Hearing Mass in the Hofkirche of the Fürstbischoffliche Residenz at Würzburg, September 2001

It was a meek and motley group of Modern Catholics gathered around the dirt-plain little supper table in the middle of the Prince-Bishop's glorious architectural paean to the Church Triumphant.  They acted as if they were, each and every one of them, offended by the splendors that surrounded them--never once raising their eyes to the the High Altar at the back of the sanctuary, or to the pulpit poised over them like an Angel of God.  To their credit, they whined through the vulgar and ugly Vatican II tunes in a perfunctory, subdued fashion; their embarrassed hesitancy a mute apology for the blasphemy of singsonging such paltrey drivel in a setting designed for the performance of Haydn, Palestrina, and Mozart.  When they faltered to a stop and turned to one another--even to me--with a sick, frozen little smile for the "Kiss of Peace," I fled incontinent, making the crossed-finger "Vampire begone!" sign, and banging the outer door more loudly than I meant to.  I wanted to scream at them (though of course I didn't), "It's your religion now, and you can shit on it all you like, but it's not your damned Hofkirche!"