Technology changes things. Perhaps that seems obvious; one
need think only of the advances made in areas such as medicine and
agriculture in the last century. But when it comes to modern media like
radio, television, and the internet, we can be guilty of a certain level
of naiveté about the effects of technology on our lives, especially as
people of faith. In the twentieth century, religious leaders often made
statements encouraging attempts at putting the ancient content of the
faith in contemporary forms for the sake of “modern man.” A major part
of those calls concerned the felt imperative of making use of modern
media like radio and television for the advance of the gospel. Now, in
the wake of the relatively recent rise of the internet (I still remember
using it for the very first time and doing email in DOS), the calls
grow ever louder to bring the gospel to the internet, to engage digital
But the medium assuredly affects the message, even if one doesn’t want to go as far as Marshall McLuhan and assert that the medium is the message. I was glad to see Kevin White’s piece on the effects of microphones on the Mass in the recent issue of First Things (“Drop the Mic,” December 2012), for microphones have been on my mind lately as I hear homilies at Masses several times a week and as I reflect on and teach about mission, liturgy, and preaching in various contexts for the Year of Faith. Indeed, better preaching has become a major concern for Catholics recently. In 2007 in Sacramentum Caritatis, Pope Benedict baldly stated, “given the importance of the Word of God, the quality of homilies needs to be improved.” Quoting these words three years later in Verbum Domini, Benedict also warned against “generic and abstract homilies which obscure the directness of God’s word . . . as well as useless digressions.” And in recent weeks the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops issued a major document on preaching, “Preaching the Mystery of Faith: The Sunday Homily.”
It behooves us, then, to actually think about the microphone. In most liturgical churches, the use of video screens occasions serious and sustained discussion, whereas the microphone has made its way into the sanctuary as a matter of course. But the microphone is a technological medium with real effects on preaching and liturgy; it changes things. McLuhan may be right that the technology of the microphone ultimately led to a vernacular Mass versus populum with significant lay involvement; technological determinists would tend to agree with him. Leaving that fraught question alone for the moment, I would raise a different one: Do microphones encourage poor preaching?
I think microphones might very well injure preaching, for in preaching the microphone functions as both obstacle and crutch. The microphone is an obstacle, one more piece of complexity that can go wrong. It makes preachers tentative; the microphone is like a snake that might bite if one makes a wrong move. Having used many microphones of all kinds in both public speaking situations as well as concert venues (I used to play in rock and heavy metal groups as well as praise-and-worship bands), I have learned that microphones are painfully unpredictable. We have all been in situations where they don’t function well, for whatever reason, and the result is poor sound quality (at best) or feedback (at worst). The microphone is also a crutch, since the electronics of the microphone are designed to do the work the bodies of preachers of prior ages used to do.
Microphones are therefore enervating, as the microphone affects the very nature of the homily by affecting delivery in removing much of the preacher’s body from the arduous physical task of public speaking. Good preaching generally involves a tone of authoritative proclamation, but the use of microphones encourages a quieter, conversational tone from the pulpit. Thus the proclamation of both law and gospel loses its force as preaching becomes something either casual or intellectual. The preacher transmits either banalities or mere information, and the congregation misses a potential transformative encounter with the Word of God.
Technologies have unintended, undesired, and often ironic effects. One such ironic effect of microphones in preaching is the increased distance between preacher and congregation. We do not hear our preachers directly from their lips, but at another remove, from the speakers. To me, this seems to cut against the grain of good preaching, which ought to be both interpersonal (ideally, we have a good relationship of trust with our preacher) and incarnational (as the word of the homily rooted in the word of Scripture proclaims and makes present the Word of God, Jesus Christ). In evading the role of the body, the microphone subtly supports a soft sort of Gnosticism, like most modern technologies.
Could we drop the mic? Certainly. Of course we will continue to employ technology in our lives and in our religion, but we needn’t be slaves to technological determinism. Dropping the mic would necessitate cultivating the art of classical oratory as well as constructing sanctuaries designed to carry the human voice, just as the use of the microphone (I would suggest) has relegated homiletics to an afterthought for many seminarians and encouraged uninspired ecclesiastical architecture. “A microphone allows its user to impose his voice . . . on many more people than an ancient orator could,” White writes, and it’s certainly true. The technology exists today where it would be possible for a single speaker to address all seven billion people on the planet at once. But ancient orators could address multitudes of people, many more than attend most churches on a given Sunday. Think no further than Jesus addressing the crowds at the Sermon on the Mount.
Leroy Huizenga is Chair of the Department of Theology and Director of the Christian Leadership Center at the University of Mary in Bismarck, North Dakota. His personal website is LeroyHuizenga.com. His previous “On the Square” articles can be found here.
Catholic clergy and laity seem to accept the use of
microphones at Mass without question as something good, or at least as
an inevitable feature of the electronic environment in which we all now
live and move, as fish swim in water. It is, however, a very recent and
very strange development, and one might think it would occasion more
discussion than it has.
From the point of view of the human sensorium, the Mass is first of all an event in the dimension of sound, the sound of the human voice. Mass is said to be something said by a priest, and the faithful were said to hear Mass. The latter expression gave a name to the passive silence in which the faithful would attend Mass. T. S. Eliot once described the attitude in which poets turn their experience into poetry as “a passive attending upon the event,” a phrase that might be applied to the attitude of the faithful when they were said to hear Mass. As a poet composes poetry, so a Catholic would compose himself at Mass, in a mood of quiet expectation.
The notion of hearing Mass has since been displaced by the ideal of active participation at Mass, and to be active, it is thought, means to produce, as well as attend to, sound. This ideal descends from the liturgical movement of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Active participation in the liturgy by the faithful was encouraged as early as 1903, in a motu proprio on music by Pius X. It was further encouraged by the Holy See’s approval in 1922 of the dialogue Mass, at which the congregation would together say responses to prayers of the priest. In the Mass of Paul VI, which has been the common rite in the West since it was promulgated in 1969, the congregation usually responds to a priest who faces them, and who prays in their language, speaking into a microphone that projects his voice through loudspeakers pointed at them.
Microphones were occasionally used at Mass prior to the 1960s, but they have since become standard equipment. A rationale for their introduction would seem to have been that they gave the priest a voice equal in volume to that of the congregation, with whom he could therefore be in dialogue. But microphones also opened up new possibilities for participation by members of the congregation, who began to read, make announcements, and lead others in prayer and song. Rare is the Mass today at which there is not more than one microphone and more than one amplified voice.
The seventeenth-century poet George Herbert coined the brilliant metaphor of prayer as reversed thunder. The microphone at Mass, one might say, goes some way to turning the metaphor into literal truth, to the detriment of its metaphoric force and charm. Acoustically, many Masses now have much in common with other contemporary events at which electronically projected voices fill the air, including political rallies, popular music concerts, sports events, movies in theaters, and travel in airports and subway stations. These events take place in cavernous, rumbling echo chambers in which crowds of people are subjected to unnaturally loud voices with a metallic timbre.
A microphone allows its user to impose his voice, and thereby his thought and personality, on many more people than an ancient orator could. Now a public speaker is anyone with a microphone. The amateur in front of a microphone is tempted to indulge the pleasure of broadcasting his thoughts and feelings, to the great amusement or annoyance of his audience. The more skillful speaker takes control of the microphone and the situation, using his amplified voice for other purposes. Popular singers and populist politicians have been masters of the microphone, expertly murmuring more loudly than anyone could ever shout.
Different parts of the Mass call for different rhetorical attitudes. A preacher addresses the congregation most pointedly, as a particular human being speaking to particular others. A reader of Scripture takes a more detached stance, proclaiming the text to all who happen to be present. It may or may not be the priest who preaches or who reads from Scripture, but it must be he who says the Canon, following the canon actionis or rule of action.
The action of the Mass is simultaneously an action of a consecrated priest, an action of the whole Church, and an action of Christ. In the case of the priest, the action is largely a matter of speech. Although he sometimes speaks to the congregation, most of what he says is a direct address to God the Father, and in addressing Him, he occasionally, and rather impersonally, mentions the others present at the Mass as circumstantes, “those who are standing around.”
Filtered through a public address system, these various attitudes become homogenized. To a member of the congregation, the prayers, the dialogue, the readings, the sermon, and the parish announcements are all emanations from one and the same source, the nearest loudspeaker. In my pew, I see the priest look towards me, but I hear his voice coming from another direction, that of the loudspeaker.
This disparity between the direction of sight and the direction of sound is a cognitive dissonance typical of some of the contemporary events mentioned above. Yet the priest’s face and his electronically magnified voice at least agree in both pointing toward me. But then there is the further, more jarring dissonance between, on the one hand, his facing me and speaking in my direction, and, on the other hand, his addressing God the Father. It is not easy to construe a voice relentlessly projected at oneself as meant for someone else.
In 1974, Marshall McLuhan argued that the microphone was the proximate cause both of the elimination of Latin from the Mass and of the turning around of the priest to face the congregation. Before microphones, a priest quietly said Mass in Latin, with his back to the congregation. From any distance, his voice was indistinct, although an instructed Catholic could follow what he was saying from a missal containing the Latin text of the Mass or a translation of it.
McLuhan’s suggestion was that, once microphones began to make every syllable spoken by the priest crystal clear to all, it became intolerable for him not to be speaking in a language understood by all. And since it seemed urgent to have him understood by all, it also seemed unnatural for him to have his back to the congregation. He was turned around to face them, and started to say Mass in their language.
McLuhan also suggested that microphones lead to smaller congregations. This is because they make it possible for anyone in church to be heard by everyone else. Even if only a few actually do speak, the possibility that anyone might address everyone produces a powerful sense of artificial closeness, and consequently a desire for real closeness and for the overcoming of spatial divisions and distances between people.
The ancient rule for the number of guests to invite to dinner was “no fewer than the Graces and no more than the Muses,” that is, no fewer than three and no more than nine. The guiding principle was the unity of the dinner conversation, which, it was thought, needs at least four people, including the host, to get going, but is hard to maintain in its unity with more than ten. Microphones produce the illusion that intimate and unified conversation can take place among thousands.
Recognizing the illusion for what it is, people are moved to look elsewhere for what it falsely promises, namely, a warm human exchange. Even small churches start to seem too big, and it becomes preferable to have Mass said in a private setting, among friends, in a small room where no microphones are needed.
On the other hand, microphones can intensify the illusion of intimate conversation among large numbers to the point where even big churches start to seem too small. A Mass said outdoors in a stadium makes fuller use of the power of microphones to evoke a feeling of unity in a multitude.
Still more impressive in this respect is the electronic broadcasting of Mass, which unites a “congregation” over vast geographical territories. The first radio broadcast of Mass was from the Basilica of Saint Louis King of France in St. Louis, Missouri, at Christmas 1922. The first television broadcast of Mass was from Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris at Christmas 1948.
Habit, as it always does, has become second nature. We are now so accustomed to the electronic amplification and broadcasting of Mass that we have forgotten what extraordinary innovations they were. What is the spiritual significance of these powerful, artificial modifications of the saying and hearing of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass? The question would seem to call for the consideration of thoughtful Catholics.
Kevin White is associate professor of philosophy at the Catholic University of America.