The Death of Imagination

I've been dreaming about zeppole all week. If not for my stinking vow, I would've headed straight over to Pasticceria Natalia. So imagine my surprise when a box of them appeared in the department this morning. I confronted the culprit, my direct supervisor, who says he was in his mother's neighbourhood this morning and couldn't help himself. I told him about my dilemma, and he replied, "Oh, dear, I've become a near occasion of sin?" But I took full responsibility for reaching in, slicing off a quarter of a zeppola, and scarfing it down.

I feel so dirty.

I really wish more media outlets would learn to distinguish "Latin mass" from "Tridentine mass". The novelty of Benny 16's Summorum Pontificum is not that it allows the mass to be said in Latin; this has been possible all along. It's that it allows the Latin mass that our grandparents grew up with to be said without special permission. You see, Vatican II didn't just change the language of the mass, it changed the whole text of the liturgy: What prayers were included, the congregation's responses, and on and on. Older Catholics could always request the performance of Novus Ordo Latin masses, but they weren't the same as the masses they grew up with. Furthermore, even before these changes were made, the Tridentine mass was being performed in languages other than English. Nevertheless, a priest still needed special permission to perform a Tridentine mass regardless whether it was in English, Latin, Kikongo, or whatever.

Incidentally, it's up to the bishop of each diocese to decide whether to grant permission for performance of the Tridentine mass, so actual practice varies a lot in the USA and worldwide. In Chicago, Tridentine masses have been available for almost 20 years now at the parish of St. John Cantius in Ukrainian Village, so the effect of the Pope's letter will probably be minor. Perhaps the media coverage will prompt a few more nostalgic parishioners to seek out this parish, but I suspect anyone with more than a passing interest knew about it already.

I overheard some kids on the el over the weekend discussing the change and calling it "a step backward". "I think what people want is for them to be more progressive." I wonder about that. If you're really interested in progressive Christianity, why would you turn to the church whose name is byword for backwardness and ossification? I'm curious what a brand analyst would say if hired to advise the RCC. I suspect he'd see more value in playing up the ties to tradition; after all, that's what makes this denomination unique in a sea of johnny-come-lately sects and congregations.

Fr Medlar totally owes me. Not because I flew out to LA--that I was glad to do. No, it's because he made me eat not one but two Catholic masses, which is twice as many as any of my other friends had ever asked. First there was the (two-hour) ordination mass on Saturday, then there was the (regular-length) mass of thanksgiving the next day--a real gyp because it was his first mass only on a technicality. He said only a token bit (two lines of the eucharistic prayer) and didn't preach, but I had to wait around to the very end for his two minutes of accepting the Oscar.

The longer mass was at St. Charles Borromeo--a known locale for star spotting in North Hollywood! Despite dating back only to 1956, it's a beautiful, ornate, Mission-revival church with everything you'd expect to find in a pre-Vatican II structure: Heavy carved wood reredos, choir loft with organ, Marian and Josephine altars, arched porticos, a baptismal font in an enclosed courtyard, stained glass for days. We saw its lovely steeple from blocks away and said, "That must be the church." The most surprising feature was an open, well-lit area to the left of the altar and separated from it by a portico. Sitting near the front of the groom's side of the church, I had a good look into it (at least until the apse became clogged with clergy). As we feared, there was no air conditioning, only the natural coolness of a shady stone structure.

By contrast, Sunday's house of worship was about as characterless as you can expect to find. Even the monks dismissively referred to it as "one of those round churches", the kind that began to mushroom in American suburbs starting in the 60s. Only later did I learn that this one didn't even date back earlier than the 21st century. Antelope Valley is apparently experiencing explosive growth as ever more people prefer an insane commute to living south of the San Gabriels. When I was told the first day that the mass would be in Lancaster, I pictured a quaint rural town; only the day of did I discover it was actually in an endless maze of brand-new subdivisions, where we counted a total of three pedestrians during our midday approach.

I didn't even realise I was looking at the church until we were nearly ready to turn into the parking lot. It was stuccoed the same dusty orange as the walls around all the subdivisions; at first, I thought it was something municipal. The interior is pleasant enough--thrusting wooden beams and good use of light, central AC, the biggest and nicest cry room I've seen--but as sterile as a shopping centre atrium. Outside of a jarringly traditional crucifix, there's not a single religious icon on display. When I stepped out for a bit during the communion procession, I realised I had no idea who it was dedicated to. I began searching for any clues--if not a statue, at least a sign--and didn't find anything, not in the vestibule, not on the front of the church, not anywhere around the parking lot. Only when I picked up a registration form for religious instruction inside the door did I see that I was at Blessed Junipero Serra Catholic Church. (I didn't find out the name of the town, Quartz Hill, until we were leaving it.)

The one unexpectedly humanising element in this wasteland was bagpipes. monshu had been exploring along one side of the church and called me over to listen to them float over the subdivision wall. At first we thought they might be a recording, but soon we heard enough stops, starts, and minor error to realise that someone must be practicing "Scotland the Brave" in their backyard.

On top of everything else, we learned that the pastor was a crotchety old priest who begrudged renting out the huge parish hall for weddings, baptisms, or celebrations of any kind. I'm not sure how the monks talked him into feeding us Chinese food in it and it's just as well that he didn't see all the Filipino and Samoan children have a grand old time chasing each other around it. (As far as I could tell, he wasn't present, only the assistant pastor.)