On Lutefisk, Latin & Liturgy

In the dreary, flat world of Thomas Friedman, most of our cultural practices are affectations. Yet remnants of true culture can still be found. Last Advent my wife and I attended the annual lutefisk dinner at Mindekirken, a Lutheran church in Minneapolis where her maternal grandfather once served as pastor. Lutefisk is a culinary oddity courtesy of the Scandinavians who settled Minnesota, though some trace it to Norway. At my inaugural dinner, the wizened elders informed us neophytes that it was a food the immigrants had devised to get them through the cold winters. Like most concoctions borne of necessity, lutefisk is a simple enough dish: whitefish preserved in lye. The finished product combines a gelatinous texture with a strong fish smell and a slight fish taste. It can be served topped with melted butter or a cream sauce that does more to mitigate the flavor. My wife’s grandmother, of pure Norwegian blood, expressed her approval of my wife’s preference for melted butter, while I drowned my fish in cream sauce and secretly offered up my Protestant feast for the poor souls in Purgatory.

Lutefisk, then, is something of an acquired taste, which is not to say such taste cannot be acquired. My wife boasted to a man at our table that this was her fourth lutefisk dinner — she meant overall — to which he replied that this was his seventh — of the season. There’s a market of sorts for connoisseurs to make the circuit, like Catholics with our Lenten fish (which we have good enough sense to fry).

I can’t vouch for the other lutefisk dinners, but the distinctive character of the patrons at Mindekirken was charming. One could easily imagine the small band of Norwegian Americans who lived near and worshiped in this church. Yet the crowd saddened me too. It was too old; or rather, it lacked sufficient youth. It was as if the slow death of a distinctive culture were being presented to me. Mindekirken is one of two remaining American congregations that still use Norwegian as the language of their church services. Many of its members came from Norway as children, or are the children of those who did. But their children are to be found elsewhere.

At the time Mindekirken was built in 1922, Catholic churches were still using Latin. Worshiping in the vernacular was Protestant. Worshiping ad orientem, however, was a shared custom, which, to my surprise, is retained at Mindekirken. The whole church is, in fact, strikingly traditional. Their founder’s rebellion against Rome might have produced a bout of vandalism, leading to the destruction of church buildings and art in Germany and the low countries, but by the time Norwegian immigrants came to found this church, iconoclasm was a distant memory, and they built beautifully.

Given the absence of children, it is likely that sooner or later Mindekirken will give up the use of Norwegian. One suspects the lutefisk dinners will cease too. Probably the church will end up as a museum — or a mosque. After all, Norwegians have been successfully assimilated. No doubt Minnesota became stronger from the amalgamation of these and other ethnic tribes, whose traces still dot the Twin Cities, and the people thrived by leaving their ethnic ghettos to join the mainstream. But there is something undeniably bittersweet about the sublimation of a distinct culture into whatever it is we Americans possess — that flat consumerist anti-culture touted as an improvement by fools like Friedman.

Part of this is also envy on my part: My English, German, and Irish heritages have likewise been subsumed. St. Patrick’s Day has become a mockery of the feast of the glorious patron of Ireland. And yet, on that day, before everyone with the most dubious claim to a drop of Irish blood takes to the streets of St. Paul to engage in drunken debauchery, many of us assemble at the city’s awe-inspiring cathedral to celebrate Mass. One of the readings is even in Gaelic, though Heaven knows if anyone can understand it without the assistance of the accompanying program. For now, the archbishop faces the people, and our high altar is reserved for the tabernacle. But inside that tabernacle is Jesus Christ truly present in the Holy Eucharist.

I’m envious of the Norwegian Lutherans, but only to a point. After all, aside from the lutefisk, that which appealed to me at Mindekirken is also available in our Catholic tradition. We too have gorgeous churches. In Latin we possess a common tongue. Many of our churches retain high altars and communion rails. No doubt some of the allure of these artifacts is in juxtaposition to the drab architecture of the post-conciliar churches with which I am too familiar, but beauty is always appealing.

Yet as we wait for such reforms, we are prone to forget that culture also comes from below. Min­dekirken will continue to serve lutefisk as long as sweater-clad Norwegian Americans can be found to consume it. And if we wish for the liturgy to be reformed — for its own sake, as well as for the greater cultural renewal it will portend — that too is, to a very large degree, on us. We pray ardently and worship reverently, knowing that all will happen in God’s good time.

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