What is Catholicism like at Cornell?

Cornell Catholic's flaws are the most common faults of any modern parish anywhere.

… I was asked several months ago. Luckily after a few seconds of stammering for a response – unable to synthesize an edifying combination of “it doesn’t exist” and “they use a pagan temple” – a scream broke the uneasy silence.

One of the – many – children of the couple I was speaking with fell off a pile of gravel. In that moment, his cataclysm was far more important than the couple’s idle interest in Cornell Catholic.

I never ended up answering the question, as the conversation soon moved far away from Ithaca. I did, however, keep thinking about it.

A cacophony in Cayuga Heights

The question called to mind memories of arriving in Ithaca, searching the liturgical desert for something approaching orthodoxy. My journey began, as a resident of North Campus, with St. Catherine of Siena. At the risk of spoiling the fun, I could not stomach the “liturgical innovations” emanating from the aging congregation.

Age wasn’t the problem, though. Or rather, it wasn’t the only problem. A mere glance at St. Catherine would trigger a sinking feeling in the bosom of any conservative Catholic. The thing itself more resembles an engineering quad building than a Catholic church.

There are a few quick heuristics that almost always correctly predict the orthodoxy of a Catholic community. First on the checklist: where’s the tabernacle? My eyes fixated on the center of the building: no tabernacle. Only after a few anxious moments of shifting gaze did I locate the little cubby hole where Our Lord was reposed. In a little wooden box. “Well,” I thought to myself, “that’s not encouraging.”

Nevertheless, I walked to a pew and took a seat. Mass began and proceeded much like I was used to in those mid-pandemic days. Plexiglass dividers adorned the sanctuary and ambo, with the choir decked out in hilariously oversized masks to aid in singing the tawdriest of post-conciliar hymns.

I had been to many eye roll-inducing Novus Ordos in my life, so none of this was too outrageous. But then came the Alleluia. More accurately, then came the Alleluia… in sign language. I stood, dumbfounded, as the entire congregation (which is not saying much given the demographics) engaged in gestures that could only be described as a facsimile of jazz hands.

“This simply will not do,” I thought to myself at the time.

I discovered later in the liturgy that standing – not kneeling – is the default posture during the Roman Canon. Priests both on campus and off assured the assembled faithful that only in the United States was kneeling the norm. I was hitherto unaware that Ithaca was not part of the Union.

So the congregation stood. Even for the consecration. I will never forget the askance glances I received when I pulled down the rather superfluous kneelers during the Canon.

I left St. Catherine’s that first Sunday confused and worried. I was far less confident of my liturgical gag reflex in those days, so I buried my concerns under “local custom” rather than immediately shouting “liturgical abuse.”

So I kept going back; things never got better. I will give only brief mention to the omitted creeds, clap-alongs to “This Little Light of Mine,” or questionable (to say the least) homilies. St. Catherine’s to this day asks parishioners to wear N-95 masks, at least in one wing of the church.

Descending to the bottom of the hill

Throughout that first year, I alternated regularly between St. Catherine, Immaculate Conception, and Sage Chapel. Immaculate Conception, though by far the best of the local offerings, is not free of liturgical skeletons.

In yet another example of COVID pearl clutching, Immaculate Conception ditched normal holy water fonts in favor of a dispenser. A holy water dispenser, like hand sanitizer, but for holy water instead.

But really, the sad thing about Immaculate Conception is not any liturgical abuse – there’s nothing here worse than most other Novus Ordo parishes in the country. What’s so depressing about Immaculate Conception is how empty it is.

Such a large and beautiful church deserves more than 110 plus-or-minus a dozen attendees per Mass. The demographics aren’t too encouraging down here either.

At Cornell

Cornell – unlike many prestigious universities – does not have a dedicated Catholic chapel. The two worship spaces used by Cornell Catholic, Anabel Taylor Hall and Sage Chapel, are shared with other religious groups on campus. Neither has a tabernacle, permanent altar, permanent crucifix, Catholic name, or any of the other trappings generally associated with a Catholic worship space.

The consequences of this are quite unfortunate. Sage Chapel, the 700-seat temple in the center of campus, is adorned with recognizable symbols of Christianity, but branded with pagan names. Idols to “reason” and “knowledge” decorate the “sanctuary” (under which is interred the body of the chapel’s benefactor). It’s no surprise then, that Sage has acquired the title of “pagan temple” among more traditionally-minded Catholic Cornellians.

Despite its faults, Sage is home to an enormous, beautiful antique organ capable of producing soul-moving music. The thing covers almost the entire back wall of Sage Chapel, looming behind the congregation in wait.

To my great horror, that “engine of papacy,” the most complex device developed by man until the telephone, that beautiful grand organ, sat—silent—for the duration of Mass. Instead of the cavernous chapel reverberating with the organ’s wind, the musical minds at Cornell Catholic used a baby grand piano to illuminate the liturgical silence.

What they played was only slightly less offensive than the dereliction of that fine instrument. Jubilate Deo this was not. Almost every hymn sung in Sage was – until recently – of the OCP style. Generic praise and worship with, to be generous, little theological content. Much like all of Cornell Catholic, the music selection was surface level, feel-good, empty calories. Therein lies the problem.

I must say, things are now much better than when I arrived in Ithaca years ago. The end of COVID and arrival of new personnel has resulted in nothing less than an upending of the status quo, a conversion, if you will.

Last year, Cornell Catholic’s marquee event (with more than one hundred attendees) was a Marian procession through the Arts Quad. It’s almost unthinkable: Cornell students – dozens of them – braved the cold, wet, Wednesday night singing and chanting and praying out loud, in public, for all to see. During finals season, no less.

That noble engine of papacy lurking in the back of Sage Chapel now rings proudly every Sunday at 9 PM. The weekday Masses are – locational limits notwithstanding – much more reverent than your average Novus Ordo. The staff are willing to make changes in favor of Tradition, eschewing the comfort of the status quo. The new missal/hymnal has far better hymns and far better translations than the old books.

Yes, the servers still lurk about the sanctuary in plainclothes. Yes, extraordinary ministers still consecrate their hands with rubbing alcohol before distributing Holy Communion. Yes, true daily Mass still eludes us.

To a one, these are the most common faults of any modern parish anywhere. Cornell is not uniquely irreverent or dismissive or anything.

So what is Catholicism like at Cornell, really?

The buried vestiges of tradition can be found anywhere you look, from a newspaper clipping from the 1890s to the approximation of an altar rail in Sage Chapel. Stumbling upon these shards calls to mind an era long ago, when Cornell Catholic was a vibrant, traditional, spiritual community. Before Vatican II, mind you, Cornell had one of the largest Newman Centers in the country.

Recent years have taken a toll, but Catholicism at Cornell is stronger now than it has ever been during my – waning – tenure at the university. Is it enough to prevent weekly flights to Syracuse? No, but the community has shown a willingness to change for the better. That alone is enough reason for optimism.

Bonaventura