Against the Robots

When I started this blog, the idea of ​​writing about the liturgy came to me very quickly. Not to claim the status of an expert, but to share my experience about what represents the heart of a Christian's life. There were therefore two paths that had to converge: I had to recount the Mass (and its benefits), and then share the journey that had revealed it to me.

Part 1: Which Mass for Which Church? – In front of the church

During 1987, I thought my time had come. My life was collapsing. Life never truly collapses; it would take me a few years to understand that. It either stops or it transforms. My life was transforming, violently, intensely, offering me the enantiodromos , as the Greeks say. The enantiodromos is that road that splits, that divides, that becomes two, and places us face to face with a choice. The enantiodromos allowed me to understand what freedom was. It was an unprecedented situation, and I was about to realize it. This crossroads where life takes a completely unexpected turn marks the passage from childhood to adulthood. This moment is ageless. I mean, you can experience it at any age. What you mustn't do is not experience it. Failing to understand the difference between the freedom experienced in childhood and the freedom chosen in adulthood. Because by making a choice, we become someone else; experience reveals us and provides a framework and foundation for our personality.

During that year, 1987, I wandered the streets of London, discovering just how creative boredom can be; time that should be mandatory for young people; time that helps one transcend the ego and vanquish inner demons. Unbridled, unrestrained boredom, the kind that embraces heresy. During this wandering through the streets of London, I went from church to church, taking my quota of silence and peace, disconnecting from the world, experiencing everything internally. I quickly developed a few habits, favoring certain churches. The priests recognized my face, and I cherished this gentle, discreet intimacy. Being recognized without knowing. I didn't speak to the priests; a smile was enough. It would take years and an encounter at Sainte-Odile in the mid-1990s to become intimate with a priest again. I can't explain this distrust. I don't know why it took me so long to open up, after my studies with religious orders, surrounded by religious people—perhaps out of shyness, a desire not to bother anyone, or difficulty trusting. It took me years to understand that intimacy with a priest, especially in the sacrament of Confession, is intimacy with God. Why it took me so long to grasp something so simple, I have no idea.

I attended services, even though my rudimentary English was a hindrance; I mostly spent a lot of time simply praying, enveloped in silence, between services. Expatriation, a certain poverty, a solitude that stifled narcissism—I was living through a dizzying dialogue. I must confess that I was drawn to the church from a very young age. I'm sorry to have to say—to admit—what may always seem pretentious, or be seen as a transgression: I have always believed. I have always believed deeply, and I only lost my faith playfully, boastfully, or bravado-wise; that is to say, momentarily. Even if I wanted to deny it, I continued to believe, intensely, profoundly. It was part of who I was. I couldn't understand myself without this requirement, this faith so deeply ingrained in my being. I sometimes felt that it was a burden to bear — a feeling understandable for a young man who realizes he cannot get rid of qualities he did not choose, or more precisely, that he thinks he did not choose, or that he thinks are different from his deep nature — but above all, with time, I have understood that it is an immeasurable strength that has spared me so much suffering that I see young people today enduring.

I moved around a lot in London. I moved all sorts of places. I met some extraordinary people ^, street saints, gutter saints as I used to say. And then, I had my moment of glory during this purgatory, towards the end of my stay, a quiet, wise glory like a mother's caress on her child's cheek at bedtime. I moved to Covent Garden. I had a decent place, a place in the center; in the heart of London. Covent Garden was the omphalos for me. The center of the world, as they say in a Mike Leigh film ^. And by moving to that address, Providence, as it often does, was going to work things out. As I wandered, as was my habit, through the streets of my new neighborhood, I discovered a small church, tucked away, squeezed between the Victorian houses: Corpus Christi. Behind the theaters of the Strand, on Maiden Lane, I discovered a small church, the church I had unconsciously been searching for since the beginning of my wanderings, the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. I entered this church and was transported. I don't quite know how to explain it, but I immediately felt that I had come into contact with something real. The liturgy I had known since childhood, the only liturgy I knew—various liturgies, if you will, because it was celebrated in many ways by different personalities, but the same liturgy celebrated in French, the same liturgical foundation, already blunted, already transformed, and poorly digested because it had been poorly regurgitated, at a time, in the 1970s, when people amused themselves by thinking that regurgitation rhymed with tradition; it wouldn't be long before we discovered that regurgitation rhymed more with regurgitation. Of course, I wasn't fully aware of everything I'm writing now. And I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm settling scores. I have no scores to settle. I don't belong to any clique, any group; I'm more of a wanderer—a sort of vagabond attitude inherited from England—and I only have ties with one or two priests whom I see once a year, if I can. This allows me to maintain a completely detached perspective on the internal squabbles that are stirring and stirring here and there, which doesn't mean I'm indifferent to them. I simply want to convey a bit of that exhilarating feeling that has stirred and sustained me for almost thirty years now, when, after attending a Mass according to the 1962 missal, I had the impression that everything was in its place, that everything was falling into place, that nothing could be ordered any other way. That everything was in its place because everything made sense. Yes, the word slipped out. Meaning. That meaning which sometimes seemed to be missing during the regurgitation; that meaning giving an imperious solemnity, causing the entire community to be absorbed into a single entity, bathed in unctuousness, in sweetness, bewitched and poised, arranged in a state of adoration. I thought this liturgy was the best way to love Christ. This liturgy was the gateway, the royal gateway, to perfect adoration and sacrament. I hadn't understood a word of what was being said; my Latin hadn't finished declining since the classes where I'd studied it, but I understood that a truth resided there. All of this seemed obvious to me, crystal clear. Intuition has always worked wonders for me. Instinct—but is it only instinct? — gives us what no amount of reasoning could ever provide, and we must humbly accept that we cannot explain what we feel. I immediately bought an English-Latin missal from the priest, who must have initially thought I was a fanatic. In my joy, I sought to learn everything about this liturgy. My English had improved over time, despite the sarcastic remarks of the English people I met on the street. I could now fully embrace my newfound passion. From then on, I attended the Latin Mass at this church every Sunday. I learned shortly afterward that it was a Mass of Saint Pius V. I didn't know who Saint Pius V was. I knew I loved his Mass.

I returned to Paris after a year. I hurried to find a Mass of Saint Pius V. I understood the difficulty of the task. The times were turbulent. Many spoke of the Latin Mass without knowing it: either wanting to appropriate it or wanting to destroy it. I admitted that it was human to want to seize or claim a treasure, just as it was to want to get rid of an inheritance one didn't know what to do with and that cluttered the attic. I already missed the innocence and candor of my discovery in London. I spent some time at Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet, but I didn't like the Court of Miracles that whined and jeered in the churchyard, and I liked the self-centered and political speeches declaimed from the pulpit even less; it all seemed too self-absorbed. I bitterly missed the time of humility, the time of childhood in London. Innocent and vibrant times, naive and imprudent. I quickly sought refuge in a small chapel in the 15th arrondissement, Notre-Dame du Lys. I still go there from time to time today. Another refuge. I continued to make time to fully enter into this Mass, now called the Form , I felt it my duty to delve deeper into it, to make it my own. Like the salmon, I had returned to the source of my faith and drank from it greedily. A rupture occurred at Notre-Dame du Lys. Unfortunately, no one escapes the most common torments. But, every cloud has a silver lining, a young priest came to set an example, and knowing nothing of the traditional Mass, he learned it and celebrated it for years. This is what I have called the Benedict XVI generation. Under John Paul II, there were traditionally trained priests who became diocesan priests. Under Benedict XVI, there are young diocesan priests who have discovered the Church's tradition without preconceptions, partisanship, or regurgitated ideas. It is likely that this new generation, ^, and sarcasm, they will become, not in numbers—although I don't know for sure—but in quality, the long-awaited new soil in which the Church of tomorrow will grow. For twenty-five years, I have traveled from one church to another, everywhere the ancient rite was respected and loved, from the monastery of Le Barroux to Sainte-Odile, from Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois to Notre-Dame-du-Lys. But I also reconnected with the Mass after 1962, the Ordinary Form. I, in turn, rediscovered it with these convictions. It was crucial that I didn't start to regurgitate my own beliefs! For a while, I only saw the youthful aspects of the Mass of Saint Pius V, and then I grew older and realized the undeniable qualities of the Mass of Paul VI, when it is respected. The problem is that it's impossible to criticize the Mass of Paul VI without your opponents thinking you're criticizing the Second Vatican Council. This labeling is a symptom of the French petit-bourgeois mentality. Whereas, in fact, there is no longer the Mass of Saint Pius V and the Mass of Paul VI, but the Catholic Mass in two forms. I, who also had my routines at Saint Julian the Poor, and I also loved the form of Saint John Chrysostom, sometimes found myself attending three forms! How wonderful these differences are, as long as none of them descend into mere regurgitated sentimentality. It's always surprising to see how those who worship difference in general are so unwilling to practice difference themselves; whether they are Christian or not makes no difference whatsoever.

Over time, I have thus moved from the monastery of Le Barroux to the monastery of Fontgombault to the monastery of Solesmes. And I can return wherever His Holiness the Pope, along with the liturgy, is respected. I have no blinders that prevent me from going here or there. I had the good fortune to return to Le Barroux about ten years ago. Or to meet the good monks during their visit to Paris, at Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, not long ago. I must confess—and this is merely a confession, isn't it?—that the Abbey of Le Barroux has been like a second home to me. If I were to continue my confession, I would say that Corpus Christi in London, then Le Barroux during my years in Nîmes, and finally Sainte Odile in Paris represent three places essential to my humble Christian witness, as does Notre-Dame du Lys, whose enduring presence deserves praise. All these places where the prestige and beauty of the liturgy remain intact. I know full well that for some my conduct is abnormal, not partisan enough. I know that I will be called too eclectic. I have already been criticized for it. When I move from one church to another, from one rite to another, if the liturgy is respected, I am happy. In this series of articles that I am launching today, I wish to share my experience of liturgical life and, like a Moira, weave a certain historical thread. There is nothing pretentious about it, and I hope that, on the contrary, it will be perceived as a strong and healthy humility. My aim is rooted in inner reflection: to recount the journey in order to better understand it. To attempt to express its unctuousness, a difficult, perhaps impossible, undertaking. One day, facing the liturgy, I experienced a taste of this unctuousness. I wish to give back to the liturgy and its octuosity a little of what it has given me, what can be given "the most beautiful thing on this side of paradise" (blessed Cardinal Newman).