The Fearlessness of St John Chrysostom

Today is the feast of St John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople [1] from 397 until 404, when he was unlawfully deposed from his see. He was one of the first four Eastern Fathers to be officially recognized in the West as a Doctor of the Church, along with Ss Athanasius, Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus. The epithet “Chrysostom” means “golden-mouthed”, since he has always been honored as one of the greatest preachers in the Church’s history. In 1908, Pope St Pius X declared him the Patron Saint of orators and public speakers, a role in which he is needed now as perhaps only very rarely before in the Church’s life; I attended a Mass on his feast day many years ago, the celebrant of which repeatedly called him, both while reading the prayers and in the sermon, “St John Christendom.”

Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s great cathedra in St Peter’s Basilica, in which the throne of Peter is supported by two Latin Doctors, Ambrose and Augustine (with miters), and two Greek Doctors, Athanasius and John Chrysostom.

There is a popular notion that with the coming of Constantine and the end of persecution, the Church somehow sold its soul in part or whole to the Roman Empire. The falsity of this was demonstrated long ago by GK Chesterton, who was a convert from Anglicanism, and knew a state-owned church when he saw one. In the chapter of The Everlasting Man called “The Five Deaths of the Faith”, he rightly pointed out that the Creed of most of the early Christian Emperors was not Christianity, but a version of it far more in keeping with the spirit of the age, that which we now call Arianism. Caesar did not usually appreciate the Church’s resistance to his dogmatic meddling, and persecuted the orthodox Fathers such as St Athanasius. St Eusebius of Vercelli, one of the great Western opponents of Arianism, is even honored as martyr, although he did not die a violent death, because he was hounded into exile by an Arian Emperor.

The same might well have been applied to John, who unlike Eusebius, died in his exile, both from the rigors of the journey and the terrible ill-treatment meted out to him; the date of his death was September 14, 407. In his case, Caesar’s wrath was provoked against him not by dogmatic issues, but by moral ones. The Empress Eudoxia was the wife of the famously useless Emperor Arcadius, a man wholly under the control of his ministers and court sycophants. Taking personal offense at John’s words against the immorality and extravagances of the nobility, she had already arranged once before for John to be exiled. He was swiftly recalled, partly because of the popular uprising in his favor, partly because a small earthquake in the city was seen as a sign of divine displeasure, especially by the highly superstitious Empress. However, when a silver statue of her was erected on a pillar in front of Hagia Sophia [2], the dedication of it was celebrated with a series of “games”, as the Romans called them, an immoral spectacle which also disturbed the liturgy. St John had often preached against public license of this very sort, even when a simple priest in Antioch, and did not hesitate to do so on this occasion well.

A mosaic of St John Chrysostom in Hagia Sophia, ca. 1000. (Public domain image from Wikipedia.)

His sermon began with the words “Herodias is again become furious; again she is troubled, again she dances; and again desires to receive John’s head on a plate.” [3] A synod full of bishops hostile to him and in the Empress’ control was convoked, and deposed him on a canonically invalid pretext, but he refused to relinquish his see. A particularly ugly episode followed in which soldiers were sent to drive the people out of the churches on Holy Saturday, resulting in no little bloodshed in the sacred places themselves. The order for the Saint’s banishment was finally and definitively issued during Pentecost week.

The scene of St John preaching before Herodias was painted by two French artists of the later 19th century, Jean-Paul Laurens (1838-1921) and Joseph Wencker (1848-1919). This choice of subject reflects various events of their era, particularly the conquest of the Papal State, and the subsequent “exile” of Bl. Pope Pius IX, who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Kingdom of Italy by setting foot on land which it illegally occupied. More broadly, it refers to the general situation of the Church in that period. Italy’s was not the only government hostile to the Church and seeking to reduce or destroy its influence by diminishing or destroying its institutions; this was also era of the German Kulturkampf, and the infamous French law of Separation of Church and State was soon to follow in 1905.

Laurens’ painting is the smaller of the two, but the more forceful. (See a higher resolution version here.) The Empress looks down with an expressionless face at the Saint, confident in her eventual triumph over him, but at the same time, she is almost lost in the trappings of her position, less distinct than St John in his white robes. (John also appears to be rather older than he should; historically, he was only about 55 at the time.) Both artists seem to accept the idea, common in their time, that churches in this period were “still” very austere; note that all of the decoration in both paintings is centered around the Empress, while the pulpits and the walls are very plain.

Jean Paul Laurens, 1872

Wencker’s version, on the other hand, is much larger (almost 14½ feet by 20), and he fills the space by showing the crowd in the church, the clergy, the nobility and the poor, and their varied reaction to the Saint’s words. John is on eye level with the Empress, so that she has to look up in order to pretend not to notice him as he points directly at her.

Joseph Wencker, ca. 1880

[1] It was not until well after St John’s death that the title “Patriarch” was given to the archbishops of Constantinople, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451. Even to this day, in the blessing at the end of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy which bears his name, he is referred to as “John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople”, as also in the liturgical calendar, whereas his Sainted successors after 451 are called “Patriarch.”

[2] Not the church which is seen in Constantinople today, a construction of the 6th century, but the original built by Constantine in the 4th century. At the news of John’s second exile, the city was wracked with riots, during which the first Hagia Sophia was burnt down; nothing now remains of it. Its replacement, dedicated in 415, was also destroyed by riots, a very popular pastime in Constantinople, in 532; the present structure was built very shortly thereafter, by the Emperor Justinian.

[3] In the original edition of his Lives of the Saints, Alban Butler wrote that “Montfaucon refutes this slander, trumped up by his enemies. The sermon extant under that title is a manifest forgery.” Modern writers, including Butler’s revisers, all seem to accept its authenticity.

The Fearlessness of St John Chrysostom

Today is the feast of St John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople [1] from 397 until 404, when he was unlawfully deposed from his see. He was one of the first four Eastern Fathers to be officially recognized in the West as a Doctor of the Church, along with Ss Athanasius, Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus. The epithet “Chrysostom” means “golden-mouthed”, since he has always been honored as one of the greatest preachers in the Church’s history. In 1908, Pope St Pius X declared him the Patron Saint of orators and public speakers, a role in which he is needed now as perhaps only very rarely before in the Church’s life; I attended a Mass on his feast day many years ago, the celebrant of which repeatedly called him, both while reading the prayers and in the sermon, “St John Christendom.”

Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s great cathedra in St Peter’s Basilica, in which the throne of Peter is supported by two Latin Doctors, Ambrose and Augustine (with miters), and two Greek Doctors, Athanasius and John Chrysostom.

There is a popular notion that with the coming of Constantine and the end of persecution, the Church somehow sold its soul in part or whole to the Roman Empire. The falsity of this was demonstrated long ago by GK Chesterton, who was a convert from Anglicanism, and knew a state-owned church when he saw one. In the chapter of The Everlasting Man called “The Five Deaths of the Faith”, he rightly pointed out that the Creed of most of the early Christian Emperors was not Christianity, but a version of it far more in keeping with the spirit of the age, that which we now call Arianism. Caesar did not usually appreciate the Church’s resistance to his dogmatic meddling, and persecuted the orthodox Fathers such as St Athanasius. St Eusebius of Vercelli, one of the great Western opponents of Arianism, is even honored as martyr, although he did not die a violent death, because he was hounded into exile by an Arian Emperor.

The same might well have been applied to John, who unlike Eusebius, died in his exile, both from the rigors of the journey and the terrible ill-treatment meted out to him; the date of his death was September 14, 407. In his case, Caesar’s wrath was provoked against him not by dogmatic issues, but by moral ones. The Empress Eudoxia was the wife of the famously useless Emperor Arcadius, a man wholly under the control of his ministers and court sycophants. Taking personal offense at John’s words against the immorality and extravagances of the nobility, she had already arranged once before for John to be exiled. He was swiftly recalled, partly because of the popular uprising in his favor, partly because a small earthquake in the city was seen as a sign of divine displeasure, especially by the highly superstitious Empress. However, when a silver statue of her was erected on a pillar in front of Hagia Sophia [2], the dedication of it was celebrated with a series of “games”, as the Romans called them, an immoral spectacle which also disturbed the liturgy. St John had often preached against public license of this very sort, even when a simple priest in Antioch, and did not hesitate to do so on this occasion well.

A mosaic of St John Chrysostom in Hagia Sophia, ca. 1000. (Public domain image from Wikipedia.)

His sermon began with the words “Herodias is again become furious; again she is troubled, again she dances; and again desires to receive John’s head on a plate.” [3] A synod full of bishops hostile to him and in the Empress’ control was convoked, and deposed him on a canonically invalid pretext, but he refused to relinquish his see. A particularly ugly episode followed in which soldiers were sent to drive the people out of the churches on Holy Saturday, resulting in no little bloodshed in the sacred places themselves. The order for the Saint’s banishment was finally and definitively issued during Pentecost week.

The scene of St John preaching before Herodias was painted by two French artists of the later 19th century, Jean-Paul Laurens (1838-1921) and Joseph Wencker (1848-1919). This choice of subject reflects various events of their era, particularly the conquest of the Papal State, and the subsequent “exile” of Bl. Pope Pius IX, who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Kingdom of Italy by setting foot on land which it illegally occupied. More broadly, it refers to the general situation of the Church in that period. Italy’s was not the only government hostile to the Church and seeking to reduce or destroy its influence by diminishing or destroying its institutions; this was also era of the German Kulturkampf, and the infamous French law of Separation of Church and State was soon to follow in 1905.

Laurens’ painting is the smaller of the two, but the more forceful. (See a higher resolution version here.) The Empress looks down with an expressionless face at the Saint, confident in her eventual triumph over him, but at the same time, she is almost lost in the trappings of her position, less distinct than St John in his white robes. (John also appears to be rather older than he should; historically, he was only about 55 at the time.) Both artists seem to accept the idea, common in their time, that churches in this period were “still” very austere; note that all of the decoration in both paintings is centered around the Empress, while the pulpits and the walls are very plain.

Jean Paul Laurens, 1872

Wencker’s version, on the other hand, is much larger (almost 14½ feet by 20), and he fills the space by showing the crowd in the church, the clergy, the nobility and the poor, and their varied reaction to the Saint’s words. John is on eye level with the Empress, so that she has to look up in order to pretend not to notice him as he points directly at her.

Joseph Wencker, ca. 1880

[1] It was not until well after St John’s death that the title “Patriarch” was given to the archbishops of Constantinople, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451. Even to this day, in the blessing at the end of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy which bears his name, he is referred to as “John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople”, as also in the liturgical calendar, whereas his Sainted successors after 451 are called “Patriarch.”

[2] Not the church which is seen in Constantinople today, a construction of the 6th century, but the original built by Constantine in the 4th century. At the news of John’s second exile, the city was wracked with riots, during which the first Hagia Sophia was burnt down; nothing now remains of it. Its replacement, dedicated in 415, was also destroyed by riots, a very popular pastime in Constantinople, in 532; the present structure was built very shortly thereafter, by the Emperor Justinian.

[3] In the original edition of his Lives of the Saints, Alban Butler wrote that “Montfaucon refutes this slander, trumped up by his enemies. The sermon extant under that title is a manifest forgery.” Modern writers, including Butler’s revisers, all seem to accept its authenticity.

The Fearlessness of St John Chrysostom

On the calendar of the Ordinary Form, (and, as I have noted previously, nowhere else) today is the feast of St John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople [1] from 397 until 404, when he was unlawfully deposed from his see. He was one of the first four Eastern Fathers to be officially recognized in the West as a Doctor of the Church, along with Ss Athanasius, Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus. The epithet “Chrysostom” means “golden-mouthed”, since he has always been honored as one of the greatest preachers in the Church’s history. In 1908, Pope St Pius X declared him the Patron Saint of orators and public speakers, a role in which he is needed now as perhaps only very rarely before in the Church’s life; I attended a Mass on this day many years ago, the celebrant of which repeatedly called him, both while reading the prayers and in the sermon, “St John Christendom.”

Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s great cathedra in St Peter’s Basilica, in which the throne of Peter is supported by two Latin Doctors, Ambrose and Augustine (with miters), and two Greek Doctors, Athanasius and John Chrysostom.

There is a popular notion that with the coming of Constantine and the end of persecution, the Church somehow sold its soul in part or whole to the Roman Empire. The falsity of this was demonstrated long ago by GK Chesterton, who was a convert from Anglicanism, and knew a state-owned church when he saw one. In the chapter of The Everlasting Man called “The Five Deaths of the Faith”, he rightly pointed out that the Creed of most of the early Christian Emperors was not Christianity, but a version of it far more in keeping with the spirit of the age, that which we now call Arianism. Caesar did not usually appreciate the Church’s resistance to his dogmatic meddling, and persecuted the orthodox Fathers such as St Athanasius. St Eusebius of Vercelli, one of the great Western opponents of Arianism, is even honored as martyr, although he did not die a violent death, because he was hounded into exile by an Arian Emperor.

The same might well have been applied to John, who unlike Eusebius, died in his exile, both from the rigors of the journey and the terrible ill-treatment meted out to him; the date of his death was September 14, 407. In his case, Caesar’s wrath was provoked against him not by dogmatic issues, but by moral ones. The Empress Eudoxia was the wife of the famously useless Emperor Arcadius, a man wholly under the control of his ministers and court sycophants. Taking personal offense at John’s words against the immorality and extravagances of the nobility, she had already arranged once before for John to be exiled. He was swiftly recalled, partly because of the popular uprising in his favor, partly because a small earthquake in the city was seen as a sign of divine displeasure, especially by the highly superstitious Empress. However, when a silver statue of her was erected on a pillar in front of Hagia Sophia [2], the dedication of it was celebrated with a series of “games”, as the Romans called them, an immoral spectacle which also disturbed the liturgy. St John had often preached against public license of this very sort, even when a simple priest in Antioch, and did not hesitate to do so on this occasion well.

A mosaic of St John Chrysostom in Hagia Sophia, ca. 1000. (Public domain image from Wikipedia.)

His sermon began with the words “Herodias is again become furious; again she is troubled, again she dances; and again desires to receive John’s head on a plate.” [3] A synod full of bishops hostile to him and in the Empress’ control was convoked, and deposed him on a canonically invalid pretext, but he refused to relinquish his see. A particularly ugly episode followed in which soldiers were sent to drive the people out of the churches on Holy Saturday, resulting in no little bloodshed in the sacred places themselves. The order for the Saint’s banishment was finally and definitively issued during Pentecost week.

The Facebook page of the Bollandist Society, who have been publishing the Acts of the Saints since the early 17th century (with a notable interruption), today highlighted two paintings of St John preaching before the Empress Eudoxia. Both were done by French artists of the later 19th century, Jean-Paul Laurens (1838-1921) and Joseph Wencker (1848-1919). The commentary referred them both specifically to one of the most important events of the era, the conquest of the Papal State, and the subsequent “exile” of Pope Pius IX, who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Kingdom of Italy by setting foot on land which it illegally occupied. This is surely true, but broadly speaking, they may also be referred to the general situation of the Church in that period. Italy’s was not the only government hostile to the Church and seeking to reduce or destroy its influence by diminishing or destroying its institutions; this was also era of the German Kulturkampf, and the infamous French law of Separation of Church and State was soon to follow in 1905.

Laurens’ painting is the smaller of the two, but the more forceful. (See a higher resolution version here.) The Empress looks down with an expressionless face at the Saint, confident in her eventual triumph over him, but at the same time, she is almost lost in the trappings of her position, less distinct than St John in his white robes. (John also appears to be rather older than he should; historically, he was only about 55 at the time.) Both artists seem to accept the idea, common in their time, that churches in this period were “still” very austere; note that all of the decoration in both paintings is centered around the Empress, while the pulpits and the walls are very plain.

Jean Paul Laurens, 1872

Wencker’s version, on the other hand, is much larger (almost 14½ feet by 20), and he fills the space by showing the crowd in the church, the clergy, the nobility and the poor, and their varied reaction to the Saint’s words. John is on eye level with the Empress, so that she has to look up in order to pretend not to notice him as he points directly at her.

Joseph Wencker, ca. 1880

[1] It was not until well after St John’s death that the title “Patriarch” was given to the archbishops of Constantinople, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451. Even to this day, in the blessing at the end of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy which bears his name, he is referred to as “John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople”, as also in the liturgical calendar, whereas his Sainted successors after 451 are called “Patriarch.”

[2] Not the church which is seen in Constantinople today, a construction of the 6th century, but the original built by Constantine in the 4th century. At the news of John’s second exile, the city was wracked with riots, during which the first Hagia Sophia was burnt down; nothing now remains of it. Its replacement, dedicated in 415, was also destroyed by riots, a very popular pastime in Constantinople, in 532; the present structure was built very shortly thereafter, by the Emperor Justinian.

[3] In the original edition of his Lives of the Saints, Alban Butler wrote that “Montfaucon refutes this slander, trumped up by his enemies. The sermon extant under that title is a manifest forgery.” Modern writers, including Butler’s revisers, all seem to accept its authenticity.

Where Have All the Good Preachers Gone?

January 27 is the feast of St. John Chrysostom,
Patron of preachers,
in the traditional Roman calendar

It’s no secret that preaching in the Catholic Church today is of a generally abysmal quality. There are shining exceptions, no doubt, and if you are fortunate to be part of a community with one or several competent preachers, count your blessings.

Most Catholics have to endure superficial, long-winded, random, vague, and social-justicy homilies week after week—sometimes even heretical ones. Something has gone wrong. Pope Benedict XVI knew it, and offered the world a stunning example (and corpus) of beautiful, profound, clear, concise, nourishing, orthodox preaching. While it is doubtful that any pope will equal Benedict’s preaching for many a decade or century, Pope Francis, for his part, has a vigorous homiletic style that gets his points across loud and clear, often by means of the Jesuit tactic of “three words.” 

What we need, evidently, is for the internal memo to make the rounds: Priests and deacons everywhere, work hard on your preaching! It seems to me, on the basis of conversations with many priests, listening to a lot of preaching in my lifetime, and studying classic homilies as a theologian, that there are a few key principles to success. I offer a summary of these principles in a spirit of genuine appreciation for the demanding work of preachers everywhere and with a hope that something in these reflections may be found helpful.

I

First, preachers should follow St. Augustine’s rule that we need to interpret Scripture by Scripture, and so they should be using concordances to deepen their understanding and enrich their preaching. (A software program like BibleWorks is an amazing tool.) The most powerful homilies I’ve heard are not the ones sprinkled with cartoons, newspaper stories, personal reminiscences, self-help lingo, and so forth, but rather, the ones shot through with the Word of God, which “is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb 4:12)

St. Paul tells us: “All scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work” (2 Tim 3:16-17). Why don’t we get genuine teaching? And reproof and correction? As for training in righteousness, when’s the last time you heard a strong call to holiness, righteousness, integrity of faith and purity of conscience? And yet that is the persistent message of Scripture to us.

Wouldn’t it be galvanizing to hear, during the Christmas season, a homily preached on these two verses: “Your all-powerful word leaped from heaven, from the royal throne, into the midst of the land that was doomed, a stern warrior carrying the sharp sword of your authentic command, and stood and filled all things with death, and touched heaven while standing on the earth” (Wis 18:15-16). The Church has always applied this text to the coming of Jesus—and yet there is such a paradox: the helpless child lying in a manger...a stern warrior? How does he fills things with death—didn’t he come to bring life? Right away, one begins to see all the wonderful things that could flow out of this theme.

The virtual abandonment of seriously Scripture-based preaching is the single greatest defect in Catholic homiletics today. Look at any Father or Doctor of the Church, or the greatest teaching popes, and you will see that their homilies are literally woven out of strands of Scripture. St. Augustine and St. Bernard of Clairvaux furnish some of the best examples of this.

II

Which leads into a second key principle. In order to understand the Word of God they are to expound, preachers should be leaning heavily on the greatest theological sources after Scripture: the Fathers of the Church, St. Thomas Aquinas (e.g., the Catena aurea on the four Gospels [online or book form], or the Commentaries on Matthew and John, the Commentaries on the Letters of Paul—what a treasure-trove!), and the writings of the mystics, like the Carmelite doctors. I was so delighted when I saw, some time ago, an American bishop take Blessed Columba Marmion, a sublime spiritual writer, as a basis for his Lenten preaching. That’s what we need to see: rich fare for the minds and hearts of the People of God.

As Catholics, we believe that Divine Providence has raised up for us twenty centuries of holy men and women who illuminate for us the wisdom of Scripture. We do not try to do it all on our own—and when we do, the results are usually bad. Look at the preacher who speaks “off the cuff” about the day’s Gospel. Such homilies, as we all know, are some of the worst, very often straying into confusion, randomness, and false doctrine, all for lack of suitable guidance. It is an act of humility and a spiritual work of mercy towards the faithful to seek such guidance and to rely upon it. In Book IV of On Christian Doctrine, St. Augustine even says: If you don’t know how to preach, start by adapting stuff from the Fathers. Don’t be worried about “copying”; you could hardly do better than to copy them!

Clergy and religious are bound to the Liturgy of the Hours, part of which is the daily Office of Readings. Why, then, do we so rarely hear the Office of Readings enter into preaching? Are the clergy actually reading it? So often there are perfect passages that illuminate the readings from the lectionary, and you would think that universally we would be hearing constant use being made of this Office. But it struck me recently, when our chaplain made several references to the Office of Readings, that he’s the first one I’ve ever noticed who’s done that. Is this Office some great secret that only the clergy are supposed to know about, that they are not allowed to share with the faithful for some reason? Clergy out there: Can someone enlighten me as to why this is not a much more common influence on preaching than it appears to be?

III

Above I spoke of finding and leaning on reliable authorities. But who is reliable? And can we ever be certain of the truth of what we are preaching? For Catholics, there is always a third key principle: the Magisterium of the Church. Preachers should be taking in a steady diet of magisterial wisdom, for instance the Catechism and papal encyclicals, and making use of them. If a priest needs to preach on married love, where better to look than Pius XI’s Casti Connubii? If on the duties of Christian citizens towards their country and its government, Leo XIII’s Sapientiae Christianae? If on the nature of the sacred liturgy and the holy sacrifice of the Mass, Pius XII’s Mediator Dei? The list could go on. With such a wealth of profound and eloquent teaching given to us by the Church, it seems incongruous that it is so rarely shared with the people.

Pope Benedict XVI comes to mind once again. His papal preaching is exemplary in every respect: in its lucid doctrinal content, in its eloquent and concise style, in its reliance on the best sources, in its pulsing spiritual vitality and conviction. If we are looking for a model to learn our preaching from, we will not find a better one.

The three principles of this article can be summed up in a formula that will be familiar to students of the Second Vatican Council’s Constitution on Divine Revelation, Dei Verbum: (I) Scripture, (II) Tradition, and (III) Magisterium. It is hardly surprising, then, that the Joseph Ratzinger who assisted in the drafting of Dei Verbum during the Council should have given us, as Pope Benedict, a touchstone of what one might call “Dei Verbum preaching”—preaching of the Word of God, permeated with Sacred Scripture, richly endowed with Tradition, and informed throughout by the Magisterium.

A closing thought, again from St. Paul’s second epistle to Timothy:

I charge you in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus who is to judge the living and the dead, and by his appearing and his kingdom: preach the word, be urgent in season and out of season, convince, rebuke, and exhort, be unfailing in patience and in teaching. (2 Tim 4:1-2)

That’s a mighty and momentous charge; it is a charge given to every bishop, priest, and deacon. It is time that the clergy renew their dedication to preparing and delivering homilies that meet the desperate needs of the Church of our time, and so, become the evangelizers God has called them to be.

The Silent Canon: Is Worship Supposed to be Aweful?

A friend of mine sent me a fascinating essay, “Liturgical Silence” by Charles Harris, from an Anglican collection of studies called Liturgy and Worship (1932), ed. W. K. Lowther Clarke. I was so taken with it that I decided to present a summary with generous quotations and some applications to our present liturgical life.

Harris brings forward an abundance of quotations from the earliest liturgical sources to support his contention that the silent recitation of part or all of the Anaphora or Canon of the Eucharistic liturgy became the norm very early on in both East and West. This evidence—and more importantly, the underlying theology and spirituality to which it points—is a clarion call for Catholics of the Roman Rite to continue to work zealously for either the preservation and spread (in the usus antiquior) or the reappraisal and restoration (in the Novus Ordo) of the silent Canon. This ancient and longstanding custom, like the ad orientem stance and the exercise of liturgical roles by ordained ministers, expresses the great reverence due to our Lord Jesus Christ in the most Blessed Sacrament.

Harris first talks about the psychology of silence, saying: 

[T]he effect of silence (or of subdued or whispered speech) is to lull the outward senses into a receptive condition; to induce tranquillity, repose, and inward peace; to relax the tension of the nervous system; and gradually to induce a state of restful waiting upon God, which opens the ‘subconscious’ or ‘unconscious’ mind to the influence of grace and religious suggestion. (775)

Those who attend quiet Low Masses are aware of the profound peace and sacred stillness that can reign in the soul as in the church building itself, and as much as I am an ardent advocate of the sung High Mass, I recognize, too, that there is a precious devotional value, a mystical-ascetical power, in the Missa lecta or Missa recitata. But it has also frequently struck me, as a choirmaster, how much silence there can be even in the midst of a sung Mass, whether it be during the Canon or around the time of the communion of the priest. The old Roman Rite in general has the character of an entering into God’s “rest,” that mysterious Sabbath rest of the seventh day that anticipates the glory of the everlasting eighth day of heavenly bliss.

In second place, Harris attempts to locate the origin of the transition from a spoken Anaphora to a partially or completely silent one.  

At an early but undetermined date, it gradually became customary, both in the East and in the West, to recite certain of the most solemn Eucharistic prayers, particularly the greater part of the Canon, in a very low or inaudible voice. Such recitation was termed ‘mystic’ (mystikos), an epithet which sufficiently indicated its significance. … It evinced just such an overpowering sense, not merely of humility, but even of ‘abjection’ and ‘nothingness,’ as befits a creature admitted to the immediate presence of its Creator.  (775)

Almost as an aside, Harris dares a general judgment about the character or feel of Catholic worship as compared with Protestant:

There are obvious disadvantages, both of a devotional and of an intellectual kind, in the silent recitation of the Canon or Anaphora. On the other hand, it can hardly be denied that the ‘mystic’ prayer of the celebrant has been a prime factor in creating that thrilling atmosphere of rapt adoration which has been the distinctive feature of Catholic worship throughout the ages; and which the more intellectual, instructive, and ‘edifying’ worship of modern Protestants seems unable to evoke.  (776)

Reading these words caused me to cringe when I realized that his description of “Catholic” matched the usus antiquior while his description of “Protestant” lined up with the Novus Ordo—intellectual, instructive, and (in the best cases) edifying, as its architects intended it to be, but not typically characterized by a “thrilling atmosphere of rapt adoration.” I would maintain, in fact, that many Catholics who have fled from the Ordinary to the Extraordinary Form have done so not exclusively or primarily to escape the rampant abuses, but more so to find a spiritual refuge that encourages meditation and adoration. It is a quasi-monastic “flight from the world” in order to find God. If we do not encounter the living God in prayer and go out of ourselves to worship Him in spirit and in truth, we will be hopeless when it comes to living a Christian life in the workaday world. A certain alternating rhythm of interior recollection and outward engagement is necessary, and perhaps it is the relentless emphasis, in the Novus Ordo context, on the outward, the busy, the active, the evangelistic, that has drained Catholics of their deepest spiritual resources for battling the world, the flesh, and the devil.

Third, Harris argues that the silent or ‘mystic’ recitation of the Anaphora is bound up with an ever more heightened emphasis, in liturgical texts as in preaching, on the awesome reality of the divine mysteries of Christ’s Body and Blood entrusted to the Church. Although “even from the beginning of Christianity some degree of awe and dread accompanied the celebration of the Holy Mysteries, as is clear from the language of St. Paul (1 Cor. xi.26-33)” (776), we can trace this awareness most clearly in the three main Eastern liturgies, those of St. James, St. John Chrysostom, and St. Basil.

Harris argues that the Liturgy of St. James, bearing within itself the early liturgy of Jerusalem, already substantially existed in its present form as early as 348, and places its composition at 330-335 because of its allusions to Nicene Christology. What is more relevant to our purpose here than the date is the description Harris offers:

An atmosphere of mystical awe pervades the whole of this Liturgy. The worshippers are said to be ‘full of fear and dread’ while they offer ‘this fearful and unbloody sacrifice,’ which is further described as a ‘fearful and awe-inspiring (phriktēs) ministration.’ After consecration, the elements are spoken of as ‘hallowed, precious, celestial, ineffable, stainless, glorious, terrible (phoberon), dreadful (phrikton), divine (theon).’  (777)

Many similar phrases from St. Cyril of Jerusalem are brought in to confirm the point that this is familiar language for the Christians of this period, the middle of the fourth century. 

The Liturgy of St. Basil, attributed with good reason to the saint (ca. 330-379) himself, is no different:

A sense of ‘numinous’ awe pervades this Liturgy, which speaks of the Mysteries as not only ‘divine, holy, spotless, immortal, heavenly, and quickening’; but also as ‘tremendous’ or ‘fearful’ (phrikton, literally ‘to be shuddered at’).  (778)

Harris believes that Chrysostom’s remarks on 1 Corinthians 14:16 suggest that parts of the Anaphora were recited audibly, especially the concluding words “for ever and ever,” giving the cue for the people’s response of “Amen”—exactly as the Roman Rite has the priest say or sing per omnia saecula saeculorum, with the same response. 

In terms of witnesses of universal practice in the early Church, we have a stunning homily from a Nestorian source, Narsai, of the late fifth century (Narsai died in 502), who tells us in Homily 17 that after the Sursum corda and before the Sanctus,

all the ecclesiastical body now observes silence, and all set themselves to pray earnestly in their hearts. The Priests are still, and the deacons stand in silence . . . the whole people is quiet and still, subdued and calm . . . The Mysteries are set in order, the censers are smoking, the lamps are shining, and the deacons are hovering and brandishing [fans] in likeness of watchers [i.e., angels]. Deep silence and peaceful calm settles on that place: it is filled and overflows with brightness and splendour, beauty and power.  (779)

Narsai goes on to note that the Priest pronounces the Epiclesis inaudibly, because he is worshipping “with quaking, and fear, and harrowing dread,” and yet that the moment of the Epiclesis is proclaimed by a herald to the congregation, so that they may be duly moved to reverence and adoration. The herald cries: “In silence and fear be ye standing: peace be with us. Let all the people be in fear at this moment in which the adorable Mysteries are being accomplished by the descent of the Spirit.”

Harris concludes this treatment of oriental liturgies by noting that the practice of the silent or ‘mystic’ recitation of the Anaphora was the established and official use of all rites by the close of the eighth century—and this, in spite of the fact that the Emperor Justinian attempted, in 565, to prohibit the practice by imperial decree, requiring that the priest say all the prayers of the liturgy aloud! At least at the time Harris was writing, evidence indicated that the same practice of silent recitation obtained in the Roman Rite from at least the eighth century.

Lastly, Harris, having summarized the Anglican tradition’s emphasis on the spoken vernacular word, makes a practical proposal for the Anglican Church, of which he is a member, with a view to recovering something of the mystical dimension that had been lost. His advice, however, ends up having a strange relevance for Roman Catholics today, as we seek ways to celebrate the modern Roman Rite by reference to the “gold standard,” the traditional Roman Rite, its ancestor and exemplar:

An audible voice need not be a loud voice. It is possible to obtain the full ‘mystical’ effect of silence by reciting the Canon in a very low and subdued voice, fully audible to every careful listener in the church, and yet expressive and suggestive of the deepest religious awe. It is not desirable, for the sake of one or two partially deaf persons, to raise the voice, and thus impede the devotion of the general congregation, which is fostered and augmented by the use of a subdued tone of voice.  (782)

While I do not concur with Harris that one can obtain the full mystical effect of silence with a Canon that is recited aloud but more quietly, the trend of his advice is surely sane and sound. It reminds me of Cardinal Ratzinger’s suggestion that we would do well to reexamine whether parts of the Canon should once again be prayed silently, to invite the appropriate response of prayerful reverence, which, ironically, the constant recitation of familiar texts has a way of diminishing, if not excluding altogether.

There is a more general lesson in Harris’s research: when it comes to the silent or ‘mystic’ recitation of the Canon, we are looking at a custom that go back to the middle of the first millennium of Christianity. For those who value what is ancient, this is ancient indeed; and since man’s needs are fundamentally the same from age to age, the Church, having found early on the liturgical approach that fit best with the reality being celebrated and the persons being saved, preserved that approach jealously for all the centuries thereafter. “The Lord is in his holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before him” (Hab 2:20).

For those who think modern man needs something different from the man of every other age, the ancientness of a custom carries no weight. But in order to be fully consistent, the modernist must never shore up his positions by appealing to ancient practices or testimonies; he must fashion his liturgy whole cloth from out of his own head, without reference to the past. Once the criterion of tradition as such is laid aside as inappropriate for modern man, any choice from a past century or millennium will be merely arbitrary or political.

Everyone who maintains that we ought to worship in continuity with our forefathers can gratefully receive the liturgy from their hands—with its fundamental characteristics that have never changed at all, like the eastward orientation of clergy and people, as well as with those characteristics that received their definitive shape in the Patristic period and were not abandoned until the arrogant experimentation of the 1960s.