Why the World Needs Amateurs

Amateur. It is an elegant, albeit tricky, word. In our modern world’s almost Pavlovian demand for experts, for degrees tacked on to names, for professionals – the word amateur has taken on a derogatory signification, as though belonging to a mere mortal who has had the audacity to enter the land of the gods. It is an unfortunate prejudice. For the word amateur has its roots in love, and love is a powerful catalyst for knowledge, for inspiration, for daring do. It is not surprising that the word finds its root in the ancient French amator, a lover. It is astute of the French to bestow that name on such a person, for this lover is, “one who cultivates a particular pursuit, study or science…” for sheer love and attraction and for no other end. The key word here is ‘cultivate’ - to diligently prepare a field, plant seeds, tend, weed, admire progress, never being deterred by setbacks, and reaping an abundant harvest in the end all for the sheer love of the thing. It takes a tenacious, humble persistence to cultivate something simply for the love of it. Such is the true amateur.

This is the story of such an amateur, one who loves like this, and his beloved pursuit, devotion, and passion is the beauty of the Extraordinary Form Mass (often called The Latin Mass). He is a Catholic priest, but once upon a time he was an Episcopalian pastor of a small congregation. One fateful day he was invited to attend a high Mass by a Catholic friend. Having a curious nature and a penchant for the occasionally weird and eccentric experience, he went to the ‘smells and bells’ church. He wasn’t counting on the overwhelming wonder that filled his soul when he closed the door behind him and entered a beauty ever ancient, ever new. He wasn’t counting on the grace of that Sacrifice. He was smitten as any beloved is smitten. And there was no going back. So, he went forward and fell into the loving arms of Holy Mother Church, where he sought to dwell in the center of that mysterious force of beauty that had so beguiled him – he became a priest and the Mass soon became his passion.

I met him some years after this conversion. He was giving a homily at the usual weekday morning Mass where the pews were filled with very no-nonsense, practical old people as such parishes often are. And from that pulpit he was quoting things from Homer’s Odyssey and obscure 19th century poets like Reverdy and lovely, odd writers like Simone Weil. I was delighted. Surprised no end but delighted. Curious, I chanced a furtive side glance at my neighbors for reactions. They were listening with full attention and, to a man, loudly murmured ‘Amen’ when he was finished. Who was this? I had to know.

Well, I found out he was a writer like myself in addition to being a priest. He was a tall, lanky kind of fellow with a shock of curls and an expressive, bespectacled face that revealed a snarkiness which could easily melt into a tender kindness at a moment’s notice. He didn’t quite walk but darted about and was filled with a nervous energy that seeks to do and achieve. He rode his bike almost 50 miles a day and thought nothing of it. Quirky, poetic, witty. He never wore socks. Ever. This was a custom formed from his long-ago Ivy League experience. It worked for him. He was of the firm mind that beauty was for all men, not just professionals. He had definite opinions but was always willing and eager to entertain my own over coffee which he had learned how to roast and sell to raise money for his Church Sanctuary repairs. He was a delightful anomaly. He became a friend. And what all the professionals could not do, this quirky, lanky, sockless priest did do. God used him as a ‘twitch upon the thread’ to lead me into the gorgeous land of the Extraordinary Form, where poets like me find rest.

I was not a fan of the Extraordinary Form. I will readily admit this. The professional, established Latin Mass churches in my world were filled with grumpy, staid, somewhat disgruntled characters with their minds ever on scabbards ready to draw swords at any time. They wielded their Mass like a weapon of protest against the established Church and the established Mass – the Ordinary Form. They always made me uneasy and I could not get beyond them to the actual beauty and meaning of the Mass they protected so fiercely.

But this priest, friend that he was, quietly led me by another way; the way of beauty as he had been led. He dutifully prayed the Ordinary Form in his parish every morning and on Sundays as well. He honored this liturgy with his heart and skill. He wore beautiful vestments even at daily Mass, and the altar was always gleaming with polished candles, crisp white linen and silk as befitted the glory of Christ in His moment of sacrifice. I watched him for a long time kneeling day after day in that dim Church. He moved quietly and circumspectly through the Mass and I began to feel the unchanging gracefulness of liturgy. The weaving of action and prayer into deeper meanings that led to communion with God. The way of beauty served to interpret the love of God to me. Oddly, it was my friend’s respect for the Ordinary Form that led me further up and further in - to the Extraordinary Form.

Meanwhile, he was a pastor. He had daily duties to attend to. He had to struggle with ancient wiring systems, plumbing, flickering lights in the Church, the endless questions of parishioners at his door, fish fries, and parish picnics. He had to set up PSR classes and meet with endless workmen on a daily basis. This was his job. But what preoccupied his thoughts daily, what he was attracted to like a moth to a flame, was that Extraordinary Form Mass he had experienced long ago. He began to cultivate that love whenever he could – on the side, as a true amateur would in all his spare moments. I watched it unfold. It was fascinating. He began to memorize the Latin prayers of the Mass on his own time. He started collecting a group of friends – amateurs like himself. There were a few people with good voices that found it invigorating to resurrect and learn the Gregorian introits and hymns. There were an assortment of young men in various shapes and sizes who caught his enthusiasm and had the one uniting passion of learning how to serve that Mass despite having jobs and other responsibilities.

Then there was Steven. Steven was his liturgical guru. Steven knew the liturgy inside and out. For the sheer love of it, he had learned all the rubrics, all the prayers, all the delightful minutia that enhance the beauty of the ceremony. And this priest? He submitted to the likes of Steven – a priest to a layman – and asked him to teach him how to pray. And that is when he had me. I was so moved by this humble submission that I began to be intrigued. If someone could love something that much without letting his ego take over, there was something amazing at work here.

He started with the simpler Low Mass. Each time he prayed, Steven guided him and helped him remember the rubrics. It was halting, slow and awkward at first, but each time it got a bit better. His Latin started flowing with the rhythm of the poetry it was. He became more familiar with the gestures and their meanings. Slowly he began to piece together the beauty of his beloved like creating a masterpiece. He certainly dressed the part.

Another amateur entered the scene, the busy mother of a lively brood of children. She happened to have a passion for embroidery and sewing. He asked her to make him some vestments, and she lovingly did. No doubt she stayed up nights sewing these exquisite garments for the sheer love of creating beauty. He began to wear them at his Masses. He let me touch them and peer at them up close. He let me stand in awe and to photograph them, which is my passion. He collected a small, assorted group of faithful who began to attend his Extraordinary Form Masses. They all came like me. Like moths to the flame. He continued to honor the Ordinary Form in the Parish, but he also introduced the Extraordinary Form Mass for anyone who wanted to come. He never once forced anyone or belittled the Ordinary Form. His large, generous heart had room for them both, and I had the distinct assurance that he was a true son of the Church I loved and would always remain so. This gave me the liberty to pray the Extraordinary Form with an undivided heart.

I followed my friend through the door of his enthusiasm. He led me in, showed me the greatness, the profound theology behind the words, the meaning of gestures, the altogether poetic nature of the drama that is the Liturgy. He showed me that love is the way to understand this Mass. The love of amateurs, who cannot stop themselves from reveling in the passion that attracts them to it. I feel this love whenever I enter the door to pray this liturgy, whenever I smell the air thick with incense. God is here and we are privy to the Great and Eternal Sacrifice. It is prayed by those who have found each other cultivating the same field in different ways and have joined forces to bring it to life again.

This is authentic priesthood. These are authentic laymen. This is a sure way to Christ. I am a witness. The love of amateurs who have planted, persevered, tended, overcome obstacles, and reaped a harvest of liturgical beauty to simply honor the Most High King. Let the Professionals stand in awe of such a feat and learn from these amateurs, these true Lovers.