This gets to the point by an indirect route, so bear with me.
Last weekend, I took my family to a Latin High Mass from the 1962 Missal (properly indulted of course). It was the first time I’ve been to one since the big changeover to English, although it brought back a lot of memories from being an altar boy in the 60’s.
Well, this 150 year-old parish still has the traditional altar that was so breathtakingly beautiful that it looked like a portal to heaven. The traditional communion rail set off that definate boundary to the sanctuary, emphasizing that this is sacred space.
As I knelt, praying and watching the consecration, I watched this priest facing heaven, raising the Host, then the chalice, while two other concelebrating priests knelt on the floor below him. I was really struck by the sense that I was a witness, privileged to be able to see this miraculous and sacred interaction between heaven and earth.
It brought back to me the sense of awe and respect that I remember being taught about priests. That this priest was truly set apart by the miracle of Holy Orders and interacted with God in a way that no ordinary man ever could. I remember being taught that his thumb and first two fingers were anointed and actually able to touch the Body and Blood of Christ! That this priest tended his flock and acted In Persona Christi (‘In the person of Christ’) as he administered the sacred sacraments.
It would have never dawned on me to question whether I should call him “Father” when we still had a sense of the sacredness of the priesthood. And I mean to use capital “F”, Father. Even as a pre-schooler, I understood the difference between “Father so-and-so” and “God, Our Heavenly Father”. To think that people could confuse the two is silly – such a person should get out of the ivory tower and back to common sense.
Now let me move forward to 2004. At our parish’s regular 9:00 am Sunday Mass, there are 11 lay people standing up around the altar and the priest, serving as Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion. We watch lay people walk up to the podium and read the first and second readings and sing the psalms. (For those who have never seen the traditional Latin Mass, the priest does all the readings.) We’ve lost that feeling of sacred space and completely blurred the lines between the priesthood and ordinary people, helping to make the priesthood ordinary.
And that is a Mass that is mostly free of liturgical abuse. I’ve sat through other Masses in the last 35 years where I’ve listened to militant lesbians, and other lay people, read the Gospel and preach a homily. I’ve seen liturgical dancers prancing around the altar. All of this help us lose that sense of awe for what it means to be a priest.
When we combine these liturgical differences with knowing priests who never wear the collar, or act in other ways to show their basic disrespect or disdain for orthodox teachings, or their disdain for the Holy Pontiff, or even – heaven help us – perform egregious sexual sins, then no wonder we start questioning whether he should be called little “f” father.
And no wonder being a priest doesn’t seem as attractive for a vocation.