Passively Praying

I complain about church music a lot. I want good music—sometimes for selfish reasons, but other times because the Mass deserves reverence. Catholicism is a physical faith; we should live as though we believe in the Incarnation. Lex orandi, lex credendi. How you engage your body and your senses in worship is both a reflection of your belief and a guide leading you to belief. Kneel, prostrate, bow, stand, make the sign of the Cross. Gaze upward into rafters and images of saints. Fill your ears with songs of reverence. Breathe in incense. Consume the flesh of Christ.

For the same reason, I often lament the lack of incense too. But it’s not supplemented by another artificial smell. There is either incense or not. Not so with music. I’d much rather have a Mass with no music than one with folksy, vapid lyrics or a thumping drum set. I try to block it out, to focus my mind on God, to pray over the noise, screaming inside my head, reminding myself that “God’s here anyway.” Not only does that type of music not assist me in worshipping; it’s an active distraction I have to fight against.

I shouldn’t have to fight at Mass. I’m so tired of fighting.

On days when the sticky dark cloud comes, I barely make it to church. Being there is all I can offer. I can’t pray. I have to rely on the liturgy to do that for me. And that’s what beautiful about the liturgy. It’s a prayer we’re offering up—the congregation, the universal Church, the angels and saints. If I can’t pull my own weight, the Church will carry me through. On better days, I can help.

I was told by a priest that went I can’t pray at home on those days to listen to music that could do the praying for me. Handel’s Chandos Anthems and Gregorian chants do help. I don’t want modern sounds and contemporary verbiage. I want to be taken into the sacred, my senses shown something beyond the weight of worldly living.

I was recently at a Mass on such a day, when the choir sang in acapella Latin. The song sounded familiar from my choir days but I couldn’t quite place it and I couldn’t quite translate it. But it was simple and beautiful and sacred. And since my mind couldn’t find words and my body couldn’t find energy, I let the choir do the praying for me, and I realized just how important that was. I did pray, through the music. I was drawn closer to God. It made a very bad day at least have a good Mass.

That wouldn’t have happened with the congregational hymns from late twentieth century that plague so many Masses. I don’t want to go into what makes music “good” or proper for Mass or how Sacrosanctum Concilium still places Gregorian chant in preference though. I do believe there is objectively better music that instructs our belief better than others. But for now, I just want to sit in a church when I’m broken and be able to pray.