Mere Tradition

'We fight for Tradition because we fight for the memory of a civilization and a legacy that has been buried alive but still breathes.'

From Crisis

By Kennedy Hall

Tradition, before it is a theology or a movement, is a mood and memory. It begins in the heart and imprints itself on your soul.

It is no secret that Traditional Catholics face an uphill battle—and have for decades. Whether it be the negative stigma that “trads” often face within mainstream Catholicism or the undulating suppressions and revivals of the Traditional Latin Mass, being trad ain’t easy. As a trad, you often get it from both sides; the liberals think you are archaic and intolerant—which you probably are, as I know I am—and the conservatives can look at you like a purist who lets the perfect be the enemy of the good.

Well, whatever the case may be, and I am sure if you consider yourself to be a trad you could tell a dozen stories or more, we wouldn’t commit to a life riddled with so many difficulties and personal battles if not for the fact that it is worth it to hold fast to Tradition. 

With that said, what is Tradition? And what does it mean to be a trad? C.S. Lewis sought to unite Christians of all stripes in England during the War, thus he spoke of Mere Christianity. We find ourselves in a type of Hundred Years War against the liturgy, so perhaps we ought to consider Mere Tradition.

If I wanted to, I could cite various theological resources or esteemed traditional authors. But I am not a theologian, and for an article such as this one I find the prospect of perusing through manuals and catechisms to be a tedious proposition. So, instead of assessing the topic in a scholarly way, perhaps I might start with a story.

My mother is an Italian immigrant, and I was raised largely by my mother’s side of the family. As a child, I lived near Lucca, Tuscany, and despite my English surname, the Italian blood in my heart has always flowed the strongest. I am proud of my English heritage, and I have a deep devotion to St. Edmund Campion, but my upbringing was filled with hours spent in Nonna’s kitchen and Nonno’s wine cellar. Every four years, I pretend to be a soccer fan and yell, “Forza Azzurri;” the smell of onions and garlic sautéing in olive oil creates in me almost a psychedelic experience. I live in the country, and to this day if I smell some growing crop on the wind that is reminiscent of something I smelled in the Tuscan countryside, it is enough to make me weak in the knees with nostalgia and longing for the ancient odor of the Apennine foothills.

Nonno was from a world that doesn’t exist anymore, having been born in 1930. Not only was he Italian, but he was traditional in the cultural sense, as he grew up as a farmhand working for la Contessa. With his wife and children, he brought to Canada his love of wine and his associated artisanal expertise. We have a family photo of Nonno and Nonna from 1968, taken after he produced his first vintage on Canadian soil. Nonna had that very 1960’s beehive hairdo, and Nonno was dressed like any extra you have ever seen in a Godfather film. 

Naturally, I helped Nonno make wine during my childhood, and I helped them both harvest tomatoes and prepare them for canning. I am sure this experience is similar for anyone who is part of the Italian diaspora.  

As Nonno and Nonna began their decline in their late 80s, we had to take care of their estate as they could no longer tend to their home. Eventually, they found themselves in a nursing home—something I did not like—and being the only grandson, it was my responsibility to carry the heavy things out of the basement. Along with numerous demijohns, all that remained were a great, heavy barrel and a wine press that must have weighed hundreds of pounds. No one had any use for the items, as historic as they were, so the assumption was that they would be disposed of. Nonno’s winemaking implements were hardly practical for most wine hobbyists today, so no one wanted them, either.

The thought that these historic instruments would be disposed of caused a great ache in my heart. Almost like relics, the smell of the barrel—delightfully stained by so many grapes—and the feel of the cold, steel frame of the press created something of a religious experience when I touched them. It struck me as impious to throw those things away, almost as if throwing them away would mean throwing history away. So, I kept them.

I had no use for them, as I do not make wine like Nonno did, and I had no room for them either! I somehow found some space in my basement and have subsequently moved those massive and heavy things to three separate houses as my wife and I moved with our children for career reasons. 

Why do I tell this story?

Well, I first obtained Nonno’s belongings in 2015, which was three years before we started attending the Traditional Mass, and the two experiences are related.

I cannot remember how, but I had an inkling to seek out the Old Mass, even though I was not disgruntled with my local parish in the slightest. I was a part of a solid community, and the average Mass at our parish was not a “clown Mass.” Of course, I look back now with my traditional sensibilities and I would not be able to stomach the liturgy we used to attend, but the fact remains that my desire to find Tradition did not stem from a place of negativity. 

Once I discovered that monument we call Traditional Catholicism, I did not feel “robbed” or angry as so many trads—often rightfully—feel. Instead, I felt nostalgic and melancholic. Discovering Tradition was not the uncovering of a conspiracy —although that is a valid consideration. It was the rediscovery of a family. The first time I heard Introibo ad altare Dei, it was like hearing for the first time in decades the lullaby your mother used to sing you when you had an earache. It was love and history that brought me to Tradition, and it was an instinct to protect Nonno’s relics that kept me there.

Tradition, before it is a theology or a movement, is a mood and memory. It begins in the heart and imprints itself on your soul. Every trad, no matter his external persona—which may or may not be congenial—is motivated by that same instinct that forced me to perform the very impractical task of storing Nonno’s equipment in my basement. 

However, there is one major difference between my memories of Old Country keepsakes and the preservation of Catholic Tradition; Nonno’s possessions, as precious as they are, are not alive like Tradition is alive. When you discover Tradition, it is like discovering a photo album with pictures that move and talk; it is like discovering your grandfather’s pipe but it is still warm and the embers still burn.

We fight for Tradition because we fight for the memory of a civilization and a legacy that has been buried alive but still breathes. We fight for the Old Mass because it is too old to die. We do very impractical things—like attending Mass hundreds of kilometers from home—because the martyrs did very impractical things so we could hear their descendants whisper the same words over bread and wine that they did.

We are not trads because we are theologians, we are trads because we are grateful. We are so grateful that we think it is wrong to destroy the gifts we were given and that our ancestors died for. We may be prideful as individuals—as most human beings are in some way—but as a group, we are actually quite humble. We do not think ourselves above the magisterium or the hierarchy, but we believe that many in the magisterium and the hierarchy have tossed away Christ’s keepsakes; and, therefore, we will rummage through any bin or cellar to find them and put them back together. 

Beyond all the noise and the news, Mere Tradition is first found in the same instinct that any sane man has to protect and preserve who he is, who his father was, and who his father’s father was. 

Many believe that trads are dreaming if they think the Old Mass will be restored universally, and they are right, we are dreaming! We are dreaming of a Church restored to her glory, the same way a man dreams of a home before he builds it. We are dreaming of a Church wherein the term Tridentine is seen as a compliment and the term New Springtime is seen as a pejorative. And because we are dreamers, we believe in the impossible. 

There is more that could be said, but I hope the reader will take a moment to be grateful for the fight for Tradition; because as the Bible says, “The life of man upon earth is a warfare” (Job 7:1), and if we are to be at war, we may as well die fighting for the Church of our dreams.