I am writing from an attic apartment in a historic Scottish house. From the kitchen window I can see, far across the fields and past the woods, the Firth of Forth. Although I am comfortable now, the heating system is uncertain and I have caught a cold. My friend Mark, the house’s education officer, is leading a party of students around the grand rooms below.
The philosophy of conservation followed by Mark’s employers is not to restore the 17th-century house to its origins but to preserve it as it was left by its last tenant in 1996. There has been no educated destruction of the 18th-, 19th- or 20th-century layers. Instead everything has been left alone and treated to slow the natural process of decay. Only as things wear out completely will they be replaced. The less they do to the old house, the curators know, the more easily their decisions may be reversed.
I arrived in Scotland in time to witness Mark, a High Church Anglican, perform that most Anglo-Catholic of rituals: converting to Roman Catholicism. Our British set calls this “swimming the Tiber,” and for many Anglo-Catholics there is much metaphorical dipping of the toes into the water and shivering on the banks.
Of course, the marginalization of traditionalists by Canterbury has all but forced them into the river. But then there is the difficulty of leaving elegant High Anglican services for what careless Roman Catholic priests and vulgar cantors too often turn into a slipshod jamboree. Mark did not have to make this sacrifice, however, for he has long attended traditional Latin Masses, otherwise known as the Tridentine Rite.
Now I am not myself a liturgical traditionalist. I believe that the Novus Ordo is a perfectly beautiful rite when done properly and prayerfully. However, when in Scotland, one does as one’s Romish Scots hosts do, and I went to the local Tridentine Mass with Mark last Sunday.
The church isn’t very grand. It looks like a Swiss hunting lodge: long and low and wooden. The altar is flat against the gold curtain behind the tabernacle. To the left of the sanctuary there is a statue of the Sacred Heart. To the right of the sanctuary there is a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Both statues are knee deep in white flowers.
The sanctuary flickered with candles, and the air was heavy with incense. The atmosphere was solemn and still but not at all gloomy. The faithful were all ages, from a squeaking infant to elderly women and men. Some, but not all, of the women, wore hats, scarves or mantillas. The young women had their heads covered, so I tied on a scarf. And despite all the ink spilled in feminist theology, I did not thereby disappear from God’s sight.
There was an organist and a three-voice Men’s Schola. Two servers in their 20s appeared with a priest, and the Schola broke into song. To my surprise, they drowned out the celebrant. I followed the liturgy with difficulty although I understood the general shape. When the Schola fell silent, I could hear only the responses of the head server. I sneaked glances at my fellow congregants to see what they made of this. They seemed perfectly peaceful and attentive. I began to feel peaceful myself, and as I followed the prayers in the missal provided, I was struck by their beauty. The music, too, and the gestures of the priest at the altar were beautiful.
Although the priest and server did most of the speaking, the congregation’s focus was never on the priest or server. Our focus was on the Blessed Sacrament. I saw what I have been told: that Mass is a holy sacrifice. Near the end, after the priest had sung “Ite, missa est” and we had sung “Deo gratias” there was more: the Last Gospel. As the priest recited it, I followed the great passage in the missal: “In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum…et lux in tenebris lucet, et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt.” My eyes filled with sudden, surprising tears.
Contemplating the young Catholics I know who love the Traditional Latin Mass and are joining traditional religious orders, I think that it is too bad that the bishops did not take the careful conservational approach chosen by the curators of this 17th-century house. As weird modern sanctuaries in beautiful old churches attest, it is certainly difficult to reverse extreme makeovers. There is no doubt that some liturgical windows had to be opened. (My head cold testifies that some innovations — like central heating — are necessary for human flourishing.) But sometimes it seems that we have destroyed timeless rituals for a 1970s ethos that is as out of date as burnt-orange shag carpeting. Nevertheless, the old liturgical treasures of the faith remain, and I believe that those born after 1980 will restore them.
Dorothy Cummings is a Toronto-based writer. She has an MA in English literature from the University of Toronto and an M.Div./STB from Regis College. She is currently on leave from doctoral studies in theology at Boston College.
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