“The Sacrifice of Praise and the Ecstatic Orientation of Man”: Dr. Kwasniewski’s Davenport Lecture

The following lecture was given in Davenport, Iowa, on March 2, 2022, at the invitation of Una Voce Quad City. I am grateful to the organizers for making a video, which is now on my YouTube page.

I am convinced that one of the greatest errors we are facing in the Church today—and one that, in a hidden way, drives a lot of other problems we are suffering under—is the dominance of an activist, utilitarian, this-worldly notion of what Christianity is all about. It’s taken for granted that religion is for the sake of social justice and improvement of quality of life, that it’s a matter of being busy with charitable projects, of making ourselves “useful,” and so forth—quite as if God is not very good at ruling His universe and needs a lot of help from us (“excuse me, Lord, let me step in and take care of this disaster”). At its extreme, as we see it too often in Vatican documents and activities, Catholicism looks like an interreligious, humanitarian social services operation, the “chaplain to the United Nations” as some wags have put it.

In my talk this evening I would like to present to you a totally different way of thinking of the meaning of Christianity and of the purpose of human life. I will offer you the traditional vision, which, needless to say, is not well understood. And I will do so starting from a book of the Bible that used to be at the heart of all of theology but has suffered enormous neglect in the modern Church, namely, the Epistle to the Hebrews, which is all about priesthood, sacrifice, and heaven, and the very title of which underlines the profound continuity between the worship of Israel instituted by God through Moses and its fulfillment in the worship of the New Israel instituted by the God-man Jesus Christ.

In this Epistle, whose author I will take to be St. Paul or certainly of St. Paul’s circle, a climactic verse of chapter 13 exhorts us: “By Him [our Lord Jesus Christ], therefore, let us continually offer the sacrifice of praise to God, that is to say, the fruit of lips confessing to His Name” (Heb 13:15). Given the relative paucity of explicit references in Hebrews to the Christian liturgy and how it is to be conducted here on earth,[1] this exhortation rings out all the more loudly, summoning us to a certain way of life: one in which we offer unto God, continually, the “sacrifice of praise,” which is the fruit of interior faith and its verbal confession. One might ask: Why does St. Paul sum up the Christian religion as a sacrificium laudis? What might we learn from the emphasis on praise?

Before digging into that question, it is worthwhile to point out how frequently Sacred Scripture uses this language. Apart from Hebrews 13:15, here are some other instances:

Offer to God the sacrifice of praise: and pay thy vows to the most High. (Psalm 49:14)

The sacrifice of praise shall glorify me: and there is the way by which I will shew him the salvation of God. (Psalm 49:23)

And let them sacrifice the sacrifice of praise: and declare his works with joy. (Psalm 106:22 )

I will sacrifice to thee the sacrifice of praise, and I will call upon the name of the Lord. (Psalm 115:8)

And offer a sacrifice of praise with leaven: and call free offerings, and proclaim it: for so you would do, O children of Israel, saith the Lord God. (Amos 4:5)

But I with the voice of praise will sacrifice to thee: I will pay whatsoever I have vowed for my salvation to the Lord. (Jonah 2:10)

And thou hast taken pity upon two only children. Make them, O Lord, bless thee more fully: and to offer up to thee a sacrifice of thy praise, and of their health, that all nations may know, that thou alone art God in all the earth. (Tobit 8:19)[2]

And there are countless verses that suggest the same in different language. We have, for instance, Psalm 70:8: “Let my mouth be filled with praise, that I may sing thy glory, thy greatness, all the day long”—a verse, incidentally, that is sung in the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom immediately after the reception of Holy Communion, in a way identifying Our Lord with the very act of praise: “Let my mouth be filled with praise.”[3] The Prophet Jeremiah says: quoniam laus mea tu es, “for Thou art my praise” (Jer 17:14).

Of all forms of prayer, praise is the one most “for its own sake.” In a sense, it is useless, in that it has no further ulterior motive or result we are seeking out of it.[4] Praise looks to the greatness, glory, beauty, and worthiness of the one praised and seeks to render to him a selfless homage; in the words of the Gloria, propter magnam gloriam tuam, or in the words of the final Psalm: laudate eum secundum multitudinem magnitudinis eius, “praise him according to his exceeding greatness!” (Ps 150:2). All forms of prayer, of course, are directed towards God, this being part of the very definition of prayer. That explains why the publican in the parable went home justified rather than the Pharisee, since the publican actually turned to God in self-abnegating repentance, whereas the Pharisee turned to himself in admiration of his own excellence.

All the same, other forms of prayer besides praise are unavoidably wrapped up with oneself. When we give thanks to God, we are recalling the good things He has done for us. When we supplicate Him, it’s about our own needs or the needs of others, and that’s perfectly fine; we are needy creatures, and the worst thing we can do is to pretend otherwise. When we accuse ourselves of wrongdoing and repent of it, we are recognizing that we have failed to live up to God’s just expectations of us, that we are at fault and deserving of punishment, and we beg for pardon. But when we praise, we are lifting up our hands, our voices, our minds, towards God who is almighty, all-glorious, awe-inspiring, worthy in Himself of the homage of the entire cosmos for all eternity, worthy of the total surrender of myself to Him. In a short story called “The Castle: A Parable,” George MacDonald gives us this magnificent prayer:

We thank Thee for Thyself.
Be what Thou art—our root and life,
our beginning and end, our all in all.
Thou livest; therefore we live.
Thou art—that is all our song.[5]

In order to have a concrete model in front of us, we might think of the sequence of psalms in the office of Lauds in the monastic tradition. On Sundays of Paschaltide, on Sundays in special seasons, and on Solemnities, Lauds is a time of prayer given over entirely to the pure praise of God: Psalms 66, 62, 92, 99, the Benedicite, and Psalms 148 to 150 (from which Laudate psalms the office derives its very name).[6] In contrast, when we look at Prime or the Little Hours, we can see how concerned they are with the labors and trials of the day, the ongoing struggle with our enemies who seek to surprise us and capture us, the need for help, mercy, and consolation in a time of exile or pilgrimage. While not excluding these themes, Lauds is principally a “sacrifice of praise,” a burning up of the incense of our time and of the fruit of our lips. It is an office we perform not in order to “get” something, but propter magnam gloriam tuam. May all the earth praise the Lord: every creature, every order of being, every man, woman, and child. We will stand in for them, voicing the praises of creation; we will announce and obey the divine imperative, laudate Dominum; we will give utterance to a sleeping world on its behalf.

As with the religious life in general, Lauds is not concerned with going out into the streets, knocking on doors, engaging in conversations, making the Gospel relevant or intelligible. Those things are important and have their place, but first comes praise, the precondition and promise of the fruitfulness of anything else we may do.[7] A priest once wrote to me these words:

I know of no great thinker, no great advocate of justice or mercy or great keeper of an institution, who was not first an ardent laudator (giver of praise). I also do not know true intercessors who did not do this ministry in the context of praise. Self-forgetting praise is our foretaste of Heaven.[8]

This is the message we modern Christians need to hear in the expression “sacrifice of praise.” We are steeped in a world of pragmatism, utilitarianism, and activism, where we place such a high premium on doing and making, where we ask “what good is it” and “what’s in it for me,” where we look for results, the bottom line, the cash value, the pay-off. It is so interesting to see how Our Lord in the Gospels repeatedly refuses to lower Himself to the level of quick victories over the roiling crowds, how He insists on the disciples taking time off to recollect themselves and to pray, and, most mysteriously of all, how He Himself spends whole nights in “the prayer of God,” as St. Luke says.[9] He who, as God, could not pray to Himself; He who, as man, was hypostatically united to the Word and therefore perpetually and perfectly communing with the Most Blessed Trinity in His human mind and heart, nevertheless really and truly exercised all the acts of prayer, including praise.

In this way He revealed to us that prayer is not something superficial and optional to man but, rather, is constitutive of his inmost identity as a rational creature fashioned by God, dependent on God, and destined for God. The one who does not pray is not living as a man; in any case, he cannot inherit the kingdom that a saint—that is, a man of prayer—is competent to receive. Jesus showed His disciples that prayer is an activity as necessary and as refreshing as eating and drinking when the body needs nourishment, as vital and fundamental as breathing in oxygen and breathing out carbon dioxide.[10] The poignant little prayer before the Divine Office brings out this point: “O Lord, in union with that divine intention with which You Yourself praised God while on earth, I offer You this hour.” This short prayer addresses Our Lord as the one who first lived and always lives the sacrificium laudis with utter completeness, with inexhaustible superabundance; we wish to unite our will to His pure, lofty, all-sufficient intention.

Continue Reading this Article. . .

The Palpably Agricultural and Mildly Pugnacious Collect of the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Theodoor Boeyermans, Meleager Killing the Caledonian Boar (1677)

Lost in Translation #59

The Church gave two sacraments to her catechumens at Easter and Pentecost: Baptism and the Holy Eucharist. Those two sacraments, and their effects on our souls, remain on her mind on the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost. In the Epistle reading of the Mass, St. Paul speaks of our life in the risen Christ as baptized members of His body (Rom. 6, 3-11); in the Gospel, the Multiplication of the Loaves foreshadows the miracle of the Eucharist, in which Christ’s body victoriously transcends the laws of space, time, and matter (Mark 8, 1-9).

The Collect of this Sunday hearkens to these themes, but in a key all its own:

Deus virtútum, cujus est totum quod est óptimum: ínsere pectóribus nostris amórem tui nóminis, et praesta in nobis religiónis augmentum; ut, quae sunt bona, nutrias, ac pietátis studio, quae sunt nutríta, custódias. Per Dóminum.

Which I translate as:

O God of hosts, to whom all that is best doth belong, plant in our chests a love of Thy name and grant within us an increase of religion: that Thou mayest nourish what is good and, with the zeal of Thy mercy, protect what is nourished. Through our Lord.

Looking only at the nonreflexive verbs, the imagery that emerges is agricultural. Planting, increasing, nourishing, and protecting: not only is there an echo of 1 Corinthians 3, 6, but these metaphors gingerly anticipate the readings of the day. In the Epistle, St. Paul writes: “For if we have been planted together in the likeness of His death, we shall also be in the likeness of His resurrection,” while the Gospel speaks of Christ nourishing His followers in the desert, lest they faint along the way. Summer is the season of growth, both botanically and spiritually. And the same goes for the liturgical season. Religion was planted in the hearts of our catechumens on Holy Saturday and watered during the Easter season. Now, during this Time after Pentecost, we ask for continued progress in religion for both them and us.

The agricultural motif may also explain some of the unusual wording. Normally the Roman orations follow the verb “praesta – grant” with a noun or pronoun in the dative case: Grant to us, grant to Thy family, etc. Here, however, praesta is followed by in nobis, which is in the ablative case and which I have translated as “within us.” Sr. Mary Haessly explains:

The Petition opens with ‘insere’, a metaphor borrowed from agriculture, to be continued with ‘praesta’. Just as the husbandman does not leave the seed exposed on the surface of the ground, but plants it securely within the earth, so God plants the seed of grace securely within the soul.[1]

The wording is distinctive in other ways as well. Pectus means breast or breastbone in Latin, but it is often used figuratively for the heart, soul, or mind. The safe translation of pectus in this Collect is “heart,” since the heart is where love is planted and grows. I have chosen, however, to translate the word as “chests” because I believe that there is a soupçon of spiritedness or feistiness in this prayer. The Lord, for example, is called the God of hosts or armies, and there is an implicit praise of zeal--which, incidentally, is delightfully ambivalent. Because pietátis studio does not have a possessive pronoun, the zeal in question can belong either to God or to man. If it is God’s, pietas means mercy and the phrase becomes an ablative of manner: we ask God to protect with the zeal of His mercy. If it is man’s, pietas means piety and the phrase becomes an ablative of means: we ask God to protect by means of our zeal for piety. [2] Either way, zeal is a good thing. It is therefore my sense that when we ask God for a love of His name in this Collect, we are not asking for the tender love of a mother for her child while nursing but the fiery love of Blessed Miguel Pro shouting Viva Cristo Rey!

Similarly, we ask for an increase of religion. Religion takes guts; it takes commitment. Today those who like to say that they are “spiritual but not religious” have become so numerous that they have earned their own abbreviation (SBNR) and a rather fulsome entry on Wikipedia, with affirmations from feminism, Wicca, and other forms of neo-paganism. No doubt some SBNRs are sincere in this belief, but for others, I suspect, the statement is little more than a cloak to hide the gaping cavity below their Adam’s apple, for they are, as C.S. Lewis puts it, men without chests. [3] The Reverend Lillian Daniel addresses SBNRs in the following way:

You are now comfortably in the norm for self-centered American culture, right smack in the bland majority of people who find ancient religions dull but find themselves uniquely fascinating…. Any idiot can find God alone in the sunset. It takes a certain maturity to find God in the person sitting next to you who not only voted for the wrong political party but has a baby who is crying while you’re trying to listen to the sermon. Community is where the religious rubber meets the road. [4]

If this is true in the eyes of Reverend Daniel (who has described herself as the pastor “of a large liberal Protestant church”), how much truer should it be for Catholics, who presumably have a thicker and more robust definition of religion.

Finally, the Collect bears a remarkable similarity to Psalm 79, 14-16, which likewise combines the agricultural and combative:

The boar out of the wood hath laid [God’s vineyard, Israel] waste: and a singular wild beast hath devoured it. Turn again, O God of hosts, look down from heaven, and see, and visit this vineyard. And perfect the same which Thy right hand hath planted: and upon the son of man whom Thou hast [strengthened] for Thyself.

“God of hosts” (Deus virtutum) is a common title for the Lord in the Psalms and hence it appears several times in the Introits and Graduals of the 1962 Roman Missal. But it is a rarity in the Roman orations: besides this Collect, its only other appearance is in the Secret for the feast of the Precious Blood on July 1. I do not know if the author intentionally chose this divine title to allude to Psalm 79, but the parallelism works either way. It takes a God of armies to take down the fiendish boar, that singular wild beast: we pray that with a love of God’s Holy Name, an increase of religion, and the zeal of mercy or piety we may have the chests to stand by Him when the hunt begins.

Notes

[1] Sr. Mary Haessly, Rhetoric in the Sunday Collects of the Roman Missal, (Cleveland: Ursuline College for Women, 1938), 149.

[2] Haessly, 84-5. For the peculiar use of pietas in the Roman orations, see my article on the subject.

[3] “Men without Chests” is the name of the first chapter of Lewis’ Abolition of Man (Oxford University Press, 1943).

[4] https://religionnews.com/2013/08/13/answering-the-spiritual-but-religious-an-interview-with-lillian-daniel/

The Church Exists to Seek First the Kingdom of God

(Part 1 of a two-part series, “Exorcising the Demon of Activism.”)

As the traditional Latin Mass returns and as discussions of it multiply, one might hear an objection like the following, which I heard almost verbatim. “The traditional Latin Mass is too focused on the vertical and not enough on the horizontal. It fosters a bunker or fortress mentality. We cannot have people leaning so much toward the contemplative; they must be ready to storm the battlefield of the culture war.”

A specimen “in the wild” can be seen in the following words published a few years ago by a Catholic writer who, I believe, would no longer endorse them:

I am not saying there were no aspects of the “way of praying” in the old liturgy which may have been dangerous, in some way, to true Christian maturity. It may be true that, in some ways, as some reformers have argued, the old liturgy tended to foster a type of piety which was simplistic, a “pie in the sky” faith detached from the “here and now” of Christ’s call to act on urgent matters of charity and social justice. In this view, some aspects of the celebration of the old Mass, the incense, the robes, the mystery, caused people so much to focus on “heaven” that they forgot “earth.” I acknowledge that this may have been, and may be, true, and a concern for liturgical reformers who are truly committed to building the Kingdom, here and in time to come.

If this caricature were true, why would the greatest saints of charity and social justice — such as St. Vincent de Paul in the seventeenth century, or in our own times, Dorothy Day, who was traumatized by the liturgical revolution — encourage the careful and beautiful celebration of the traditional liturgy, which nourished them for their whole lives? They knew that whatsoever we do to the poor, hidden, humble, and vulnerable Host, we do to the glorious Christ our Judge in heaven; indeed, whatsoever sin we commit against the divine liturgy, we commit against our poor brothers and sisters, whose greatest treasure in this world is the Church’s faith and worship. For it is in the liturgy that the comforting words of the Prophet Isaiah are fulfilled:

All you that thirst, come to the waters: and you that have no money make haste, buy, and eat: come ye, buy wine and milk without money, and without any price. Why do you spend money for that which is not breed, and your labour for that which doth not satisfy you? Hearken diligently to me, and eat that which is good, and your soul shall be delighted in fatness. (Isa 55, 1–2) 

The history of the Church tells a far different story, one that C. S. Lewis has aptly conveyed in a famous passage from Mere Christianity that’s always worth repeating:

A continual looking forward to the eternal world is not (as some modern people think) a form of escapism or wishful thinking, but one of the things a Christian is meant to do. It does not mean that we are to leave the present world as it is. If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next. The Apostles themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the Slave Trade, all left their mark on Earth, precisely because their minds were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at Heaven and you will get earth “thrown in”: aim at earth and you will get neither.

In the hustle and bustle of actively participating in close-to-home vernacular “Lite Rites,” it has come to be viewed as almost indecent for laity to ask that the liturgy be conducive to meditation, or for clergy to expect the Mass and the Divine Office to foster a contemplative life in their souls. Lewis’s observation could be custom-fitted to our postconciliar situation: “Aim at worshiping the Lord in spirit and in truth, and you will get active participation ‘thrown in’; aim at active participation, and you will get neither.”

The way that liturgists still carry on, one would think they are speaking thus to one another: “What shall we do, so that all of us may be doing something? What shall we sing or speak? Who shall do the reading, who shall bring up the gifts, who shall clap the laudatory hand or hug the neighborly torso? When shall we stand or sit or kneel?” And Jesus is there to say, “The pagans seek all these things. Your Father knows that you need them — at the right time and place. Seek first the kingdom of God, and all the rest will be added unto you.”

If we aim more at the participation than at the reality to be partaken of, and if we insert explanations and directions into the liturgy (“how to”) rather than taking pains to instruct people at other times so that they may truly yield themselves to the liturgy, we are inverting the proper order of goods, the proper hierarchy of values — and thereby meriting the deprivation of those goods, the anarchy of those values.

A Dominican spiritual writer, Fr Gerald Vann, articulated this relationship of primary and secondary in his work The Divine Pity (pp. 12–13):

It might be true to say, take care of contemplation — make sure that it is fervent, assiduous, and wholly God-centred — and action will take care of itself, the redemptive work will inevitably follow in one form or another; but the reverse would certainly not be true. What is the purpose of the grace of God, the sacramental system, the whole dynamism of the supernatural life, but to enable us to know God, to love God, to serve God?...   To be poor in spirit, to be meek, to be clean of heart: all these things denote an attitude of soul towards the world; but primarily they denote an attitude of soul towards God… Yes, we must long, and pray, and work to be filled with the love of our neighbour; but first of all, above all, we must long and pray and work to possess the one thing necessary, the substance of life everlasting, the thing whereof this other, when it is strongest and deepest, is the expression and derivative.

Abbot Ildefons Herwegen conveyed much the same sentiment in his 1918 introduction to Romano Guardini’s The Spirit of the Liturgy — an introduction sadly no longer printed with it these days:

It is not assemblies, speeches, demonstrations, nor the favor of states and peoples, nor protective laws and subsidies that make the Church so strong. And while there can never be enough done in preaching, in the confessionals, in parish missions, in catechesis, and in works of mercy; yet all such things are merely the external achievements that flow from an internal power. It would be perverse indeed to be concerned principally for such achievements whilst neglecting the concern for the purity, intensity, and growth of the internal source. Wherever the Church truly, vitally prays, there supernatural holiness springs up on all sides; there active peace, human understanding, and true love of neighbor blossom.

Dom Gabriel Sortais, Abbot General of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance from 1951 to 1963, likewise had a profound understanding of the primacy and fruitfulness of contemplation:

The Church is intimately united with the Word of God, who became flesh for the salvation of mankind, and it is precisely this union with the incarnate Son of God which is the source of her pastoral function… It is by her union with Christ praying, teaching, and suffering, that she transmits the benefits of the prayer, the word, and the sacrifice of Jesus.
          Once you have close union, you have outgoing and true apostleship. Without close union with Jesus, there can be no question of radiation, of making others know and love him. (Quoted in Guy Oury, OSB, Dom Gabriel Sortais: An Amazing Abbot in Turbulent Times, trans. Brian Kerns, OSCO [Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2006], 279; 300.)  

Mexican allegorical painting of Christ’s wounds as the font of life (depicted are the “five persons,” Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Anne, and Joachim); for more on this type of image, see here.

Una voce, the prophet Isaiah, C.S. Lewis, Fr. Gerald Vann, Abbot Ildefons Herwegen, Dom Gabriel Sortais tell us of the primacy of contemplation, of being centered on God, of feasting on the food He offers us, so that the rest of what we endeavor to do will be permeated with the “internal power” of divine grace, besought and received from its “internal source”: prayer, liturgy, sacraments. These orient Christians to the life that never ends, the life of the world to come, the heavenly destiny for which Christ purchased us with the outpouring of His precious Blood.

The Word became flesh not to bring us bigger and more climate-friendly houses, electricity and running water, literacy and hygiene, voting rights and online banking. None of this will prevent any of us from paying the debt of Adam: pain, sorrow, and death, followed by judgment and eternal bliss or woe. The Word became flesh to lift us, body and soul, to a share in His resurrection from the dead and His indestructible joy in His Father.

In Defense of Allegorical Interpretation of the Liturgy

Allegorical interpretation of the liturgy was totally rejected during the period of liturgical reform, and even earlier by liturgists who tended towards rationalistic or reductionistic explanations (Fr. Adrian Fortescue comes to mind, although he was fortunately inconsistent). You know the kind of argument I mean:

“We know that the lifting up of the chasuble by the deacon and subdeacon, or the servers, at the elevation of the host and the chalice was only because the Gothic chasuble was made of such heavy material and ornament, and the priest needed help getting his arms up high.” The implication is: “And therefore it can’t have anything to do with the story in the Gospel about the woman with a flow of blood who touched the garment of Christ in order to be healed. That’s just a wilful, arbitrary connection some ignorant person made in a devotional book, and then it got spread around.”

This, as can be plainly seen, is no more than a Catholic version of the modern tendency that C.S. Lewis called “nothing buttery,” namely (in the words of George Gilder) “dismissing non-material qualities as ‘nothing but…’ some lower physical property.” Life is “nothing but” chemical processes; mind is “nothing but” firing neurons; love is “nothing but” hormones; and so forth. The liturgical equivalent is easy to recognize. The subdeacon’s use of the humeral veil for the paten is “nothing but” a holdover from the early Roman fermentum rite. The conclusion, whether stated or not, is always: “And therefore it should be abolished.” Which, indeed, is what the reformers did: they stripped away nearly everything that no longer served an immediate practical function, and allowed almost nothing to remain that had lost its original (known or hypothesized) purpose.

Those who study the history of the liturgy often discover that certain practices later held to be richly symbolic had or may have had quite prosaic, practical, or accidental origins — origins in which their later symbolism played no part whatsoever. Yet this makes no difference at all to the validity of allegorical interpretations, for the simple reason that any given practice (construed broadly to include minister, object, action, cessation of action, etc.) presents itself to the worshiper now as part of an ensemble of ceremonial and symbolic actions, thereby acquiring, as if magnetically, new meanings, new interpretations, new resonances. In its fine texture of details, the traditional liturgy speaks both the same messages and new messages to each generation. Like an ancient epic poem, the same text reads differently in this or that age, without losing its remarkable ability to transcend them all. The most potent and transformative signs are not those that are limited to a single definite meaning, but those that are, to use a favorite word of Dante’s, “polysemous,” turning this way and that, accumulating layers of associations.

As with patristic and medieval Scripture exegesis, it simply does not matter if we “read into” the liturgical rites an intention that was not present in the human author’s or initiator’s mind, and this for two reasons.

First, the ultimate author is God, the First Cause, who sees further and intends more than His created agent is capable of seeing and intending. For example, it was no surprise to Him that the number of signs of the Cross made in the Solemn Mass would achieve, after many centuries, the numerological perfection of 7 * 7 + 3.

Second, even subjective or arbitrary interpretations can be essentially in harmony with the objective referent, as meditating on the mysteries of the Rosary can be essentially in harmony with the re-presentation of these mysteries in the Mass (cf. Pius XII, Mediator Dei), and, moreover, can be personally helpful to the one who “indulges” in them. It is like St. Augustine’s rule for Scripture: any interpretation or application that is not contrary to the Church’s faith or to the sovereign rule of charity is legitimate — indeed, was already known to God from all eternity, even if some interpretations are superior to others in their contextual fidelity, applicability, nuance, or depth.

This ancient-medieval exegetical freedom, exercised on the traditional rites given to us by the same ancient and medieval Church, has very often led me to notable breakthroughs in my understanding of the mysteries of faith and how to live my life, in ways that I don’t recall happening with the Novus Ordo. There are several reasons for this difference, but for my present purposes, the key difference is that the Novus Ordo was fashioned by its architects to be immediately understandable and understood: “what you see is what you get.” It tends to “make sense” immediately and without remainder, and that is precisely why it is boring, and why people have to write books and articles about how to make Mass not a boring experience. In contrast, the old liturgy has accumulated so many features over the centuries that, like a vast rambling mansion that seems never to run out of rooms, closets, attics, passageways, gardens, fields or forests to explore, one really never “sees it all” or “gets to the bottom of it.” It is more of a closed book than an open book, yet a book that is freely offered to be opened and pondered ad libitum.

The analogy between the Bible and traditional liturgical rites deserves to be underlined: on the one hand, a book that was written by a single divine author and as many as a hundred inspired human authors, coming together over a period of 1,300 years (from ca. 1200 BC to AD 100); on the other hand, Christian rites that were guided by a single Holy Spirit, built up into their mature form by apostles, bishops, popes, and other saints over a similar period of time (the period from the apostolic age to the high Middle Ages). With similar gestations, guiding principles, and aims, it seems probable, at very least, that Scripture and Liturgy ought to be susceptible to the same spiritual creativity in tandem with fixity of content. A reverse confirmation is found in the fact that biblical modernism rejects the spiritual senses just as liturgical modernism rejects liturgical allegory.

Therefore, lovers of the liturgical tradition: Do not be afraid to attach meanings to ministers, objects, or actions, or to adopt the meanings given in devotional literature, if they help you to pray. One sign of a great work of art is that it makes room for, and has the wherewithal to provoke, many responses, all more or less closely tied to its own ingredients, and drawn back into them. The Mass is the greatest work of art the West has ever known, exceeding all others in its intelligible density and its fertility of cultural power. Reading off “spiritual senses” from its literal sense is no less natural and fitting than doing the same with the narrative of Israel in the Old Testament or the narrative of Christ in the New.

Visit Dr. Kwasniewski’s website, SoundCloud page, and YouTube channel.

The World's Last Night

A reflection on the Second Coming by C.S. Lewis as we enter the season of Advent.