Don’t be Gary…
Pentecost is almost here, which means all across America, millions of Catholics are preparing for the annual liturgical tradition of pretending they still care.
Somewhere this Sunday, a man named Gary—wearing khaki shorts, New Balance sneakers, and a polo shirt tucked into his spiritual mediocrity—is going to stroll into Mass eleven minutes late carrying a Thirstbuster or Iced Coffee the size of a baptismal font. He will genuflect with all the reverence of a man checking under a hotel bed for loose change, mumble through half the Creed, skip every verse of the hymns except the refrain, and then march up for Communion despite not having been to Confession since the George H.W. Bush administration.
And Gary will consider himself a “good Catholic.”
Why?
Because he once attended a parish mission in 1987 where a former Jesuit with a guitar explained that Vatican II was about “being nice.”
That’s it. That’s the catechesis.
This is the generation that turned Pentecost—the day tongues of fire descended upon the Apostles and transformed them into fearless evangelists willing to die for Christ—into an annual celebration of tambourines, liturgical jazz hands, and hymns that sound like rejected jingles from a 1974 Coca-Cola commercial.
You know the type of parish.
The sanctuary looks like a Marriott conference center from 1985. The tabernacle has been relocated to somewhere behind a plastic ficus tree and a pamphlet rack. There’s a giant mural of a smiling hippie with a halo behind the altar with arms wide ready to give you a therapeutical hug. The church bulletin contains twelve announcements about “listening sessions,” “community accompaniment,” and something called the “Eco-Spirituality Gardening Ministry.”
No mention of sin. No mention of judgment. No mention of sacrifice.
Because that might make someone uncomfortable.
And discomfort, we are told by the modern Church bureaucracy, is apparently the eighth deadly sin.
The entire spiritual worldview of the lukewarm Catholic can essentially be summarized as follows:
“Jesus wants me to be vaguely pleasant while expecting absolutely nothing of me whatsoever.”
That’s the religion now.
Catholicism has been reduced from a cosmic battle for souls into a suburban self-esteem seminar with occasional incense.
The average lukewarm Catholic today treats the Faith like a family gym membership. Technically active. Rarely used. Mostly symbolic. Frequently ignored until Christmas and Easter.
They will tell you they are “very involved” in parish life because they helped organize a spaghetti dinner fundraiser in 2009. Meanwhile, their children haven’t been to Mass in three years and believe the Holy Trinity is probably a female-led indie folk band from Portland.
But don’t worry. The parish council and diocese assures us the Church is “thriving” and “expanding.”
Thriving where exactly? Expanding in the same sense that the Titanic experienced “unexpected aquatic expansion”?
The actual numbers are horrifying.
Mass attendance has cratered. Baptisms are collapsing. Catholic marriages are disappearing. Entire dioceses are closing parishes faster than Spirit Halloween opens temp stores. Yet every diocesan communications office continues releasing cheerful press statements written in the tone of a hostage video.
“We are excited about new opportunities for synodal encounter.”
Translation: nobody under 70 is here anymore.
And yet the people responsible for this catastrophe still refuse to admit failure. Instead, they blame the only Catholics who still appear to actually believe the religion.
The traditional Catholics.
The horror.
The family with seven children praying the Rosary daily? Dangerous extremist.
The young man wearing a suit to Mass? Clearly unstable. The woman wearing a chapel veil? Probably one step away from launching a counterrevolution if she could only get out from under the thumb of her misogynistic, paternalist husband. Catholics attending the Traditional Latin Mass? They’re the greatest threat facing Christianity since Nero.
Meanwhile, Father Bob from St. Suburbaness of Perpetual Felt Banners Parish can spend forty years free-styling Eucharistic prayers while “Susan” from the liturgy committee performs interpretive dance to guitars and flute music in front of the altar, and everyone calls that “vibrant.”
The average post-concilliar suburban parish now has the spiritual atmosphere of a regional airport terminal. You walk in and immediately hear music that sounds like Simon & Garfunkel fell into a vat of antidepressants. Then comes the aggressively cheerful greeter wearing a rainbow lanyard and orthopedic sandals who says, “Good morning, Church Family!” with the same energy hostage negotiators use during standoffs.
Then Father begins his homily.
Not a sermon. Never a sermon.
A “reflection.”
And the reflection inevitably includes a story about his trip to a coffee shop where he encountered Christ in the “charity” of a blue-haired barista named “Skyler.”
The Gospel reading could be about divine judgment, repentance, martyrdom, or eternal life, and somehow the conclusion always becomes:
“What Jesus really wants is radical inclusion and sustainable kindness.”
Amazing.
Two thousand years of Catholic theology reduced to a Hallmark card written by a guidance counselor.
And the pews empty out.
The young leave.
Belief in the Eucharist collapses.
And vocations disappear.
Yet, the institutional Church keeps doubling down like a casino addict convinced the next pull of the slot machine will definitely save everything.
“Maybe another listening session will fix it.”
No, Susan. The Apostles did not conquer the Roman Empire through moderated small-group dialogue and acoustic guitar meditations.
They preached repentance.
They preached truth.
They preached Christ crucified.
And they did so with a courage born from actual belief—not the lukewarm spiritual oatmeal that defines so much of modern Catholic life.
Because lukewarmness is the true religion of the age.
Not atheism. Not paganism.
Comfort.
Americans will sacrifice almost anything for comfort—including truth itself.
We have Catholics who meticulously research organic dog food but cannot explain Real Presence. Men who can recite fantasy football statistics with prophetic precision but have never opened the Catechism. Parents who spend $9,000 annually on youth travel sports while complaining that Catholic schools are “too expensive.”
And then they wonder why the Faith evaporated in one generation.
Because children can detect fraud.
And if Catholicism is presented merely as a pleasant cultural accessory—a spiritual hobby squeezed between Netflix and brunch—then eventually nobody will bother pretending anymore.
Which brings us to the uncomfortable reality the Church establishment desperately avoids:
The Catholics most seriously practicing the Faith today are often found in the very communities modern bishops treat like problematic relatives at Thanksgiving dinner.
The remnant.
The strange people waking up early for ancient liturgies. The families actually fasting during Lent. The young Catholics learning doctrine instead of therapeutic slogans. The converts discovering that reverence and transcendence are infinitely more compelling than Father Kevin’s “Ukulele Mass for Environmental Justice.”
And yes, many of them are concentrated in the tiny percentage of Catholics attending the pre-Vatican II liturgies.
Not because Latin is magical.
Not because nostalgia saves souls.
But because those communities still tend to believe Catholicism is objectively true and eternally binding instead of a flexible spiritual lifestyle brand.
And ironically, in an age obsessed with “authenticity,” these are often the only Catholics actually living like they believe any of this is real.
That is the hope of Pentecost.
Not the bloated bureaucracies.
Not the endless synodal corporate jargon.
Not the beige suburban Catholicism rapidly dissolving into irrelevance.
The hope is the remnant.
Small? Yes. Mocked? Constantly.
But Christianity began with twelve terrified men hiding in a room.
Then the Holy Ghost arrived.
And suddenly the world belonged to them.
