Finding God in the Liturgical Dissonance

I returned to a beautiful little church in the Blue Ridge mountains after nearly a decade away, and felt a quiet disappointment. The church itself remains as striking as I remembered—perched on a hill, wrapped in windows that open onto rolling ridgelines. The stonework, the hand-carved altar and ambo, the simple figures of Mary and Joseph—all still speak the quiet language of beauty in harmony with the natural world outside.

But much else has changed.

The liturgical environment now reflects a very particular vision of the current pastor. Tall golden altar candles stand like a barricade between the presider and the congregation. Multiple statues of Mary cluster in one corner. Latin chant is blended with traditional hymns, yet the chants, though printed for the congregation, are so technical that even the cantors struggle. The Creed is sung by the choir alone; few in the pews join in. The words “I believe” hang in the air without a voice to carry them.

I am not opposed to tradition. I have prayed in churches where the Mass is celebrated in Latin with reverence and beauty, where everything—architecture, music, and ritual—feels integrated. I have also prayed in contemporary spaces where simplicity and sincerity draw the community into a shared act of worship.

What unsettled me here was not the blending of old and new, but the sense of a forced imposition. The elements felt grafted rather than grown together. The result was dissonance—visual, musical, and spiritual.

During Mass, I found myself searching for the Lord’s presence. The priest’s distant monotone, the crowded statuary, the unfamiliar chant—all of it created a kind of spiritual static. God was there, of course, but I struggled to feel His nearness.

Then, unexpectedly, my attention shifted beyond the altar to the stone wall behind it. The stones shimmered. They seemed almost to breathe. In that moment, they felt more alive than anything else in the sanctuary. Jesus once said that if all else were silent, “even the stones will cry out” (Lk 19:40). And here they were—praising God in the language of creation itself: unforced, unadorned, and clear.

When I came forward for Communion, I received it with gratitude, accompanied by the quiet hymn of those stones.

The experience reminded me that when my spirit is distracted, I can pause and ask simply, “Lord, where are You present for me right now?” The answer may come from an unexpected place.