The modern liturgical expert, quips an anonymous wag in Why Catholics Can't Sing, is "an affliction sent by God, so that those Catholics who have not had the opportunity to suffer for their faith might not be deprived of the opportunity to do so."
This reminds me of a favorite joke:
Question: What's the difference between a liturgist and a terrorist?
Answer: You can negotiate with a terrorist.
Terrorists who blow up churches could not be more effective than the experts who have imposed bric-a-brac decoration and theology, spilling over into the parish hymnal and choir loft with the most vapid, insipid and uninspiring music since Barry Manilow started writing jingles.
Churches can be rebuilt. But when the Mass has become something to endure rather than glory in, you know the experts have one-upped the competition.
The grim routine begins as I enter the church every Sunday and am met by a "door-greeter minister" lacking a blue smock like the door-greeters at Wal-Mart. After I'm seated by a "seating minister" - we used to call them ushers - I try to collect my thoughts under the soft glow of track lighting, but the "music minister" insists on warming up the audience, er, congregation. Mass begins, and the guitar orchestra starts whanging away as the priest sways in procession with altar girls in tow, most of the boys having given up what used to be a noble calling. The priest and his entourage enter the sanctuary unimpeded by communion rails which were removed to make everything accessible to all but the most feeble (surely wheelchair ramps have been installed somewhere to correct this oversight of the differently-abled). He turns around, bellows a stanza of what's left of the strummers and tubthumpers' folk song, and then calls out, "Good morning." If the response is weak, he repeats this until he gets better and louder results. That sets the tone of his role as the leader, not The Priest with the awful power to consecrate bread and wine into the Sacred Body and Blood of Christ. The innovations in ritual set the tone that the Mass is a plaything for anointed experts with a tin-eared aesthetic sense.
Each Sunday's Psalm Responsorial is composed of about four or five bars that no one figures out until after the fourth or fifth response. The writer is typeset below each ditty along with copyright information. Is there a big demand for these on Napster? Are the publishers actually worried someone might try to rip them off, or is it more evidence that the experts take themselves far too seriously? "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord," saith the Psalmist. This certainly qualifies as noise, although it sounds more dirge-like than joyful.
The same aesthetic sense of music, building design and decoration pops up just before communion, the Handshake of Peace, "one of those new things which made everyone feel a bit silly." Day relates the story of a friend who extended his hand to an elderly lady praying the rosary. "The old lady scowled. She looked at the proffered hand as if it were diseased. 'I don't believe in that s***.'" Day wisely observes, "Collectively, the people are quite shrewd. They may not know much about theology or the subtleties of liturgical symbolism, but they can instinctively detect poor or altogether inappropriate selections of prayers, readings, and especially music, which they might protest by not singing."
They're voting with their feet and their voices. Maybe that elderly lady was voting with her hand.