I took this down a couple of weeks ago, when Tyler Clementi, a student at Rutgers, killed himself. I was concerned that some of my criticisms were only hurtful, and not at all constructive. Oddly, thinking about Clementi again, after last week's lecture, has convinced me to put this review back up, with additional vitriol:
Beautiful music. The music director knows what he's doing, and they have great soloists. If Danah Dargon sings, count yourself blessed--I don't mean that lightly.
St. Benedict uses a mixture of English and Latin. There's a true Latin mass at St. Joe's in Bon Air; this one is Latin Lite, for the wannabe Episcopalians, I guess. You know--it adds a touch of class to the proceedings.
It's clear that Father Kauffman cherishes the gift of his voice, and I mean that sarcastically. He's one of those emotive enunciators, especially when rehashing old material from a prepared script--he does his best to make it sound spontaneous and conversational by accentuating and lilting and crescendoing, but it's all a bit random, now isn't it, as though the poor player had grown weary of strutting his hour upon the stage. You get the sense that he'd be at home dramatizing petty claims in front of an adoring jury, and hoping his reassuring manner will lull you into letting him throw in a nice back rub, afterwards. He's also a little swishy, a trait from the non-threatening, inoffensive school of pastoral care, which, oddly enough, seems to have taken its cues from drag queen culture--the articulated and embellished movements, the slow graciousness, the soothing and yet catty manner -- it's all there. It might even be charming, except that HIS MICROPHONE IS ALWAYS TOO LOUD. Seriously, you can't even hear what he's saying, because you're feverishly praying to God that the speakers will fall off the ceiling and crush him, or at least put the fear of God back in him. Bring earplugs: you'll still be able to hear what he's saying, unfortunately, but at least your blood won't boil over because some Blessed Instrument is yelling at you. And by instrument, I don't mean musical instrument; I mean the tool kind.
It's really too bad, because the music is some of the most moving you'll ever hear.
So, on to last week. I wish I could reflect on the music alone, but I'll give the wrong impression that St. Benedict's is a sacred space, whereas it's important to remember that churches are where you find high priests and pharisees, after all. Deacon Mahefky began with a short description of the Greek word hamartia, meaning "to miss the mark", which eventually became our word, sin. Apparently, the faith is withstanding such a sustained assault from dangers like homosexuality, that the protectors of the faith must be careful not to waver from the bulls-eye, by which he means never to weary of condemning sinners, I guess. (I left convinced that I would never miss the mark again, if I were only given a large enough stone to cast.)
Now, the righteous faithful, echoing Yasser Arafat's remark that his greatest weapon is the womb, only have to refrain from anything resembling abortion. Every instance of forked copulation is an act of ineffable worship, and will earn them the kingdom. I don't know what's taking so long, because a fair few of the really righteous, if you know what I mean, seem to have earned their entry many times over, but continue to worship in this earthly paradise with undiminished fervor. Verily, the blessed are truly blessed, whereas one teenager in the pews, slowly coming to terms with having attractions he does not want to have, and with the prospect of being hated by his family and friends for something welling up inside, which he does not want and cannot refuse, hears the deacon's very precise, lawyer-like condemnation of "homosexual acts" as "God hates me." Of course, that's not what the deacon said, and we'll help him wash his hands of it, won't we? I wonder if he was as clear and condemnatory toward the Church for abetting the molestation of children.
So, for Tyler Clementi, who jumped off a bridge; for Seth Walsh, all of 13 years old, who hanged himself from a tree in the back yard; for 13 year-old Asher Brown, who pointed a 9mm handgun to his head and shot himself; for 15 year-old Billy Lucas, who hanged himself in the barn; for Justin Aaberg, 15, who hanged himself in his room; for Raymond Chase, 19; for Corey Jackson, 19; for countless others, and for the innumerable many who have tried to commit suicide, but survived, let me say this: the self-proclaimed Church is a farce. There is some real theology out there, if you're interested, and while much of it comes from luminaries of the church like Thomas and Augustine, there is more theology in a Shakespearean fool, in a Mozart comic opera, or in Toy Story than you will find in a catholic parish, which prides itself on a kind of vacuous veneration. read more