicates “I grasp the gravity of the Crucifixion” quite like the energy of a middle-school pep rally after three liters of Mountain Dew. So now we clap. We clap for the choir. We clap for the lectors. We clap for the retiring sacristan, or secretary or CCD teacher. We would clap for the thurible if anyone still remembered what it was and what it was for and hadn’t hidden it in a broom closet in front of the tabernacle also taken down in 1986.

Here is a simple diagnostic. If you are clapping at Mass, ask yourself who you’re clapping for. If the answer is anyone not currently present under the species of bread and wine, you are not worshipping. You are attending religious inspired dinner theater. The man who would become Pope Benedict XVI wrote in The Spirit of the Liturgy that when applause breaks out in Mass over some human achievement, it is a clinical sign the liturgy has been swapped out for entertainment. It is not a style preference. It is a toe tag on a corpse.

“But Psalm 47 says, ‘Clap your hands, all peoples!’” Yes, and Psalm 150 calls for loud clashing cymbals and Psalm 144 talks about training hands for war. Yet strangely, even the most adventurous parish liturgy committee has not proposed that Father process toward the altar behind the Notre Dame drumline while the ushers conduct bayonet drills. The General Instruction of the Roman Missal is the actual rulebook. I invite anyone to locate the paragraph that establishes the congregation as a rhythm section. I’ll wait. I’ll have plenty of time, because I no longer darken the door of your parish.

Which brings us to the guitarist.

Let’s call him “Kevin.” His actual name is not Kevin, but spiritually, he is Kevin. Kevin either has a ponytail or had one in 1994 and continues to carry himself with the quiet confidence of a man who believes everyone can still see it. Kevin uses the phrase “my music ministry.” Kevin will assure you he is performing for Jesus. Kevin closes his eyes during the Sanctus.

Kevin has never encountered a hymn that couldn't be improved by inserting slightly more Kevin. And Kevin has been waiting all week for this moment. This evening, his moment arrived during the Alleluia.

Yes—the Alleluia.

The acclamation that is supposed to prepare us to hear the actual words of Jesus Christ—struck him as the perfect moment for a guitar solo. Not a flourish. A solo. He leaned back. He bent notes. He made the face. You know the face. The face a man makes when he is convinced, deep in the marrow of his own self-flattery, that he could have been Clapton if not for the tragic conspiracy of a missing record deal and a total absence of talent. He was not assisting in Mass. He was auditioning for a Bon Jovi cover band who’s next confirmed gig was the open mic night on the patio of the local Applebee's.

Then, it happened.

The congregation joined the band.

The laity became his percussion section with the eager participation of people who have forgotten what a sanctuary is for. There they were. Grown adults, in a CATHOLIC church, before the Blessed Sacrament, clapping on the two and the four while belting the Alleluia like they were three choruses away from Margaritaville with the only thing standing between them and a permanent vacation was just a touch more “Spirit of Vatican II”. The woman in front of me was swaying. Swaying. The Gospel of Jesus Christ was thirty seconds away, and she was treating the sanctuary like the lido deck of a Carnival cruise that had run out of both dignity AND Dramamine.

Yes, I Took My Son Out

Someone will inevitably say this was uncharitable. Fine.

I call it fatherhood.

My son is going to spend his entire life being catechized by a culture insisting that nothing is sacred. Everything must entertain you. Everything must affirm you. Everything must stimulate you. Silence is awkward. Reverence is oppressive. Tradition is boring. Attention spans are measured in TikTok clips. Every gathering needs a microphone. Every microphone needs a performer. Every performer needs applause. Every silence must immediately be murdered with noise. The Catholic Church should be the one place on earth telling him:

No.

Here you become quiet.

Here you kneel.

Here you encounter something that does not exist for your entertainment.

Here you are not the audience.

Here the priest is not the star.

Here the choir is not performing.

Here Kevin's unrealized and undeserved recording career is irrelevant.

Here you stand before God.

The Mass Does Not Need Your Help

This is the fundamental mistake beneath all of it. Some people seem genuinely terrified that if Mass is not constantly stimulating, everyone will become bored. So we add applause. We add announcements. We add performances. We add sentimental songs. We add microphones. We add personalities. We add little jokes. We add musical styles designed to make the liturgy feel more “accessible.” Accessible to whom? A regional sales conference?

The Mass is not boring.

WE are bored.

There is a difference. The Mass doesn't need to become more interesting. We need to become more capable of worship. We have been trained by modern life to require constant stimulation, and instead of allowing the liturgy to retrain our souls, we drag our disease into the sanctuary and demand the Mass accommodate it.

God forbid there should be thirty consecutive seconds during which nobody is talking, singing, strumming, clapping, announcing, welcoming, thanking, recognizing, affirming, or congratulating somebody.

Silence might break out.

And then something terrible could happen. We might pray.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Not:

“Be enthusiastic.”

Not:

“Find the groove.”

Not:

“Everybody clap.”

Not:

“Take it away, Kevin.”

Be still.

So put the guitar down. Stop applauding. Fold your hands. Kneel. Look toward the altar.

You are not at a concert.

You are not at a pep rally.

You are not at Applebee's.

You are not aboard a Carnival cruise.

You have entered a Catholic church.

Calvary is being made sacramentally present. Christ is upon the altar. Act accordingly. Clap at the parish picnic. Clap at the school play. Clap when the Knights of Columbus finally gets the fish fryer working. Clap for Kevin when his Bon Jovi tribute band finally lands that Applebee's patio gig.

But during the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass?

Shut up, sit still and pray.