In spite of attempts to suppress it, the traditional Latin Mass is here to stay. It may not be as widespread as it was in the halcyon days of
Summorum Pontificum, but neither is it exactly hidden under a bushel, as the early Christians were during the Roman persecutions. In many cites, gigantic parishes run by former Ecclesia Dei institutes are packed with faithful every Sunday. No, this is not going away; and the sooner a future pope comes to terms with the reality on the ground, the better off we’ll all be.
Unfortunately, due to the way the internet encourages the spontaneous expression of feelings and ideas (or some mixture of the two), a lot of premature and undercooked opinions tend to be expressed. One of the most frequent proposals I see being floated is this one: “
Wouldn’t it be just grand if we could have the TLM in the vernacular? This would kill two birds with one stone: We get the traditional liturgy, but without the language barrier! Everyone would flock to it and the breach between old and new could be healed at last!” Even prominent figures among the Oratorians are not hesitate about
expressing this opinion.
An NLM reader once wrote to me:
I have read certain articles of yours in which you treat of the question of introducing the vernacular into the traditional rites in a limited fashion and come out decidedly against it. I myself prefer an entirely Latin liturgy in all respects, lessons included—indeed my daughter’s (old rite) baptism was entirely in Latin, including the godparents’ responses. The only vernacular was the Pater and Credo in the procession to the sanctuary (per custom). I think that there is a certain dissonance in “mixing” languages liturgically, with the obvious exceptions of the Greek Kyrie and various Hebrew words, especially if I am saying “and with your spirit” at one point and “et cum spiritu tuo” at another point. There is an imbalance there that I can’t precisely explain.
Yet, I was reading Dobszay’s treatment of the issue in which he argues that the introduction of certain vernacular elements alongside, not in place of, the Latin would be highly beneficial for the simple reason that the entirely Latin liturgy is, truly, a stumbling block for many who are otherwise friendly to the tradition. Yes, I understand that man is to be formed into the image of the liturgy, and not vice versa—St. Benedict, after all, urges ut mens concordet voci—that the mind harmonize with the voice—which, in addition to sounding “quaint,” actually is quite radical when compared to the modern emphasis on “authenticity” (wrongly identified with virtual formlessness). And, with the necessary reservations, viz. the Orations, Canon, and silent prayers remaining in Latin, Dobszay nevertheless suggests the possibility of not only the lessons, but also at times the proper chants and Mass ordinary being authorized in a hieratic vernacular. (And for this purpose, let us assume that the principal parish Mass would be required to be fully in Latin, so the totally-Latin liturgy would still play a truly primary role in the Church’s liturgical life.)
Don’t misunderstand me: I am not saying that the introduction of the vernacular is “necessary” from a liturgical standpoint. But I am haunted by Dobszay’s point that a moderate introduction of the occasional hieratic vernacular would serve to de-ghettoize the classical Roman liturgy and thereby increase its appeal. In this way, the ancient heritage would enter the ecclesial mainstream instead of remaining on the relative margins.
To put it bluntly: is an unbending adherence to the exclusive use of Latin semper et ubique in the liturgy ultimately wise, if the price to pay is that the authentic tradition (form and content) remains a marginalized minority? Would not a moderate use of a hieratic vernacular be a small price to pay for the greater expansion of the Roman heritage? Is this not a legitimate instance of the perfect being the enemy of the good? Moderate vernacular usage for the lessons seems to be one of those things that, for better or worse, we are stuck with permanently, and I worry that we might lose too many lives battling on this hill while losing the mountain.
I remain unconvinced. Just as Marshall McLuhan maintained that bringing microphones into churches would undermine the numinous character of the liturgy (and how right he was), I am equally convinced that de-Latinization would spell the end of the Roman rite in its distinctive character, as much as abolishing icons would do to the Byzantine liturgy. Here I would like to offer some reasons why I think this.
A Fundamental Argument
Among the Eastern Christian churches, we find considerable linguistic diversity, which has led in some cases to the development of sacral languages and in others to almost total vernacularization. In the Western church, however, we find an impressive and almost monolithic unity: Latin is the language
par excellence for all Western rites and uses.
Now, this monumental linguistic unity is either the work of Divine Providence and of the Holy Spirit, or a huge error, deviation, and problem to be overcome. I maintain that the only acceptable Roman Catholic mentality is the former; the latter leads necessarily to the overthrowing of all liturgical standards: if not even Latin is safe, then neither is
ad orientem, communion under one kind, plainchant and polyphony, a proleptic Offertory, etc.
And, in point of fact, this is exactly what we saw in the liturgical reform, whose proponents and implementers tended to reject
all of those so-called “medieval” features (even though many are properly ancient).
An Aesthetic Argument
Martin Mosebach maintains that the use of Latin is primarily responsible for the creation of a sacral atmosphere from start to finish in the traditional Mass. The moment it begins, one knows one is in a different “place,” one is moving on a different level; the workaday world has been left behind, and one is entering the divine domain. The vernacular, no matter how well translated, or how archaic in sound, does not have this requisite otherness. As Michael Fiedrowicz says, the Latin reminds us that we are seeking something
else in worship than what we find everywhere else.
As for alternating between Latin and vernacular, it is no more coherent than a man with a tuxedo jacket on top and blue jeans on the bottom.
A Pastoral Argument
There is already an insidious tendency for Catholics to splinter into factions the moment someone decides to move the flowers above the altar one inch to the left or the right. We are all rather high-strung at this point, and, in addition to the need to relax a bit, we also need to supply
as few incentives for division as possible. Changing the language that has been part and parcel of the liturgy for over 1,600 years would be a nuclear bomb in that regard: instantly, there would be all-Latin communities and mixed-language communities. Indeed, we already
have that, because of the “two forms”; the last thing we need is further balkanization.
Moreover, use of the vernacular, so far from uniting people who speak a common language, instantly segregates the faithful into categories. Some would prefer an archaic translation such as the Douay-Rheims; others would agitate for the Revised Standard Version or (God forbid) the New American Bible. And if the Vatican or the USCCB got involved, it would all go south in five minutes. With Latin, no one can complain: we are using the language that all the saints before us prayed with. Each person can then pick up whatever hand missal suits him best.
One difficulty with modern languages is that they do not possess sufficient “alterity” and “elevation” to serve as liturgical languages. The traditional Anglicans and the Ordinariates use Elizabethan English, which I’m sure sounded normal back in Shakespeare’s day but now sounds formal, elevated, and a little strange. To have liturgy in the vernacular requires a
sacral register, which, it seems, today’s Church is incapable of producing. Moreover, the Byzantine Divine Liturgy is not a good example because it achieves its effects in a totally different way, through waves and waves of poetic speech and singing. The Roman liturgy is austere and slender; much of its affective power depends on Latin, silence, and chant—the three elements of the sonic iconostasis.
Additional Theological Arguments
In general, we overestimate the primacy of verbal comprehension. It is often non-verbal signs and behaviors that affect us more deeply. I think this is above all true for acquiring the spirit of reverence and prayer at liturgy.
As people know from experience, there are many ways to participate in a Latin liturgy. It takes many years to grasp it—which is appropriate for the greatest mystery on earth. One starts with simple steps, like a “child’s missal,” and eventually works up to an adult’s missal with all the translations—and finally, one knows it so well that one can put aside the missal and simply yield oneself to the liturgy. This can happen more easily with the Tridentine rite because it has fewer options and fewer texts that become familiar over time. It takes a long time to enter fully into it,
and it ought to be this way.
One learns to swim by starting in the shallow end and eventually venturing into the deep end. The traditional liturgy in its richness of symbolism, its pageantry of ceremony, its beautiful musical patrimony, offers many “handles” to grab on to. I remember my son being fascinating with the coordinated movements of the servers in their sacred choreography. Another little boy I know loves watching the thurifer handle the thurible, with the hot coals and clouds of smoke. One does not have to be a genius to appreciate the Latin Mass; one simply has to use the eyes in one’s head, the ears, the nostrils; one watches, listens, ponders, and prays.
The best thing we can do at Mass is to pray earnestly; this is worth more than any amount of rational understanding.
The sacral language of the Mass, its totally untranslatable poetry, deserves to be left intact. We laity have many ways of accessing its meaning, including: learning Latin; following in a missal (where the translation doesn’t have to bear the weight of being the actual rite that is offered); or just watching and absorbing and praying in our own words inspired by the liturgy.
The key is letting the rich ceremonies of the Mass
themselves be the first message it conveys. The text is not absolute and exclusive, nor is it primary from the point of view of lay participation. It is something one
grows into over time. We are so impatient nowadays: we want an “instant fix.” Well, it took God several thousand years to prepare humanity for the Incarnation, and it took him 1,500 years to bring the Roman rite to perfection among us. He’s apparently not in a huge rush to get things over and done with, and neither should we be. Certainly, our lives are short, but not usually so short that we cannot acquire the habit proper to the rite.
C. du Plessis d’Argentré writes:
It is perfectly clear that the benefit of the liturgical prayer consists not only in the understanding of the words; it is a dangerous error to think that vocal prayer serves only to educate the intellect. On the contrary, such prayer mainly contributes to inflame the affections, so that the worshipper, rising up to God with a pious and devout heart, will be edified, and, obtaining his wishes, he will not be frustrated in his intentions; and in addition, the intellect acquires illumination together with other useful or necessary things, all of which benefits are far more abundant than the understanding of the words alone, which does not achieve much advantage without the arousal of the affection for God. (Collectio iudiciorum de novis erroribus II [Paris: Cailleau, 1728], 62, quoted in Guéranger, Institutions liturgiques III, 164)
Musical Inheritance
With all due respect to the great Prof. Dobszay, vernacular plainchant is an ugly duckling compared to its Latin paradigm. It can be done decently, but it remains rather awkward. No two languages function the same, and the peculiar sound of each is very different. Latin and chant are like a body-soul composite. Again, Byzantine chant tends to work better, because—and I intend no offense to our Eastern brethren—it is generally quite a bit simpler and plainer than Gregorian chant. It is more in the nature of harmonized psalm tones that can suit any language. Latin chant, on the other hand, is a highly refined musical form that grew up for a thousand years with its Latin text.
Composer Mark Nowakowski observed in an
interview:
Latin is a language I keep returning to in my writing not only because it is still the Church’s language, but also because it is a singularly beautiful language. It is inherently sing-able and seems to have the necessary structure and gravitas to bear the full weight of both liturgical solemnity and spiritual contemplation. Let’s be honest: “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world” is just not as beautiful or sing-able as “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi…” – and we have an entire failed post-conciliar repertoire to prove it. And now that composers are in an age where English settings are still the Church standard, they mostly want to compose in Latin! That should speak for itself.
False Centrality
Every time someone proposes translating the Latin Mass, they immediately add: “But of course the principal Mass would remain in Latin,” or “Naturally, for those who love Latin, it would still be available.”
I think this is a false hope.
However much better an
usus antiquior in the vernacular would be than an
usus recentior in Latin, ultimately I fear that such a move would begin a slow-motion marginalization of Latin and chant, with almost no hope of their recover. Once people are convinced that they “ought” to understand this or that part of the liturgy
immediately, good luck trying to have a solemn Mass where that’s not the operative assumption. These treasures would become like animal or plant species that are driven out of their native environment by more aggressive foreign organisms introduced into the ecosystem.
Perhaps the most decisive observation is that the Latin texts have a dense web of intraliturgical and extraliturgical associations that no vernacular, regardless of its refinement, could carry—at least not without having its own arc of 2,000 years of development. I do not wish to sound like I am defending a sort of “magical” property of Latin, but I do think it’s worth pondering why exorcists consistently report more success when they use the old rites in Latin.
Priorities
Finally, can we not say that a religion that took itself seriously would ask its members to
study it seriously? Serious Jews ask their boys to learn Hebrew; serious Moslems ask them to learn classical Arabic; the Copts figure out Egyptian; the Russians must get down some Slavonic; and so forth. The Catholic Church will become stronger again when it actually
demands more of its people than it currently does (the realm of fasting is perhaps the most obvious place to begin).
There are thousands of Catholic schools that could be teaching Latin. They do not, because it has been deemed of little or no worth. This ignorance, skepticism, or rejection of our tradition is the real problem;
this is the attitude that has to change. Otherwise, we are trying to cram a beautiful liturgy into people who could care less whether it is high, low, right, wrong, old, new, Latin, or English.
In short: Latin’s not some outlying hill, remote from the fortress, but part of the foundation rock in the mountain fastness we are defending.
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