Victims

Mariellen and I provided the music during the recent funeral Mass of a young man who died in an auto accident.  He was 21.  We expected a number of his friends and former classmates from the town's High School to attend and our expectations were met.  I watched them as they came into the church singly and in small groups.  I could not call them mourners.  I could not call them anything more than curious bystanders, spectators, dis-interested observers who for the most part seemed not to have the slightest idea what was taking place or why they were there, these supposed adults. They seemed like what they really still were, a bunch of high school students who were summoned to the auditorium for some tiresome exercise.

It filled the time.  They sauntered, slouched, sneaked into the church, sprawled in the pews, chatted among each other before the Mass and through the preludes, gawked while the family, especially the young man's mother, staggered in their grief down the aisle and stared open mouthed at the coffin awaiting the Priest to begin the Mass.

As the procession with the coffin to the altar began they stood hands in pockets,sipping coffee, one or two texting, whispering and smiling to each other, or lolling around in their jeans and t-shirts, or too tight, too skimpy dresses exposing as much flesh as your average 8th avenue putana, teetering on stiletto heels and displaying garishly colored tattoos of roses and curlicues on arms and legs and who knew where else.

It happened about the time the second reading was finished, and the Gospel was read.  I noticed some of them looking forward toward what was going on.  Father Patrick gave a brief homily in which he reminded us all what would happen, and that no one knew when it might. By the time of the Consecration, something like order and a semblance of attention had taken place among them.  At least they kneeled when asked to do so.  I began to hope, as I prayed for it, that they were approaching some realization of the moment and its meaning.

At the end, as we sang the recessional hymn, I saw from my vantage many red rimmed eyes, and many sad and worried looks on the faces passing out beneath me.

I felt a great pity for these lost children who came into that place with absolutely no idea what was going to be done and were utterly unprepared to witness it and hear the message imparted.  Did I mention that the school was a public high school they all went to?  It was.  And, in one of those places from which God and all mention of God has been banished, and effectively banished from the lives of all of them beyond and after school, these victims of public education...for in this at least no one can say they have benefited...they spent four formative years being indoctrinated with the message that they are all they need to be; that there is, essentially, nothing more they need than what has been given them or what they can get with their own hands.  And, of both those things there is damn little if the evidence before my eyes that morning was any fair indication. 

 

We have raised up several generations now of people totally unaware of anything/one in which/whom to place their faith, and convinced that there is no need so to do.  There is, then, in my ever so humble opinion, absolutely nothing which holds us together as a people, no unifying set of beliefs.  It is the reason I refer to this place by what should now be recognized as its true name: the Untied States of America.

Spend an hour or two in any Mall across the land on a Sunday afternoon, especially, and ponder what Chesterton once said, "When people stop believing in God, they don't believe in nothing -- they believe in anything."  We have become empty.  Or, at least our children have.  As evidence of that I point to our chief legislative pornographer (pace Peggy Noonan in a recent WSJ article) Mr. Michael Weiner.

The Prince of This World is happy....if such a thing can be said of him.

What fools we all are for that, and what fire we build against ourselves.