Feb 3, 2009
It is a fascinating realization that our ancient Catholic Mass, when applied within the totality of our faith, just happens to correspond to what science has taught us about human learning patterns.
All of our modern research on education informs us that people all learn in different ways. There are visual learners. There are those that learn from doing and repetition. There are those that learn by hearing, while others learn by repeating. Others require a combination of methods to learn most effectively. It just happens that our Mass is capable of addressing all of these methods simultaneously.
A fundamentalist Church with blank white walls, uninspired architecture, and scarce visual portrayals is guilty of denying a crucial aspect of formation to the person who learns visually. A Church with badly-performed music -- or no music at all -- is denying the faithful who just happen to have an aural sweet-tooth. The Church fearful of repetitive prayers denies full formation to those who just happen to learn well through repetition.
In short, it is no coincidence that our Mass is a complete learning experience, a veritable ancient version of term “multimedia.” Our great Church tradition, steeped in beautiful art and iconography, accompanied by the most inspired music in human history, beholden to the work of the greatest architects, is capable of surrounding and nurturing us with these valid and necessary expressions of the faith.
To see the power of such expressions, we have only to look towards the majority of Christian history, during which a majority of believers were largely illiterate. Long before the Protestant manifesto that “each man read his Bible,” a full Catholic education and catechesis was possible through the poly-artistic approach of the Catholic liturgy. The cynic can claim that widespread literacy and education have “inevitably” led to a decline in faith and Church attendance. The artist, however, will tell you that a one-dimensional approach is bound to alienate many people.
It is precisely the sounds, smells, and images of a Catholic Church that stay with people well into adulthood, even remaining with those who chose to leave the Faith. When I wandered away from the Church in young adulthood, it was the mystical experience of her aesthetic expressions that stayed with me as my faith sputtered and fizzled. When after many years I once again stepped into a Church, I was not drawn by the words of scripture, nor did I necessarily want to see or speak with a Priest. I simply wanted to sit in a place that was holy. Though I couldn't articulate it at the time, I had grown weary of the noise and din of the secular world; I was desperate for the sacred. Finding my comfort in sacred music, in the glow of candles, the beauty of an intricately carved crucifix, and the special luminosity of an icon, I was soon ready to take the next steps towards once again being a fully-practicing Catholic. Before my ears could hear or my mind open to reformation, my soul had to find peace in the deeper and more luminous aspects of the deposit of the faith.
Little wonder, then, that many Evangelical congregations are assimilating various “Orthodox” and “Romanesque” practices into their services. Little wonder that recordings of chant music have topped record sales. Little wonder that even the most hardened heart can be brought to pause and reflect beneath the soaring spires of a great Cathedral. There is real power here, a power reflective of divine truth, and a power which is our birthright as Catholics.