Thou has seduced me, O Lord, and I was seduced.

God seduced me. He called me out of my solipsistic hedonism and drew me to His bosom. He did this by appealing to my senses – the gateways to my soul and the roots of my manifold sins – and to my mind, the root of my prideful selfishness. His main instrument was the Liturgy. Was it a latent sensus catholicus on my part that opened in me this avenue of attack for the Hound of Heaven? Simple æstheticism? Who can say? He called and I answered. I knew I had seen something amazing. I wrote at the time:

After experiencing High Mass in Latin, it is very easy to see that the mass truly is the most important ceremony in Catholicism, today and in the Middle Ages.

The entire effect was to impose a sense of awe and wonderment.

...it is very easy to see why the people of the middle ages were so molded and shaped by this ceremony. It was very moving and very spiritual.

This was the “Solemn High” Mass of Candlemas at St. Agnes in St. Paul – a Latin Novus Ordo. I didn't know at the time that it was a traditional veneer spread atop a Liturgy barely older than myself. Neither, amusingly enough, did my professor, who had sent me there as an assignment for his “Catholic Church in the Middle Ages” class. All I knew is that it had utterly captured my attention. The proverbial “smells and bells” filled my senses and quieted my mind. It was the beginning of the end of my revolution, of my spiteful divorce from my ancestral Faith, though it didn't look much like it at the time. Still committing a litany of sins, many of them mortal, I continued to shuffle through my college life with little to distinguish me internally or externally from my classmates. There was no real struggle yet, but the seed that had been planted as I had sat in stunned silence that Candlemas was slowly germinating.

Why did I decide to return and be confirmed? It's hard to say, really. The reasons are now lost in the mists of my mind, but I know for certain that it wasn't a fervent Faith and Hope in the Resurrection, not then, at the beginning. Nor was it a spirit of penitence – that would come later. Many people who had been baptized Catholic but had not received the Sacrament of Confirmation were coming back to the Church at the Cathedral of St. Paul that year (I had, of course, chosen the Cathedral parish because of the impressiveness of the building). So many were coming back that the parish set up a special class for us, separate from that for the Catechumens. I had to wait the better part of a year for the classes to start, leaving me to rot in my sins (I did not darken the door of a Church between that Candlemas and my first class) but also allowing the seed to sink its roots in and get to the point where it was ready to sprout forth when the classes began. I was lucky – although the Liturgies at the Cathedral were banal (shockingly so after the St. Agnes Mass), we were taught by a wonderfully fervent young Priest who introduced me to Chesterton and Newman and really engaged my mind. It was a wonderful revelation to discover that the Church was actually rational, that the touchy-feely hokum that I was inundated with as a Novus Ordo child was not the be-all end-all of Catholicism. God had truly hooked me.

My senses, however, were screaming for more. The Liturgies at the Cathedral just weren't doing it. I couldn't fathom why, if one truly believed in the Holy Sacrifice and Blessed Sacrament, one would settle for what passed (and passes) for liturgy at the Cathedral (and 99.9% of Catholic Churches today). As the first flush of fervor wore off, I yearned for the solemnity that I had witnessed over a year earlier, which seemed to me to be the proper setting for such an immense Treasure; the Liturgy that had drawn me back into the arms of the Church. Things came to a head when that young priest (who, despite his charismatic reputation, celebrated a very reverent Mass) was reassigned to a parish in the hinterlands. I spoke with him about St. Agnes, and his initial reply was that they were schismatic (remember this was a parish with a Latin Novus Ordo!), but when I pointed out that the parish was on the Archdiocesan website, he investigated further. Turns out he had been fed that lie in the Seminary, and not being a native of the Archdiocese, he simply accepted it. Once he knew the truth, he did not object to my moving to St. Agnes Parish. My entire being was nourished at St. Agnes, the holistic totality of the parish engulfed me – sensually, mentally, and spiritually, and cemented me in my Faith. I served daily Mass for a year. I made many friends, many of them other young people from diverse (sometimes perverse) backgrounds who had likewise been drawn to God by the majesty of the Liturgy.

I don't remember exactly when I acquired my first pre-conciliar Missal (a pre-1955 Father Lasance English/Latin, still my preferred brand), but it was in that second year after coming back to the Faith, when I had been at St. Agnes awhile. I was struck by how beautiful the Traditional Mass was, especially in comparison with the Novus Ordo, a comparison I was able to examine in both English and Latin on both sides. As I read more pre-conciliar writings on the Sacred Liturgy I began to see the problems with the Novus Ordo in a new light. It wasn't just about the Latin, about the bad translation. It was substantial. My observations didn't go over well in Rectory. I began praying the “missing” prayers to myself, though I still scoffed at my friend for suggesting that the Gregorian Dies Irae was superior to Mozart's (I have since come to my senses).

The Traditional Liturgy (expressed, ironically enough, through a traditionally-styled Novus Ordo) played a huge part in bringing me back to the Faith and helping me to connect to God. Throughout history, up until the practical abolition of the Traditional forms of Catholic worship from our altars (and often the abolition of the altars themselves), men of all stripes could be moved and drawn by the majesty of the ancient liturgy, from extravagant libertines Oscar Wilde and Huysmans to dour deists like George Washington. Having seen this first hand in my own life and having witnessed it happen to others, it is a large part of why I support, defend, and agitate for the restoration of the Traditional Liturgy. Style matters. It does not matter as much as substance, but it is still incredibly important, not only for transmitting, honoring, and enhancing the substance of our Sacred Faith, but also in drawing men to it.