Sacred Showtime

Last night I went to mass at my childhood parish while I was visiting my parents. It was interesting to look around and see all the familiar faces...faces that I thought were ancient when I was ten and still look the same a decade and a half later. What was even more interesting was the music.

The same father and son combo provided the music last night that has been doing the music on Saturday evenings since before I graduated from high school. The father, who reminds me of Mr. Magoo plays the piano while his son leads the singing. What I find humorous is that everyone complains about the music, but no one else steps up to take over. It's the classic church dilemma.

Last night, while the priest and eucharistic ministers were cleaning the chalices, Mr. Magoo launches into what can only be described as lounge music. I swear I recognized strains of Rhapsody in Blue wafting their way up into the vaulted ceilings and over the congregation. My dad leaned over, snorted his displeasure and asked, "I wonder what hymn this is."

"Take me out to the ball game?" I facetiously suggested.

Music is a form of prayer, yes, but in my little hometown church, the sanctity of showtunes is being rediscovered to the disappointment of many.