As you may know, I winter in Montana and summer in Florida. (“To winter” and “to summer” are used as verbs among a certain set.) Florida’s southwest gulf coast is beautiful, warm, and old. Very old. At 70, I am somewhere around the median age in my neighborhood, whereas in Montana I am the oldest man I know.
I am pleased to see that the churches here in Florida, at least the Catholic ones, are full on Sundays. During the season (“the season” refers to only one of the four seasons), there are four Sunday masses, packed full. With old people. A general absence of crying babies.
Something else is noticeably absent: crucifixes. I have been to four of this diocese’s churches, and the only ones I have seen are the small ones carried atop a pole in the entry procession. I went snooping around the cathedral one day after mass, and found a beautiful crucifix sculpture, hidden in a small alcove between chapels, invisible to the congregation. The ciborium of the host was also not visible, being kept “off-stage” in the wings.
The entire feeling of the services in these churches could only be described as, well… protestant. Mainline protestant. The Methodist church of my youth. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But when I compare my Florida experience with that of my Helena home, I cannot help but focus on what is missing.
Helena is blessed with one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen, let alone prayed in. Its beauty may have spoiled me for other, more modern church architecture. But that is not the main thing
And it isn’t the crucifix. One of St. Helena’s few flaws is that the gold crucifix is subsumed (consumed?) by the dazzling gold grillwork reredos behind it.
When I come to church, I am seeking an encounter with holiness, sanctity. I find it every time I enter St. Helena Cathedral. But I have not found it once, at least not to any similar extent, in the churches of Florida.
I know how precious the mass has been throughout history and around the world. I have read of masses celebrated secretly in miserable prisons, in hidden closets and secret forest clearings. I know that holiness can be found anywhere it is earnestly sought.
In perspective, my quibbles and complaints sound very much like first-world problems, indeed pure snobbery. I come to church with the mind-set of a theater critic. I want every church to meet the standards of my magnificent home cathedral. I want every priest to have a good voice (or at least a good sound system). I want a good cantor and good music selections. (And I wish the bible readings were in better translation.)
Some of this is, as I realize, pure snobbery. I need to get over it, and to recognize the blessing of having churches to attend and eucharists to receive.
But some of it may matter a great deal. In the present war for the soul of the church (and thereby the world), many things must matter. Crucifixes are not simply a decorator’s choice.
O Ben Finiti 