The Hat and The Curtain:
A Case for Reverence in an Age of Casualness
My father is a reverent man. Not in the incense-swinging, Latin-chanting, cassock-donning kind of way—though he’d probably volunteer for all three if asked—but in the unmistakable, sometimes exasperating way that says: this matters. Whether it was praying before dinner or dressing for Mass, his posture told the world something sacred was happening—even if the cathedral happened to be a station wagon on the way to my grandparents’ in Dubuque, Iowa, and the only other parishioners were cows in a field—who, no matter the weather, merited Dad’s window rolled down and his loudest, most full-throated proclamation: “Moooooo!”
When asked to lector, his voice rose like the archangel’s trumpet—often preceded by a few unbidden remarks, to the visible discomfort of the presider. More recently, when we invited him to lead Morning Prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours, he deviated so far into personal commentary that by the time we returned to the prescribed psalm, we weren’t sure whether we were in Tuesday of Week II or at a backyard revival.
We kids called this “Bernie-izing,” in honor of our dad, Bernie. Bernie-izing is the art of transforming the mundane into the eternal—with a few sidebars along the way. Beneath the eye-rolls and amused smirks, there was always this lingering truth: he wasn’t wrong to believe sacred things deserve intentionality. He knew God mattered.
My father’s reverence was sincere—but it was also his. When offered the Church’s public prayer, he wanted to make it personal. Which is essential by intention, but misplaced by form. It came from a good place. But it revealed something essential we are in danger of losing: a right ordering of ourselves—not just as individuals, but as a people—toward God and one another. This is about the divine architecture of communion, something greater than personal preference, that forms the path to our greatest flourishing. Put simply: our reception of Holy Communion is ordered toward our participation in holy community—and that demands we extend beyond the private cell of our own preferences, feelings, or style.
The guiding value here is reverence. Reverence is not merely what we feel. It is not anchored in personal preference or subjective inclination. Reverence is how we respond—rightly, communally, bodily—to what is revealed. To what is real. In a culture that treats a shallow version of “authenticity” as ultimate, this truth is quietly, perilously fading.
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