In his second memoir, Traddy Daddy: Memories and Thoughts of the Father of a Catholic Family, Joseph Bevan regales us again, as he did before in Two Families, with story after story of English life before, during, and after the Second Vatican Council. I think personal testimonies like these are worth their weight in gold, particularly as fewer and fewer people are left who can pass on the tales of what things were like back then.
Indeed, I have noticed a disconcerting tendency among younger generations nowadays to deny or downplay how good things were in the 1950s in many places, and how bad things really were in the 1960s and thereafter. The partial restorations of tradition under John Paul II and Benedict XVI have, to some extent, been projected backwards so as to create the illusion of a mild squall rather than a tempestuous storm. Memoirs are a partial but crucial way to overcome such biases. (See “Not ‘the Silly Season’ but ‘the Satanic Season’” for more on this point.)
There’s also a lot of rich detail in this book about the history of the Society of St. Pius X, obviously of considerable interest given this summer’s events.
(The remainder of this post is direct quotation from Bevan’s Traddy Daddy.)
1966: Westminster Cathedral Choir School
The priest mutters his way through the Latin prayers during early morning Mass as we boys kneel in adoration in the dusty half-light of the crypt under Westminster Cathedral. The celebrant stands at the altar with his back to us as he performs the work of a master craftsman, and he whispers the prayers. I look up during the elevation of the host and watch the fishes in the mosaic depicted on the arch above the altar, as I have done hundreds of times before. There is Our Lord walking on the water and there’s the ship containing the apostles who are scared by the storm. Fish abound in the picture, and I try to count them. Having had nothing to eat I often feel faint at the priest’s recitation of the Agnus Dei, during which he bends slightly and taps his chest three times. Why I do so at that particular time of the Mass I have no idea and today I pass out momentarily.
Sister Immaculata frogmarches me out of the crypt and sends me on a trot around the car park outside. I find that attending Mass on a completely empty stomach is a bit of a trial, but, as it is Sunday, we do get a decent breakfast afterwards. Nevertheless, I am struck by the dual simplicity and dignity of the ceremony, with the priest in sparkling gold vestments on Saints’ days. To my young brain, the whole ceremony is rich with deep meaning which is beyond my comprehension, and represents the magnificence of the supreme orderliness which is the Catholic Church. Everything is in its place and the whole organisation reminds me of an ancient clock which ticks away over the centuries and never loses a beat. During the hush of the consecration of the host, I hear the low mumbling and tinkling bells of other Masses which are going on in the various crypt chapels. There is also the distant rumble of traffic in Victoria Street….
Every Sunday we wear our smartest uniforms as we file into the cathedral for High Mass and take our places in the front two rows facing the grand altar. The interior of the church is constructed out of miniature red bricks, reminding me of Legos and, for a little boy of my size, it’s vast. I cannot see the roof as it soars up above my head shrouded in darkness. Above the high altar is a decorative baldacchino which, to me, is as big as a railway bridge, and hanging over the sanctuary a massive crucifix keeps sentinel over the proceedings. The organ is growling in the background as the church begins to fill up.
Some people kneel whilst reciting their rosaries and knots of people cluster around the votive candle stations as they light candles and kneel in prayer. No one is talking and all I can hear is the shuffling of many feet and the creaking of chairs as they quietly take their places with the organ playing in the background. Sister Immaculata fusses over us like a mother hen and ensures that we have our missals open at the correct page. My own Mass book contains a section at the end of the service called “post communion” and I have concluded that it is for when the priest posts off holy communion to people who have been unable to attend. (1-3)
My favourite service in the cathedral is Sunday Vespers. Again, we probationers occupy the front two rows and follow the service in our missals. The psalms at Vespers move me to tears sometimes; even as a boy of eight my sensitivity is acute, and I am transported by the sight of five priests in gold copes among the clouds of incense. During the incensing, while the altar is prepared for Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, the organist plays thunderously and it is this part of the ceremony that I look forward to most of all, for the organist is Nicholas Kynaston who, we are told, is internationally famous. (6)
Quite often Sister Immaculata takes us to the cathedral during the week to visit the Blessed Sacrament in a special chapel set aside for devotions. We follow the nun quietly through the echoing cathedral where we see people praying, strolling around, or lighting votive candles. The Blessed Sacrament chapel is off a side aisle to the left of the high altar and when we enter, we see many people kneeling down. Some are holding rosaries and whispering the prayers. The centre of devotional attention is the gold tabernacle on the altar, surrounded by lighted candles and flowers. I smell the sweet odour of the incense of past ceremonies, and the attendant hush is in striking contrast to the noisiness of the London traffic outside in Victoria Street. I have no difficulty in saying prayers as I am transported by the beauty of the chapel and the fervour of the people around me. My childlike approach to prayer, which has never left me, was formed during those wonderful visits to the cathedral.
One Wednesday afternoon we are milling around in the playground and Father Veal is walking around the perimeter of the lawn in the distance, buried in his breviary. All the priests I meet at the choir school, and there are lots of them, seem to have their daily lives dominated by this mysterious black prayer book which they always carry around with them. (7-8)
We have religious instruction lessons with Father Veal, and he first distributes to each of us a little red booklet called the Penny Catechism. Over the next few terms, he makes us learn the whole thing parrot fashion and we recite sections of it back to him together in a singsong chorus. There is a lot of discussion, which Father leads and encourages, and in doing so he displays his own deep love of the Catholic Faith, which is infectious. (10)
Changes in the liturgy
Our parish church in Shepton Mallet is a converted hall and every Sunday it is full. There is a choir gallery which our family inhabits so as to sing the Mass, and Pa plays the organ for us. We sing Gregorian chant and a few simple motets.
I detect trouble ahead as something Pa calls “Vatican Two” is casting a shadow over everything religious. Attending Mass, after the experience of Westminster in term time, comes as a surprise but I am thoroughly entertained by the upheavals.
Father Ryan is now facing us, having put in place a table which he uses as an altar. He is given to interrupting the service every so often to emit what Pa calls “sermonettes.” Worst of all, we are forced to join in with the server in a rather wordy and tedious translation of the Latin Mass. Jokes abound with the cack-handed words, such as, “mindful of our Saviour’s bidding, and for the prairie tortoise” (prayer he taught us).
Pa and my elder brothers, especially, are often angry after Mass. This is a massive alteration in our religious observance as respect for the parish priest, who is agitating for change, diminishes. I hear them mutter in annoyance when the priest gives an extra-long sermon about the “presidential chair,” whatever that is. The whole of Mass is, for me at least, an orgy of experimentation and I look forward to each Sunday in anticipation of new outrages.
Rather than being a servant of the liturgy, Father Ryan is behaving like a compère at a village dance, not resisting the odd joke or two either. Yet I am struck by the “do this or else” attitude of the priest, meaning that by taking our part in the changes we are being loyal subjects of the Holy Father. Nobody dares to object publicly, but privately people are either angry or mystified. Ma is convinced that the Pope has been kidnapped and is trussed up in a cellar in the Vatican. “Don’t worry,” she says, “he’ll restore things to what they were after he escapes.” This is how many people cling to hope.
Changing church buildings
At about this time we abandon the old chapel of St Nicholas and take possession of our new gleaming concrete and glass building which is St Michael’s Church. As we enter the new building for the first time, I am immediately aware of that smell common to new buildings, it is the slightly sweet odour of floor polish. The altar is a slab of white bare stone and, unlike its predecessor at our last chapel, has no coverings. Also gone are the statues and the stations of the cross. The servers at Mass have abandoned their black cassocks and white cottas in favour of what look, to me at least, like long dresses which are coloured dark green.
With the new church comes a new parish priest, called Father Gerald Carrol, who has a string of drinkdriving convictions, so we are told. I am under the impression that Father Carrol is a “conservative” (the Catholic Church nowadays is reduced to political name-calling) and is resisting pressure from some of the more enlightened members of his congregation to get rid of our family choir which sings for him every Sunday. I can only describe the goings-on at the altar during Mass as chaotic. Father Carrol is often not particularly sober and keeps on breaking out into Latin. The servers bustle around like headless chickens and constantly trip up over their green dresses which are far too long for some or far too short for others. The master of ceremonies pushes and shoves to restore some kind of order. As I am at a delicate age, I find all this tremendous fun, but I catch the sighs, the groans and sharp intakes of breath from those around me.
During Mass of Low Sunday, we look up to see Father Carrol’s little white dog entering the church through the open vestry door and, neglecting to genuflect, waddling past the front row of pews, and then settling down in the corner by the little organ. Mass continues normally but during the hymn at the offertory the dog starts to howl, so a parishioner picks it up and returns it to the vestry. (11-13)
Chaos in 1969
1969 finds the Church in a maelstrom of chaos, upheaval, and experimentation. All Hallows, an unknown prep school in the middle of nowhere, is not immune to these revolutionary forces and Alistair Mortimer, our Headmaster, willingly carries the banner of progress. The school chapel, for example, a beautiful cruciform and ancient room with a remarkable reredos, is the first place to receive unwelcome attention from the reforming Headmaster. The altar is torn from its mountings and dragged out, leaving a space behind it from which the priest can face the congregation. The delicately carved wooden reredos is sold off, and a yellow curtain replaces it. The stations of the cross are removed along with the many statues of Our Lady, Saint Joseph, and the saints. A public address system is installed which often either breaks down or emits loud crackles which are extremely offensive to the ear.
This assault on the school chapel has the effect of undermining the Catholicity of the whole school. It reminds one of a mischievous engineer sabotaging the engine of a ship. Now, I have no doubt that our headmaster is acting on orders from above and feels that he has no choice but to implement the changes, and yet his energetic zeal in carrying them out is, I think, beyond the call of duty.
He’s not alone, as the same things are going on in almost every Catholic institution in the world and the enthusiasm with which the destruction is carried out must have surprised the Church authorities who may have anticipated at least some resistance. The traditional Latin Mass is swept away also and replaced by what my family describe as a “hymnburger,” that is, an English Mass with a hymn at the beginning and the end with one stuck in the middle for good measure. The Latin Mass, which provided the spiritual heart and soul of the school, is now replaced by a turgid and boring communion service which slowly but surely kills off any supernatural love amongst the pupils. In fact, religion is now a tiresome chore.
There is a side entrance to the school chapel opening onto stone steps leading down to the school yard. A builders’ skip is parked near the steps and we boys observe workmen, supervised by Mortimer, energetically chucking some of the chapel contents into it: statues, pews, vestments, altar cloths, and box after box of prayer books and missals. After this we never see A Simple Prayer Book or Plainsong for Schools ever again. Thus, the centrepiece of the school is consigned to the builders’ skip. (18-20)
Religion class at Downside Abbey
Father “call me Eddie” Peach is taking a class of about twenty boys and the theme of the lesson is “Who am I?” Peach is a young priest who is very earnest as he delivers the lesson in his northern vowels. He is dressed in workmanlike clothes beloved of the members of the modern Jesuit clergy— a short-sleeved opennecked red shirt with black slacks, complete with gym shoes on his feet. If one met him in the street one could make an educated guess that Peach had some connection with religion, but that’s about it as he displays no visible sign that he’s a priest unless, of course, you count the silver cross appended to his key ring which he fiddles with as he talks. On the desk at which he is sitting is a Phillips mini cassette player.
“Ah think Simon and Garfunkel really sum it up in their song, which Ah’ll now play for yer. Feel free to sing along if you’re in the mood,” he quips with a smirk. With that he depresses the “play” button on the cassette machine and the room is filled with a blaring rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” The boys loll around and adopt postures of boredom, but they sit up straight as they see Father Peach pulling out a packet of Benson and Hedges special filters. As he lights one and breathes in the smoke, Wilson calls out to him, “er... may we smoke, please Father?”
“Call me ‘Eddie’ and, yes, of course you may smoke.”
Immediately the whole room transforms into a hive of activity as various boys reach into the inner recesses of their clothes for cigarettes, cigars, and rolling tobacco. Eventually the room fills with a choking fug and Father Peach opens the windows. I am sitting in the back row and reach for my cigar tin from which I fish out a Number Six. Hughes is lighting a pipe.
Someone puts a hand up: “Please can I have a cigarette . . . Eddie?,” he asks hesitantly.
Without answering, Father Peach hands over his entire box of cigarettes to the boy, which is passed round, and is finally returned to the priest empty of its contents. Peach examines the packet and pulls a face. The music fades out and he continues his talk.
“ . . . and you can see that Mary Magdalen really looves Jesus and is quite oopset when he doesn’t return that love.” The tape machine is activated once more, “. . . and I’ve haa’d so-o many me-en before, and in many, many wa-ays... he’s just one more.” The music of Jesus Christ Superstar rises and falls over the heads of somnolent pupils who contentedly draw and suck in their life-giving nicotine. I start to think to myself that, if this is the new religion everyone seems to object to, it is actually very exciting. (46-48)
The Society appears
Later that Sunday afternoon, Dom Cuthbert graces the family with another visit, and having consumed a plate of bread and butter, has a strange tale to recount. He can barely contain his amusement.
“Last Sunday evening, I was sitting in the armchair in my bedroom at the Great Western Hotel in Paddington, which was on the fourth floor of the building, looking forward to going down to the bar, when I noticed a strange smell. ‘I know that smell,’ I thought to myself, and suddenly I heard the sound of a handbell tinkling. As this noise and smell seem to be coming from the carpeted passage outside my room, I opened my bedroom door and peered out into the corridor. At first, I saw nothing, but suddenly there emerged from a hotel room on my right a man wearing a black cassock and a white cotta who was swinging a smoking thurible. Behind him I saw two men, similarly dressed, holding brass candlesticks. At the end of the procession was a priest wearing red and gold vestments and a black biretta on his head. In his hands he held a veiled chalice.” Cuthbert chuckled.
“The procession went past me and disappeared into another room a bit further down the passage. At first, I thought I was witnessing something from the paranormal, but I ventured out of my room and tiptoed to the door through which the procession had disappeared. I could hear the crying of babies, and then a little choir struck up with ‘Asperges me,’ which I haven’t heard sung anywhere for many years. A little later I inquired at the hotel reception as to the meaning of this spectacle and she told me that a group called the Society of St Pius X booked two rooms every Sunday. She wanted to know if they disturbed me, and I replied in the negative.”
Ma and Pa listen attentively to the story but neither make any comments, and this for two reasons. Firstly, both parents are at loggerheads about the crisis in the Catholic Church, Pa being grudgingly accepting of the reforms which Ma strongly detests. Secondly, there’s no point in discussing any of this with Cuthbert who, when it comes to Vatican II, is a firebrand in its defence. (54-55)
Family divisions
In common with so many Catholic families at this time, religion is fast becoming a banned subject because of the high emotions felt by many in the Bevan family. One of the most outspoken critics of the new liturgy is me, as I have undertaken to read up what Pa terms “poisonous literature,” a monthly periodical called Approaches, written by Hamish Fraser using a home printer and photocopied multiple times. In this crudely produced publication, covered in ink smudges, Fraser opens my eyes to the fact that, contrary to the confidence trick practised on the Catholic laity, the Church not so long ago was holy, peaceful, and normal.
He describes the goings-on at a strange seminary in Switzerland where young seminarians are taught “the old stuff” and learn to say the old Latin Mass exclusively. Also, Fraser goes into great detail about the shocking persecution of the archbishop who runs the institution. I am amazed by the treachery and subterfuge practiced by a gang of mainly French bishops in their attempts to stamp out the seminary.
As the Bevan children prepare for Christmas, the family choir rehearsals become more intense and time-consuming. There is the normal run of Christmas concerts and carol services. Also, Pa has decided that the time has come to make a record. Two days have been set aside for this purpose next week as a recording engineer will arrive to organise it.
Although it is the holidays, the family choir doesn’t sing at Mass any longer as it was dismissed by the new parish priest at Shepton Mallet. Pa still plays the organ there but only to accompany the boring congregational Masses so beloved of the reformers. Mass at Shepton Mallet is a trial and everyone in the family hates it.
The New Mass continues to devolve
The new priest, Father Meehan, a jolly rotund man with a large shiny face and round spectacles, is a master of the unexpected. Rather than keep to the stated format of the Mass as set down in the annoying sheets of paper which everybody holds, he digresses into a homemade liturgy and calls upon contributions from the reluctant and embarrassed congregation, greatly diminished in numbers nowadays. The result of this is that the Sunday Mass, which used to be attended by all the Catholic families in the parish, is gradually abandoned by them as they either give up religion completely, go to a more bearable event in a nearby parish, or even go to a shortened anticipatory Mass on Saturday evening which, preposterously, has now been allowed by the authorities.
Father Meehan has adopted the habit of encouraging “spontaneous” displays of affection at the “kiss of peace” which happens just before the Agnus Dei, as he strolls down the altar steps and mingles with the people, laughing, kissing, hugging, and shaking hands with everyone— except for the Bevans, of course, whom he studiously avoids. As he returns to the altar, he turns his head around to the people behind him and announces casually, “Lamb of God…” and the people take up the prayer.
(Short digression: my uncle Rupert, who was my mother’s elder brother, related to me the following incident in his local Catholic parish. “I had a friend who had stopped going to church a few years ago and, after much persuasion, finally agreed to accompany me to Mass the next day, which was a Sunday. As it was a folk Mass with a lot of congregational participation, my friend was visibly unimpressed and said that he had simply been reminded of the reason he had lapsed in the first place. The following Sunday I went to Mass again— only this time my friend decided that he couldn’t face it. After Mass I had the following conversation with the parish priest: ‘I see you didn’t bring your friend today, why was that?’ ‘Oh, Father, it’s just that he objected to the handshaking.’ ‘Is that all? Tell him that if he comes again, I’ll give him a big hug!’”)
What is even more irritating is Meehan’s preference for the young children of the parish, whom he calls up to the altar to be interviewed by him. One of these poor kids has a very strange and carrying voice and Father leaves him till last and, when the boy’s voice cackles over the loudspeakers, everyone laughs, as the priest intended. Meehan often likes the children to stand in a circle round the altar whilst he recites the Eucharistic Prayer.
It is during one of these episodes that I, my mind still full of anger at the treatment of Archbishop Lefebvre, solemnly rise from my pew and, with all the eyes of the congregation upon me, march out of the church, taking care to give the door a good slam. The revolution in the Catholic Church has spawned a generation of “door-slammers.” My first encounter with this phenomenon was when Mrs Todd noisily departed during Mass after our family choir had struck up with the four-part Mass by William Byrd. It is with this woman very much in mind that I do the same thing in response to the high jinks at the altar. Several years later, and before we rediscover the Old Mass, my wife and I become seasoned “door-slammers,” especially in France, where the provocations during Mass can be unendurable. (55-58)
University student days
Having mentioned already that my interest in being a devout Catholic has more or less melted away, I do maintain a connection with a few of the students at my college who are members of the Catholic Union of Students. This is because, paradoxically, I still want to be regarded as a Catholic despite my practical apostasy. Sitting down to lunch one day in the college canteen I am joined by another student who still goes to Mass and he, like me, is alert to the widespread liturgical abuses. He tells me that at a Mass recently in the Bristol University chaplaincy, during the “bidding prayers”3 the celebrant invited contributions “from the floor” and this exchange took place:
Priest: “Lord, hear us.”
Congregation: “Lord graciously hear us.”
Priest: “Would anyone else like to suggest their own petitions?”
Student: “Let us always be mindful that Jesus Christ was an ordinary bloke like us!”
Priest: “Lord, hear us.”
Congregation: “Lord graciously hear us.”
Another student: “Hang on! I don’t agree with that! Let us be mindful that Jesus Christ was the Son of God!”
Priest: “Lord, hear us.”
Congregation: “Lord graciously hear us.” (64-65)
My other new activity is joining the choir of Clifton cathedral as a bass. I am not particularly interested in the religious aspect but prefer to do something more constructive on my Sunday mornings than stay in bed nursing a hangover. If there is a single adjective which sums up this cathedral and its services, it is “bleak.” The building, which wouldn’t look out of place on our college campus, is also made of concrete and glass, reminding me somehow of a crashed aeroplane. The interior of the building is like an aircraft hangar with a central altar surrounded by seats.
The choir is jolly good, however, and we sing a wide variety of music, some of which is composed by “Catholic” musicians and verges on the experimental. I do notice, though, how the music we sing is not really liturgical and while we perform, for example, Mozart’s “Ave Verum,” nothing is going on at the altar. The celebrant and the servers merely sit down, waiting for us to finish. One particular priest cannot resist checking his watch from his comfy chair. There is a lot of Missa de Angelis and Credo III, which represent a nodding concession to the conservative elements in the congregation.
Our choir Mass is at 11.30 on Sunday morning and before that there is a “family Mass” with the ubiquitous guitars and recorders. As I arrive at the cathedral I see hordes of people, and many children, leaving the building having participated in “Lord of the Dance” and other chestnuts. In spite of the fact that I haven’t been to confession for many years, I receive communion along with everyone else. I feel I have to, because if I remained in my place instead of going up to the altar steps, I would stick out like a sore thumb.
In May we are looking forward to the UK visit of Pope John Paul II, and especially the open-air Mass at Coventry, where the Clifton cathedral choir is to have pride of place. As the Mass will take place on Pentecost Sunday we have to learn a long-drawn-out mantra, “Veni Sancte Spiritus,” composed by some “go to” composer and which is almost hypnotic in its dreariness. On and on it goes, verse after verse, with small variations. On the Sunday morning in question, we sing the same phrases over and over again quietly, whilst sometimes a tenor soloist trills over the top, or a microphone-hogging female adds her own contribution. The result can only be described as toe-curlingly awful! The choir is supposed to be joined in their repeated mantra by the 80,000 faithful present at the airfield but, as far as I can hear, few of them bother to sing.
The readings from the microphone are accompanied by teenage girls at the altar steps, wearing leotards and prancing around slowly. (I am not inventing this, as it can all be seen on YouTube!) I quietly confirm to myself that I shall never return to the Catholic Church, ever! His Holiness preaches a long sermon about “peace.” This does not go down too well as the Falklands War is nearing its conclusion, with the UK indulging in a period of nationalistic jingoism encouraged by the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. (65-67)
After Bevan and wife have resumed the practice of his faith
Even though we regard ourselves as loyal Catholics, attending our local parish, we feel that the direction taken by the Church leaders is becoming more and more bizarre. At this stage we are going to Mass at the local parish of Midsomer Norton on Sundays; sometimes we go to Mass on Saturday evenings at a little Catholic church in Paulton, which is the next village to ours. Paulton is a satellite church of Midsomer Norton and both are run by the monks of Downside Abbey, which is in Stratton-on-the-Fosse, about ten miles away.
Back to our anxieties about religion. I am developing a growing distaste for the current liturgy. Although I am a salesman, I just hate being sold to. At least, I don’t mind people openly selling me things, but I cannot stand modern Catholic clergy doing it to me. The priests at Mass are always trying to curry favour and win the approval of their congregations, making us feel we are in the presence of a kind of ecclesiastical salesman….
I complain about this to my father when he comes to visit, and he replies on the lines of: “You don’t go to Mass to be entertained.” How many times have I heard that? But the point is that you are supposed to be entertained. That is the whole point of the post-Vatican-II Mass, isn’t it? Modern seminaries train their young men to deliver the religion in such a way as to attract people along. (77-78)
I am following closely the activities of Archbishop Lefebvre and, having reacted initially with sympathy to the press reports that he is some kind of religious nutter, I am now becoming increasingly sure that he is on the right track. All his utterances seem to chime in with my own feelings and soon I become a “Lefebvre bore,” suffering from, as one of my relations then put it, “Le-Fever”!
My main difficulty with all this is that I do not know my Catholic faith and am easy prey to my intellectual superiors who are able to outwit me in argument, especially my father and father-in-law. My main arguments are more emotional than intellectual, and this results in many humiliations. I am unable to deal with the frequent accusations that I am disloyal to the Holy Father and thus “favouring schism.” I am told that I am a Protestant because I am choosing my own preferences and not obeying the Pope. I really have no answer to this, but my instincts instruct me, deep down, that these people are wrong. My problem is that I just don’t know why they are wrong, as I am not relying on prayer and study.
Enter a traveling traditional priest
Clare is expecting our fourth child, and at the moment she is on the telephone. I can overhear her saying: “Yes, Father. That would be lovely!” She must be speaking to Father Lessiter, a traditional Catholic priest who has taken us under his wing and introduced us to the Latin Mass and the accompanying Catholic faith. Before his arrival we were— how shall I put it?—semi-lapsed modern Catholics who knew very little about the religion in which we were raised. When she has finished the call, Clare tells me that Father Lessiter is coming next day to offer Mass in our music room and to stay the night. By this time, we have an insatiable thirst for the Faith and the Mass, both of which this priest has devoted his life to. Evangelising lost souls is what he does, and as far as that is concerned, he has a huge and growing flock all over the country and he wears out several cars in his missionary work. Father lives in Leicester and visits the West Country, where we live, once a month to see all the families who are recipients of his ministry. (79-81)
When Archbishop Lefebvre wrote his letter to “confused” Catholics, that is exactly what they were— even if they didn’t know it at the time. I think we have now graduated from a state of confusion to one of bewilderment. This bewilderment seems to me to be one step away from giving up religion completely. The problem today is that most Catholics do not know their faith as a result of decades of neglect in the education system. Ignorance of the faith inevitably leads to lapsation. The whole process of falling away from religion is hurried on by worldly clergy and extremely offputting liturgies— all perfectly designed to turn most people away from the supernatural….
So, what right have I to lecture other Catholics? My answer is a simple one; I myself have been pulled through the hawthorn hedge backwards and have suffered at the hands of the revolutionaries in the Catholic Church. I know what defeat and misery feels like. I know what it feels like to thirst for something which one cannot quite put one’s finger on. I know what religious coldness and indifference feels like and the lapsation which inevitably follows. I know what serious mortal sin feels like and the reluctance to make amends and make my peace with Almighty God. I know what it is like to bear the guilt of sin, which is unaffected by a confession where the priest says “you’re just expressing your inner humanity!” I shudder as I remember the feeling of hopelessness as a lapsed Catholic, thinking that I’m now so bad that I can never get back. I am just a simple Catholic, perhaps more simple than Catholic, who has worked out for himself the answers to the deep problems in our world, only to find, like Chesterton, that it has all been thought of and said before, and many times over….
My advice to anyone trying to revive his faith is to ignore the utterings of Pope Francis and his clergy and stick to what the Catholic Church has always and everywhere taught throughout its history. After all, that is what Catholics did up until our present age of mass media. If you pray for your own conversion, God always listens, regardless of the state of your soul. He will answer. Be careful what you wish for, though, because God can turn your whole life upside down! (181-83)
The foregoing excerpts are from "Traddy Daddy: Memories and Thoughts of the Father of a Catholic Family" (Os Justi Press, 2025). Also available at Amazon sites.
Indeed, I have noticed a disconcerting tendency among younger generations nowadays to deny or downplay how good things were in the 1950s in many places, and how bad things really were in the 1960s and thereafter. The partial restorations of tradition under John Paul II and Benedict XVI have, to some extent, been projected backwards so as to create the illusion of a mild squall rather than a tempestuous storm. Memoirs are a partial but crucial way to overcome such biases. (See “Not ‘the Silly Season’ but ‘the Satanic Season’” for more on this point.)
There’s also a lot of rich detail in this book about the history of the Society of St. Pius X, obviously of considerable interest given this summer’s events.
(The remainder of this post is direct quotation from Bevan’s Traddy Daddy.)
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| Solemn Pontifical Mass in Westminster Cathedral, ca. 1950 |
1966: Westminster Cathedral Choir School
The priest mutters his way through the Latin prayers during early morning Mass as we boys kneel in adoration in the dusty half-light of the crypt under Westminster Cathedral. The celebrant stands at the altar with his back to us as he performs the work of a master craftsman, and he whispers the prayers. I look up during the elevation of the host and watch the fishes in the mosaic depicted on the arch above the altar, as I have done hundreds of times before. There is Our Lord walking on the water and there’s the ship containing the apostles who are scared by the storm. Fish abound in the picture, and I try to count them. Having had nothing to eat I often feel faint at the priest’s recitation of the Agnus Dei, during which he bends slightly and taps his chest three times. Why I do so at that particular time of the Mass I have no idea and today I pass out momentarily.
Sister Immaculata frogmarches me out of the crypt and sends me on a trot around the car park outside. I find that attending Mass on a completely empty stomach is a bit of a trial, but, as it is Sunday, we do get a decent breakfast afterwards. Nevertheless, I am struck by the dual simplicity and dignity of the ceremony, with the priest in sparkling gold vestments on Saints’ days. To my young brain, the whole ceremony is rich with deep meaning which is beyond my comprehension, and represents the magnificence of the supreme orderliness which is the Catholic Church. Everything is in its place and the whole organisation reminds me of an ancient clock which ticks away over the centuries and never loses a beat. During the hush of the consecration of the host, I hear the low mumbling and tinkling bells of other Masses which are going on in the various crypt chapels. There is also the distant rumble of traffic in Victoria Street….
Every Sunday we wear our smartest uniforms as we file into the cathedral for High Mass and take our places in the front two rows facing the grand altar. The interior of the church is constructed out of miniature red bricks, reminding me of Legos and, for a little boy of my size, it’s vast. I cannot see the roof as it soars up above my head shrouded in darkness. Above the high altar is a decorative baldacchino which, to me, is as big as a railway bridge, and hanging over the sanctuary a massive crucifix keeps sentinel over the proceedings. The organ is growling in the background as the church begins to fill up.
Some people kneel whilst reciting their rosaries and knots of people cluster around the votive candle stations as they light candles and kneel in prayer. No one is talking and all I can hear is the shuffling of many feet and the creaking of chairs as they quietly take their places with the organ playing in the background. Sister Immaculata fusses over us like a mother hen and ensures that we have our missals open at the correct page. My own Mass book contains a section at the end of the service called “post communion” and I have concluded that it is for when the priest posts off holy communion to people who have been unable to attend. (1-3)
My favourite service in the cathedral is Sunday Vespers. Again, we probationers occupy the front two rows and follow the service in our missals. The psalms at Vespers move me to tears sometimes; even as a boy of eight my sensitivity is acute, and I am transported by the sight of five priests in gold copes among the clouds of incense. During the incensing, while the altar is prepared for Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, the organist plays thunderously and it is this part of the ceremony that I look forward to most of all, for the organist is Nicholas Kynaston who, we are told, is internationally famous. (6)
Quite often Sister Immaculata takes us to the cathedral during the week to visit the Blessed Sacrament in a special chapel set aside for devotions. We follow the nun quietly through the echoing cathedral where we see people praying, strolling around, or lighting votive candles. The Blessed Sacrament chapel is off a side aisle to the left of the high altar and when we enter, we see many people kneeling down. Some are holding rosaries and whispering the prayers. The centre of devotional attention is the gold tabernacle on the altar, surrounded by lighted candles and flowers. I smell the sweet odour of the incense of past ceremonies, and the attendant hush is in striking contrast to the noisiness of the London traffic outside in Victoria Street. I have no difficulty in saying prayers as I am transported by the beauty of the chapel and the fervour of the people around me. My childlike approach to prayer, which has never left me, was formed during those wonderful visits to the cathedral.
One Wednesday afternoon we are milling around in the playground and Father Veal is walking around the perimeter of the lawn in the distance, buried in his breviary. All the priests I meet at the choir school, and there are lots of them, seem to have their daily lives dominated by this mysterious black prayer book which they always carry around with them. (7-8)
We have religious instruction lessons with Father Veal, and he first distributes to each of us a little red booklet called the Penny Catechism. Over the next few terms, he makes us learn the whole thing parrot fashion and we recite sections of it back to him together in a singsong chorus. There is a lot of discussion, which Father leads and encourages, and in doing so he displays his own deep love of the Catholic Faith, which is infectious. (10)
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| How things were before: Bevan's father as director of the Downside Abbey choir |
Changes in the liturgy
Our parish church in Shepton Mallet is a converted hall and every Sunday it is full. There is a choir gallery which our family inhabits so as to sing the Mass, and Pa plays the organ for us. We sing Gregorian chant and a few simple motets.
I detect trouble ahead as something Pa calls “Vatican Two” is casting a shadow over everything religious. Attending Mass, after the experience of Westminster in term time, comes as a surprise but I am thoroughly entertained by the upheavals.
Father Ryan is now facing us, having put in place a table which he uses as an altar. He is given to interrupting the service every so often to emit what Pa calls “sermonettes.” Worst of all, we are forced to join in with the server in a rather wordy and tedious translation of the Latin Mass. Jokes abound with the cack-handed words, such as, “mindful of our Saviour’s bidding, and for the prairie tortoise” (prayer he taught us).
Pa and my elder brothers, especially, are often angry after Mass. This is a massive alteration in our religious observance as respect for the parish priest, who is agitating for change, diminishes. I hear them mutter in annoyance when the priest gives an extra-long sermon about the “presidential chair,” whatever that is. The whole of Mass is, for me at least, an orgy of experimentation and I look forward to each Sunday in anticipation of new outrages.
Rather than being a servant of the liturgy, Father Ryan is behaving like a compère at a village dance, not resisting the odd joke or two either. Yet I am struck by the “do this or else” attitude of the priest, meaning that by taking our part in the changes we are being loyal subjects of the Holy Father. Nobody dares to object publicly, but privately people are either angry or mystified. Ma is convinced that the Pope has been kidnapped and is trussed up in a cellar in the Vatican. “Don’t worry,” she says, “he’ll restore things to what they were after he escapes.” This is how many people cling to hope.
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| St Michael's, Shepton Mallet |
Changing church buildings
At about this time we abandon the old chapel of St Nicholas and take possession of our new gleaming concrete and glass building which is St Michael’s Church. As we enter the new building for the first time, I am immediately aware of that smell common to new buildings, it is the slightly sweet odour of floor polish. The altar is a slab of white bare stone and, unlike its predecessor at our last chapel, has no coverings. Also gone are the statues and the stations of the cross. The servers at Mass have abandoned their black cassocks and white cottas in favour of what look, to me at least, like long dresses which are coloured dark green.
With the new church comes a new parish priest, called Father Gerald Carrol, who has a string of drinkdriving convictions, so we are told. I am under the impression that Father Carrol is a “conservative” (the Catholic Church nowadays is reduced to political name-calling) and is resisting pressure from some of the more enlightened members of his congregation to get rid of our family choir which sings for him every Sunday. I can only describe the goings-on at the altar during Mass as chaotic. Father Carrol is often not particularly sober and keeps on breaking out into Latin. The servers bustle around like headless chickens and constantly trip up over their green dresses which are far too long for some or far too short for others. The master of ceremonies pushes and shoves to restore some kind of order. As I am at a delicate age, I find all this tremendous fun, but I catch the sighs, the groans and sharp intakes of breath from those around me.
During Mass of Low Sunday, we look up to see Father Carrol’s little white dog entering the church through the open vestry door and, neglecting to genuflect, waddling past the front row of pews, and then settling down in the corner by the little organ. Mass continues normally but during the hymn at the offertory the dog starts to howl, so a parishioner picks it up and returns it to the vestry. (11-13)
Chaos in 1969
1969 finds the Church in a maelstrom of chaos, upheaval, and experimentation. All Hallows, an unknown prep school in the middle of nowhere, is not immune to these revolutionary forces and Alistair Mortimer, our Headmaster, willingly carries the banner of progress. The school chapel, for example, a beautiful cruciform and ancient room with a remarkable reredos, is the first place to receive unwelcome attention from the reforming Headmaster. The altar is torn from its mountings and dragged out, leaving a space behind it from which the priest can face the congregation. The delicately carved wooden reredos is sold off, and a yellow curtain replaces it. The stations of the cross are removed along with the many statues of Our Lady, Saint Joseph, and the saints. A public address system is installed which often either breaks down or emits loud crackles which are extremely offensive to the ear.
This assault on the school chapel has the effect of undermining the Catholicity of the whole school. It reminds one of a mischievous engineer sabotaging the engine of a ship. Now, I have no doubt that our headmaster is acting on orders from above and feels that he has no choice but to implement the changes, and yet his energetic zeal in carrying them out is, I think, beyond the call of duty.
He’s not alone, as the same things are going on in almost every Catholic institution in the world and the enthusiasm with which the destruction is carried out must have surprised the Church authorities who may have anticipated at least some resistance. The traditional Latin Mass is swept away also and replaced by what my family describe as a “hymnburger,” that is, an English Mass with a hymn at the beginning and the end with one stuck in the middle for good measure. The Latin Mass, which provided the spiritual heart and soul of the school, is now replaced by a turgid and boring communion service which slowly but surely kills off any supernatural love amongst the pupils. In fact, religion is now a tiresome chore.
There is a side entrance to the school chapel opening onto stone steps leading down to the school yard. A builders’ skip is parked near the steps and we boys observe workmen, supervised by Mortimer, energetically chucking some of the chapel contents into it: statues, pews, vestments, altar cloths, and box after box of prayer books and missals. After this we never see A Simple Prayer Book or Plainsong for Schools ever again. Thus, the centrepiece of the school is consigned to the builders’ skip. (18-20)
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| Downside students in 1969 |
Religion class at Downside Abbey
Father “call me Eddie” Peach is taking a class of about twenty boys and the theme of the lesson is “Who am I?” Peach is a young priest who is very earnest as he delivers the lesson in his northern vowels. He is dressed in workmanlike clothes beloved of the members of the modern Jesuit clergy— a short-sleeved opennecked red shirt with black slacks, complete with gym shoes on his feet. If one met him in the street one could make an educated guess that Peach had some connection with religion, but that’s about it as he displays no visible sign that he’s a priest unless, of course, you count the silver cross appended to his key ring which he fiddles with as he talks. On the desk at which he is sitting is a Phillips mini cassette player.
“Ah think Simon and Garfunkel really sum it up in their song, which Ah’ll now play for yer. Feel free to sing along if you’re in the mood,” he quips with a smirk. With that he depresses the “play” button on the cassette machine and the room is filled with a blaring rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” The boys loll around and adopt postures of boredom, but they sit up straight as they see Father Peach pulling out a packet of Benson and Hedges special filters. As he lights one and breathes in the smoke, Wilson calls out to him, “er... may we smoke, please Father?”
“Call me ‘Eddie’ and, yes, of course you may smoke.”
Immediately the whole room transforms into a hive of activity as various boys reach into the inner recesses of their clothes for cigarettes, cigars, and rolling tobacco. Eventually the room fills with a choking fug and Father Peach opens the windows. I am sitting in the back row and reach for my cigar tin from which I fish out a Number Six. Hughes is lighting a pipe.
Someone puts a hand up: “Please can I have a cigarette . . . Eddie?,” he asks hesitantly.
Without answering, Father Peach hands over his entire box of cigarettes to the boy, which is passed round, and is finally returned to the priest empty of its contents. Peach examines the packet and pulls a face. The music fades out and he continues his talk.
“ . . . and you can see that Mary Magdalen really looves Jesus and is quite oopset when he doesn’t return that love.” The tape machine is activated once more, “. . . and I’ve haa’d so-o many me-en before, and in many, many wa-ays... he’s just one more.” The music of Jesus Christ Superstar rises and falls over the heads of somnolent pupils who contentedly draw and suck in their life-giving nicotine. I start to think to myself that, if this is the new religion everyone seems to object to, it is actually very exciting. (46-48)
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| Great Western Hotel in Paddington |
The Society appears
Later that Sunday afternoon, Dom Cuthbert graces the family with another visit, and having consumed a plate of bread and butter, has a strange tale to recount. He can barely contain his amusement.
“Last Sunday evening, I was sitting in the armchair in my bedroom at the Great Western Hotel in Paddington, which was on the fourth floor of the building, looking forward to going down to the bar, when I noticed a strange smell. ‘I know that smell,’ I thought to myself, and suddenly I heard the sound of a handbell tinkling. As this noise and smell seem to be coming from the carpeted passage outside my room, I opened my bedroom door and peered out into the corridor. At first, I saw nothing, but suddenly there emerged from a hotel room on my right a man wearing a black cassock and a white cotta who was swinging a smoking thurible. Behind him I saw two men, similarly dressed, holding brass candlesticks. At the end of the procession was a priest wearing red and gold vestments and a black biretta on his head. In his hands he held a veiled chalice.” Cuthbert chuckled.
“The procession went past me and disappeared into another room a bit further down the passage. At first, I thought I was witnessing something from the paranormal, but I ventured out of my room and tiptoed to the door through which the procession had disappeared. I could hear the crying of babies, and then a little choir struck up with ‘Asperges me,’ which I haven’t heard sung anywhere for many years. A little later I inquired at the hotel reception as to the meaning of this spectacle and she told me that a group called the Society of St Pius X booked two rooms every Sunday. She wanted to know if they disturbed me, and I replied in the negative.”
Ma and Pa listen attentively to the story but neither make any comments, and this for two reasons. Firstly, both parents are at loggerheads about the crisis in the Catholic Church, Pa being grudgingly accepting of the reforms which Ma strongly detests. Secondly, there’s no point in discussing any of this with Cuthbert who, when it comes to Vatican II, is a firebrand in its defence. (54-55)
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| Early traditionalist literature |
Family divisions
In common with so many Catholic families at this time, religion is fast becoming a banned subject because of the high emotions felt by many in the Bevan family. One of the most outspoken critics of the new liturgy is me, as I have undertaken to read up what Pa terms “poisonous literature,” a monthly periodical called Approaches, written by Hamish Fraser using a home printer and photocopied multiple times. In this crudely produced publication, covered in ink smudges, Fraser opens my eyes to the fact that, contrary to the confidence trick practised on the Catholic laity, the Church not so long ago was holy, peaceful, and normal.
He describes the goings-on at a strange seminary in Switzerland where young seminarians are taught “the old stuff” and learn to say the old Latin Mass exclusively. Also, Fraser goes into great detail about the shocking persecution of the archbishop who runs the institution. I am amazed by the treachery and subterfuge practiced by a gang of mainly French bishops in their attempts to stamp out the seminary.
As the Bevan children prepare for Christmas, the family choir rehearsals become more intense and time-consuming. There is the normal run of Christmas concerts and carol services. Also, Pa has decided that the time has come to make a record. Two days have been set aside for this purpose next week as a recording engineer will arrive to organise it.
Although it is the holidays, the family choir doesn’t sing at Mass any longer as it was dismissed by the new parish priest at Shepton Mallet. Pa still plays the organ there but only to accompany the boring congregational Masses so beloved of the reformers. Mass at Shepton Mallet is a trial and everyone in the family hates it.
The New Mass continues to devolve
The new priest, Father Meehan, a jolly rotund man with a large shiny face and round spectacles, is a master of the unexpected. Rather than keep to the stated format of the Mass as set down in the annoying sheets of paper which everybody holds, he digresses into a homemade liturgy and calls upon contributions from the reluctant and embarrassed congregation, greatly diminished in numbers nowadays. The result of this is that the Sunday Mass, which used to be attended by all the Catholic families in the parish, is gradually abandoned by them as they either give up religion completely, go to a more bearable event in a nearby parish, or even go to a shortened anticipatory Mass on Saturday evening which, preposterously, has now been allowed by the authorities.
Father Meehan has adopted the habit of encouraging “spontaneous” displays of affection at the “kiss of peace” which happens just before the Agnus Dei, as he strolls down the altar steps and mingles with the people, laughing, kissing, hugging, and shaking hands with everyone— except for the Bevans, of course, whom he studiously avoids. As he returns to the altar, he turns his head around to the people behind him and announces casually, “Lamb of God…” and the people take up the prayer.
(Short digression: my uncle Rupert, who was my mother’s elder brother, related to me the following incident in his local Catholic parish. “I had a friend who had stopped going to church a few years ago and, after much persuasion, finally agreed to accompany me to Mass the next day, which was a Sunday. As it was a folk Mass with a lot of congregational participation, my friend was visibly unimpressed and said that he had simply been reminded of the reason he had lapsed in the first place. The following Sunday I went to Mass again— only this time my friend decided that he couldn’t face it. After Mass I had the following conversation with the parish priest: ‘I see you didn’t bring your friend today, why was that?’ ‘Oh, Father, it’s just that he objected to the handshaking.’ ‘Is that all? Tell him that if he comes again, I’ll give him a big hug!’”)
What is even more irritating is Meehan’s preference for the young children of the parish, whom he calls up to the altar to be interviewed by him. One of these poor kids has a very strange and carrying voice and Father leaves him till last and, when the boy’s voice cackles over the loudspeakers, everyone laughs, as the priest intended. Meehan often likes the children to stand in a circle round the altar whilst he recites the Eucharistic Prayer.
It is during one of these episodes that I, my mind still full of anger at the treatment of Archbishop Lefebvre, solemnly rise from my pew and, with all the eyes of the congregation upon me, march out of the church, taking care to give the door a good slam. The revolution in the Catholic Church has spawned a generation of “door-slammers.” My first encounter with this phenomenon was when Mrs Todd noisily departed during Mass after our family choir had struck up with the four-part Mass by William Byrd. It is with this woman very much in mind that I do the same thing in response to the high jinks at the altar. Several years later, and before we rediscover the Old Mass, my wife and I become seasoned “door-slammers,” especially in France, where the provocations during Mass can be unendurable. (55-58)
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| Liturgical dancers at the Coventy Mass with John Paul II, as mentioned below (source) |
University student days
Having mentioned already that my interest in being a devout Catholic has more or less melted away, I do maintain a connection with a few of the students at my college who are members of the Catholic Union of Students. This is because, paradoxically, I still want to be regarded as a Catholic despite my practical apostasy. Sitting down to lunch one day in the college canteen I am joined by another student who still goes to Mass and he, like me, is alert to the widespread liturgical abuses. He tells me that at a Mass recently in the Bristol University chaplaincy, during the “bidding prayers”3 the celebrant invited contributions “from the floor” and this exchange took place:
Priest: “Lord, hear us.”
Congregation: “Lord graciously hear us.”
Priest: “Would anyone else like to suggest their own petitions?”
Student: “Let us always be mindful that Jesus Christ was an ordinary bloke like us!”
Priest: “Lord, hear us.”
Congregation: “Lord graciously hear us.”
Another student: “Hang on! I don’t agree with that! Let us be mindful that Jesus Christ was the Son of God!”
Priest: “Lord, hear us.”
Congregation: “Lord graciously hear us.” (64-65)
My other new activity is joining the choir of Clifton cathedral as a bass. I am not particularly interested in the religious aspect but prefer to do something more constructive on my Sunday mornings than stay in bed nursing a hangover. If there is a single adjective which sums up this cathedral and its services, it is “bleak.” The building, which wouldn’t look out of place on our college campus, is also made of concrete and glass, reminding me somehow of a crashed aeroplane. The interior of the building is like an aircraft hangar with a central altar surrounded by seats.
The choir is jolly good, however, and we sing a wide variety of music, some of which is composed by “Catholic” musicians and verges on the experimental. I do notice, though, how the music we sing is not really liturgical and while we perform, for example, Mozart’s “Ave Verum,” nothing is going on at the altar. The celebrant and the servers merely sit down, waiting for us to finish. One particular priest cannot resist checking his watch from his comfy chair. There is a lot of Missa de Angelis and Credo III, which represent a nodding concession to the conservative elements in the congregation.
Our choir Mass is at 11.30 on Sunday morning and before that there is a “family Mass” with the ubiquitous guitars and recorders. As I arrive at the cathedral I see hordes of people, and many children, leaving the building having participated in “Lord of the Dance” and other chestnuts. In spite of the fact that I haven’t been to confession for many years, I receive communion along with everyone else. I feel I have to, because if I remained in my place instead of going up to the altar steps, I would stick out like a sore thumb.
In May we are looking forward to the UK visit of Pope John Paul II, and especially the open-air Mass at Coventry, where the Clifton cathedral choir is to have pride of place. As the Mass will take place on Pentecost Sunday we have to learn a long-drawn-out mantra, “Veni Sancte Spiritus,” composed by some “go to” composer and which is almost hypnotic in its dreariness. On and on it goes, verse after verse, with small variations. On the Sunday morning in question, we sing the same phrases over and over again quietly, whilst sometimes a tenor soloist trills over the top, or a microphone-hogging female adds her own contribution. The result can only be described as toe-curlingly awful! The choir is supposed to be joined in their repeated mantra by the 80,000 faithful present at the airfield but, as far as I can hear, few of them bother to sing.
The readings from the microphone are accompanied by teenage girls at the altar steps, wearing leotards and prancing around slowly. (I am not inventing this, as it can all be seen on YouTube!) I quietly confirm to myself that I shall never return to the Catholic Church, ever! His Holiness preaches a long sermon about “peace.” This does not go down too well as the Falklands War is nearing its conclusion, with the UK indulging in a period of nationalistic jingoism encouraged by the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. (65-67)
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| Archbishop Lefebvre's visit to Downham Market (Norfolk), 1976 |
After Bevan and wife have resumed the practice of his faith
Even though we regard ourselves as loyal Catholics, attending our local parish, we feel that the direction taken by the Church leaders is becoming more and more bizarre. At this stage we are going to Mass at the local parish of Midsomer Norton on Sundays; sometimes we go to Mass on Saturday evenings at a little Catholic church in Paulton, which is the next village to ours. Paulton is a satellite church of Midsomer Norton and both are run by the monks of Downside Abbey, which is in Stratton-on-the-Fosse, about ten miles away.
Back to our anxieties about religion. I am developing a growing distaste for the current liturgy. Although I am a salesman, I just hate being sold to. At least, I don’t mind people openly selling me things, but I cannot stand modern Catholic clergy doing it to me. The priests at Mass are always trying to curry favour and win the approval of their congregations, making us feel we are in the presence of a kind of ecclesiastical salesman….
I complain about this to my father when he comes to visit, and he replies on the lines of: “You don’t go to Mass to be entertained.” How many times have I heard that? But the point is that you are supposed to be entertained. That is the whole point of the post-Vatican-II Mass, isn’t it? Modern seminaries train their young men to deliver the religion in such a way as to attract people along. (77-78)
I am following closely the activities of Archbishop Lefebvre and, having reacted initially with sympathy to the press reports that he is some kind of religious nutter, I am now becoming increasingly sure that he is on the right track. All his utterances seem to chime in with my own feelings and soon I become a “Lefebvre bore,” suffering from, as one of my relations then put it, “Le-Fever”!
My main difficulty with all this is that I do not know my Catholic faith and am easy prey to my intellectual superiors who are able to outwit me in argument, especially my father and father-in-law. My main arguments are more emotional than intellectual, and this results in many humiliations. I am unable to deal with the frequent accusations that I am disloyal to the Holy Father and thus “favouring schism.” I am told that I am a Protestant because I am choosing my own preferences and not obeying the Pope. I really have no answer to this, but my instincts instruct me, deep down, that these people are wrong. My problem is that I just don’t know why they are wrong, as I am not relying on prayer and study.
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| Fr. Lessiter offering Mass in one of innumerable places he went as he traveled the country |
Enter a traveling traditional priest
Clare is expecting our fourth child, and at the moment she is on the telephone. I can overhear her saying: “Yes, Father. That would be lovely!” She must be speaking to Father Lessiter, a traditional Catholic priest who has taken us under his wing and introduced us to the Latin Mass and the accompanying Catholic faith. Before his arrival we were— how shall I put it?—semi-lapsed modern Catholics who knew very little about the religion in which we were raised. When she has finished the call, Clare tells me that Father Lessiter is coming next day to offer Mass in our music room and to stay the night. By this time, we have an insatiable thirst for the Faith and the Mass, both of which this priest has devoted his life to. Evangelising lost souls is what he does, and as far as that is concerned, he has a huge and growing flock all over the country and he wears out several cars in his missionary work. Father lives in Leicester and visits the West Country, where we live, once a month to see all the families who are recipients of his ministry. (79-81)
When Archbishop Lefebvre wrote his letter to “confused” Catholics, that is exactly what they were— even if they didn’t know it at the time. I think we have now graduated from a state of confusion to one of bewilderment. This bewilderment seems to me to be one step away from giving up religion completely. The problem today is that most Catholics do not know their faith as a result of decades of neglect in the education system. Ignorance of the faith inevitably leads to lapsation. The whole process of falling away from religion is hurried on by worldly clergy and extremely offputting liturgies— all perfectly designed to turn most people away from the supernatural….
So, what right have I to lecture other Catholics? My answer is a simple one; I myself have been pulled through the hawthorn hedge backwards and have suffered at the hands of the revolutionaries in the Catholic Church. I know what defeat and misery feels like. I know what it feels like to thirst for something which one cannot quite put one’s finger on. I know what religious coldness and indifference feels like and the lapsation which inevitably follows. I know what serious mortal sin feels like and the reluctance to make amends and make my peace with Almighty God. I know what it is like to bear the guilt of sin, which is unaffected by a confession where the priest says “you’re just expressing your inner humanity!” I shudder as I remember the feeling of hopelessness as a lapsed Catholic, thinking that I’m now so bad that I can never get back. I am just a simple Catholic, perhaps more simple than Catholic, who has worked out for himself the answers to the deep problems in our world, only to find, like Chesterton, that it has all been thought of and said before, and many times over….
My advice to anyone trying to revive his faith is to ignore the utterings of Pope Francis and his clergy and stick to what the Catholic Church has always and everywhere taught throughout its history. After all, that is what Catholics did up until our present age of mass media. If you pray for your own conversion, God always listens, regardless of the state of your soul. He will answer. Be careful what you wish for, though, because God can turn your whole life upside down! (181-83)
The foregoing excerpts are from "Traddy Daddy: Memories and Thoughts of the Father of a Catholic Family" (Os Justi Press, 2025). Also available at Amazon sites.
