Rural pagans, suburban philistines, and urban Catholics

I've heard it said that when the Gospel of Christ began to spread across the Roman Empire, the first significant numbers of converts were found in the cities, not among the rural country dwellers. I've also heard it said--whether or not it is true, I am not sure--that the word "pagan" (from the Latin paganus, meaning "country dweller") first came to be identified with unconverted non-Christian populations for this reason--just as the term "heathen" (from the Old English h[ea]th, meaning those who dwell in the heath, or uncultivated countriside) came to be identified with unconverted non-Christian populations.

This pattern has changed over time, of course, as urban centers have come to be known as centers of secularism and identified, most recently in the United States, with the 'blue' urban centers that voted overwhelmingly for John Kerry and John Edwards, the opponents of traditional pro-life, heterosexual, family values that became the focus of so much attention in the last election. Fans of 'blue' values, such as Michael Moore, tend to despise fans of 'red' values and derisively dismiss them as rural and southern "rednecks" living in benighted ignorance somewhere in the nether regions of "Deliverance" country.

Yet there may be one exception to this pattern. It may be the case, with regards to Catholics, at least, that those most informed and knowledgeable about history, liturgy, theology, and Catholic tradition, are found in the urban centers, and that those most ignorant of these things are found, if not in the nether regions of the rural paganus or heath, in the comfortable suburban communities of SUV-driving bourgeoisie and soccer-mom dominated Catholic parishes. This, at least, is the implicit suggestion of the following brilliant story, which strikes all-too-close to home to be dismissed as entirely fictional:

Mr. Smith-Jones Goes to Washington

by Dred Scott
It was a perfect summer day when Fred Smith-Jones's family left the Midwest for a vacation in the nation's capital.

Fred and his wife, Joyce, both middle-class suburbanites, were excited and had spent several days designing an itinerary. Their two adolescent children--Ashlee and Zodiac--were likewise filled with wonder regarding their first-ever trip east of the Ohio River.

After arriving at the Reagan Airport and checking into their hotel, the family quickly hit the streets. Tour buses took them to the U.S. Capitol, the White House, and Union Station. The family photographed every monument and statue.

On the third morning, the Smith-Jones, who are Catholic, visited the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.

They toured North America's largest church in awe. Fred used his camcorder to videotape everything, including the reconciliation chapel where dozens of people waited in line for the Shrine's two confessionals.

The Smith-Joneses maintained an awkward silence. They were surprised by what they saw: People waiting in line for Confession, praying by themselves in devotional chapels, and praying the Rosary as a group.

How different it was from the family's suburban parish, where people chat amiably prior to Mass. The Basilica was filled with altars, statues, and icons. Many altars stood against the walls, and Mr. Smith-Jones thought they must have been installed for decorative purposes.

Meanwhile, the girls wondered why many of the women praying before Mass were wearing pieces of lace on their heads.

Suddenly, as they were sitting in the Basilica's crypt church just before the 12:10 daily Mass, the family was startled by the ringing of a bell. Everyone around them stood up and began speaking in unison as a priest entered and intoned, "The Angel spoke God's message to Mary...."

The Smith-Jonses glanced at one another in confusion. Zodiac whispered to Ashlee, "What's going on?" They were befuddled by the organ hymns and somber atmosphere that followed.

Where were the guitars? Why did the presider begin with the sign of the cross instead of chatty repartee? Ashlee wondered why the young people were not invited to physically surround the altar during the Eucharistic prayer.

Ms. Smith-Jones, for her part, noticed her family's discomfort and gamely fought to reassure them. Mom lifted high the hands of her family during the Our Father, even though few other congregants did.

She and her husband likewise worked hard during the sign of peace, kissing each other and shaking as many hands as possible.

Unfortunately, though, the priest began the Agnus Dei just as Mom and Dad were departing to visit other pews.

After the Mass, the Smith-Joneses filed quietly toward the Shrine's exits. The kids were thinking about an MTV program they might have missed. The parents were thinking wistfully of St. Al's Catholic Community, where the stained glass is free of fire-and-brimstone imagery, where a bright-orange goldfish roams the baptismal pool.

Ms. Smith-Jones recited a favorite "centering prayer" and mentally told herself, "We are Church, we are Church, we are Church."

Suddenly, 18-year-old Ashlee thought of the word "sin." She'd heard the phrase on television, perhaps, or in a book, and wondered how it might apply to--

But the girl's thoughts were interrupted by the cheerful voice of her Mother, proposing a trip to the hotel swimming pool and a visit to the Pentagon City shopping mall before dinner. Soon the Smith-Jones family turned their thoughts and discussion to the items they would buy.

The author, Dred Scott (a pseudonym), writes from Washington, D.C.
[Originally printed in New Oxford Review (January 2005), p. 40. Reprinted with permission from New Oxford Review, 1069 Kains Ave., Berkeley, CA 94706, U.S.A.]