The Sensational Postcommunion Prayer of the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Pierre Bouillon, Jesus Resurrecting the Son of the Widow of Naim (1817)

Lost in Translation #16

The Sunday that in former ages was called, on account of its Gospel, the Sunday of the Widow of Naim, contains the following Postcommunion Prayer:

Mentes nostras et córpora possídeat, quáesumus, Dómine, doni caelestis operatio: ut non noster sensus in nobis, sed júgiter ejus praeveniat effectus. Per Dóminum.

Which I translate as:

May the working of [Thy] heavenly gift, O Lord, take possession of our minds and bodies so that not our sensus but its effect may ever take precedence in us. Through our Lord.

I leave sensus temporarily untranslated to highlight its peculiarity. Most Missals translate noster sensus as either “inclinations” (St. Joseph's and Fr. Stedman) or “impulses” (Fr. Lasance and Baronius Press) or even “natural impulses” (St. Andrew's). But these choices are problematic from a grammatical point of view.  As a fourth declension noun, sensus can be either singular or plural. In the Collect for the Monday of the Third Week of Lent, we find it in the plural, when the Church prays that by abstaining from carnal meats we may be able to “steer our senses (sensus) away from harmful excesses.” In this context sensus can indeed mean “impulses” or “inclinations.” In the Postcommunion Prayer of the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, however, the noun is singular, a fact we know from the adjective noster modifying it. Thus, sensus refers to a single faculty like “sensation” rather than a number of activities or conditions.

With the notion of sensation in mind, I argue that noster sensus means “our perception,” or better, “our sense of things,” which I take to include not only our initial perception but our entire judgment and opinion. If my hypothesis is correct, the prayer asks that a “Eucharistic worldview,” or at least a worldview nourished by the Eucharist, take precedence over our own perception of reality. One of the goals of the Christian believer is to see the world through the eyes of God. As one of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, knowledge is that which “makes us see created things in a supernatural way as only a child of God can see them.” [1] There is nothing wrong with human perception or judgment per se; indeed, it is a rather impressive faculty for an animal. Nevertheless, it cannot see all there is to see. A scientific understanding of the world, for example, is a splendid thing, but if a scientist knows nothing more, he misses out on the great sacramental mystery of creation As St. Augustine points out, it would be better for him to know nothing more than “only God can make a tree” than for him to know everything about trees except the fact that God made them (see Confessions 5.4.7).

And seeing through the eyes of God is far more than seeing that nature is a divine gift. It is seeing everything sub specie aeternitatis; it is seeing through the eyes of Love and service; it is seeing through the eyes of the Spirit. The Postcommunion, accordingly, ties in nicely with the Epistle reading for this Sunday. In Galatians 5, 25-26, 6, 1-10, St. Paul exhorts us to live and walk in the Spirit, to bear one another's burdens, and not to deceive ourselves with an inflated self-knowledge. How can we do any of these things if we do not see through the eyes of God?

The Postcommunion also indicates the means by which we can replace our eyes with God's, so to speak: the grace of the Eucharist. In powerful language, the prayer asks that the Holy Communion we have just received may take possession of our minds and our bodies and that its effect may forever take precedence over our own sense of things. Or rather, it asks that the working (operatio) of Holy Communion may take possession of us. It is a vigorous prayer, conjuring up the image of Eucharistic grace working its way through our minds and our bodies, kneading, loosening, strengthening, healing, transforming. It is also worth noting that the prayer asks for our bodies to be taken possession of as well as our minds in order to have our perception of things changed. There is a profound union between body and soul, and perhaps in order to see through the eyes of love we need to change certain bodily habits. The word sensus, after all, straddles the line between the mental and the physical.

[1] Blessed Columba Marmion, Christ the Life of the Soul (Angelico Press, 2012), 122.

The Theological Virtues and the Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Codex Aureus of Echternach (c. 1030), Manuscript (Hs. 156142)

Lost in Translation #14 

The readings for the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost have as their focal point the power and importance of supernatural faith. It is faith, the Gospel tells us (Luke 17, 11-19), that makes us whole; and it is faith, the Epistle tells us (Galatians 3, 16-22), that helps us inherit God’s promises. But lest we slip into the heresy of Sola Fides, the Collect provides a succinct and yet packed framework in which to understand this precious gift:

Omnípotens sempiterne Deus, da nobis fídei, spei et caritátis augmentum: et, ut mereámur ássequi quod promittis, fac nos amáre quod praecipis. Per Dóminum.

Which I translate as:

Almighty and everlasting God, grant unto us an increase of faith, hope, and charity: and so that we may merit to obtain what Thou dost promise, make us love what Thou dost command. Through our Lord.

There is much in this brief Collect. Like clever children who know how to get their mom and dad to say Yes, the Orations of the Roman Missal usually flatter God by praising His attributes in a “who” clause before asking Him for a favor. This prayer, however, cuts right to the chase: there isn’t even the standard deferential “we beseech Thee.”

Moreover, by requesting the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity, the Collect reminds us that faith alone does not save, but must be accompanied by hope and charity, especially the latter. St. Thomas Aquinas goes so far as to call charity the “form” or animating principle of faith, that without which faith is a lifeless corpse (for even the demons believe in God, but it does them little good [see James 2, 19]). Stephen Beale rightly argues that the key difference between Protestants and Catholics is a soteriology not of “faith alone” versus “faith and works” but of “faith alone” versus “faith and charity.”

But the Collect aims even higher, praying not simply for faith, hope, and charity, but their increase. These virtues were infused into our souls by the sheer generosity of God when we received the sacrament of baptism, but they can increase or decrease after that signature event, and we obviously want them to increase. God may have infused these virtues “in us, without us” as Aquinas puts it, but they cannot be maintained without us. The Council of Trent cites this Sunday’s Collect in its articulation of the Catholic doctrine of sanctification, which involves progressing in the state of justice until death (session vi, chapter 10).

Indeed, the amount of faith, hope, and charity a person has at the moment of his death is the amount that he will have for all eternity. Purgatory does not increase one’s virtues but pays off the debt of temporal punishment that is owed to God. This decontamination shower (or refiner’s fire, if you prefer) at Heaven's doorstep simply burnishes what is there; it does not bestow what is not there. There is no growth in Heaven either, only perfection of various kinds that creates a “holy ranking” of heavenly souls and spirits, or to use the Greek term, a “hierarchy.” Therefore, if you wish your soul to have a maximum of faith, hope, and charity, now is the time to go for it. The theme of increasing the theological virtues also pairs nicely with the Postcommunion for this Sunday, which prays that through the working of the sacraments we have just received “we may advance in the increase of eternal redemption” (ad redemptiónis aeternæ, quaesumus, proficiámus augmentum), that is, an increase in the effects of the Redemption on our souls.

The second half of the Collect teaches us how to increase the theological virtues, although the answer seems contradictory. Does the Catholic Church teach that we are saved by God’s grace or by human merit? Yes, the Collect replies. We need merit to obtain God’s promises, and merit is obtained by good works and the exercise of virtue. But it is still God who gives the increase (1 Cor. 3, 6). As the well-trained Thomist Blessed Columba Marmion explains, God is the efficient cause of the increase of virtue in our souls while our acts are “the meritorious cause,” which simply means that “by our acts, we merit that God should augment these vital virtues in our souls.” [1]

And what makes these acts meritorious? The Collect has an answer to that question as well: we must love what God commands. As Aristotle pointed out long ago, simply doing good deeds does not make one a just man, for if one only acts out of fear of punishment or a desire for reward, one is not truly just. What makes a good man good is that he loves the good as well as does it. But to love the good--or to put it back in more biblical terms, to love what God commands--takes nothing less than a root-and-branch conversion that only God can give us, for our hearts are desperately wicked from their youth (see Jeremiah 17, 9). We again return to the theme of reordered desire that emerges during this portion of the Time after Pentecost and to the paramount importance of undergoing an internal transformation. 

Put differently, there is no “works righteousness” doctrine undergirding this Collect, and still less is there Luther’s belief in “imputed righteousness” which has even souls in Heaven remain piles of dung covered by gracious blankets of snow. The Catholic dogma concerning salvation does not teach that we earn our way into Heaven by sole dint of our own efforts but that any merit we have earned and must earn is, paradoxically, a gift from God. For, as we never tire of citing, when God rewards the merits of His saints, He is rewarding His own gifts (see Gallican Preface for All Saints Day). 

In the case of this Collect, the Church asks for an increase of faith, hope, and charity through a two-step process. First, she begs God to make us true lovers of His will, which we have absolutely no hope of accomplishing on our own but which, when accomplished by God’s grace, internally transforms our dark hearts into shiny, bright Temples. Next, the Church asks God to give us, based on the merits that flow from being God’s true lovers, what He has promised to such blessed folk (see James 1:12, 2:5). Not a bad plan, that.

[1] Christ the Life of the Soul (Angelico Press, 2012), 222.

The Central Point in the History of Mankind

Mikhail Vasilievich Nesterov, Crucifixion (1908)

THE DEATH OF A GOD, dying for the salvation of men, is the central point in the history of mankind. All ages bear witness to and converge towards it: the preceding centuries point to its coming, the others are destined to harvest its fruits.

The death of Christ is the centre of history, and also the centre of the life of each man in particular. In the eyes of God every man will be great in proportion as he takes part in that deed; for the only true and eternal dignity is that belonging to the divine Priest. The degree of each one’s holiness will be in exact proportion as he participates in that bloody immolation. For the Lamb of God alone is holy.

But although Jesus Christ the divine High Priest appeared only once on earth, to offer up His great sacrifice on Calvary; yet, every day He appears in the person of each one of His ministers, to renew His sacrifice on the altar. In every altar, then, Calvary is seen: every altar becomes an august place, the Holy of holies, the source of all holiness. Thither all must go to seek Life, and thither all must continually return, as to the source of God’s mercies.

Those who are the Master’s privileged ones, never leave this holy place, but there they “find a dwelling,” near to the altar, so that they never need go far from it; such are monks, whose first care it is to raise temples worthy to contain altars. Making their home by the Sanctuary, they consecrate their life to the divine worship, and every day sees them grouped around the altar for the holy sacrifice. This is the event of the day, the centre to which the Hours, like the centuries, all converge: some as Hours of preparation and awaiting in the recollection of the divine praise — these begin with Lauds and Prime continued by Terce, the third Hour of the day; the others, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, flow on in the joys of thanksgiving until sunset when the monks chant the closing in of night.

Thus the days of life pass, at the foot of the altar; thus the life of man finds its greatness and its holiness in flowing out, so to say, upon the altar, there to mingle with that Precious Blood which is daily shed in that hallowed place: for, if the life of man is as a valueless drop of water, when lost in the Blood of Christ it acquires an infinite value and can merit the divine mercy for us.

He who knows what the altar is, from it learns to live; to live by the altar is to be holy, pleasing to God, — and to go up to the altar to perform the sacred Mysteries is to be clothed upon with the most sublime of all dignities after that of the Son of God and His holy Mother.

Meditation by Dom Pius de Hemptinne (1879–1907), a discipline of Dom Columba Marmion.

The Lingering Problems of Ordinary Time: Guest Article by Michael P. Foley

The Lingering Problems of Ordinary Time

By Michael P. Foley

In a previous article, we noted that the 1969 Missal’s Tempus per annum marks a break from the Roman liturgical tradition in three ways, and that the term “Ordinary Time” does not signify “Mundane Time” or “Ordinal Time” but an “Ordinary of Times,” a standard and nondescript season that stands in contrast to the “proper” seasons of Christmas and Easter. It is our hope that this explanation will put to rest fears that a season (which in the new calendar occupies half of the entire year) was deliberately profaned or desacralized and made, well, ordinary.

But we must be honest: there are still problems both with the term “Ordinary Time” and with the new Tempus per annum that may lead to an unintentional desacralization.

Regarding Ordinary Time as an Ordinary of Seasons:

1. The analogy is flawed. The intriguing concept of an “Ordinary of Seasons” essentially presupposes an analogy between it and the Ordinary of the Mass or of the Divine Office, but such an analogy taken to this level is misleading. The Ordinary of the Mass, for example, is not self-sufficient; for the Mass to be celebrated, it must be completed by propers, and these propers necessarily make the Mass a specific celebration in contradistinction to others. A Mass in Ordinary Time, by contrast, includes its own propers, nor does it need to be completed by the Proper of Seasons in order to be celebrated.

2. An Ordinary of Seasons is pastorally ineffective. As an organizational principle for liturgists, it is a useful construct; but as a liturgical season for the entire people of God, it is befuddling and, as we have seen all too clearly, prone to misinterpretation.

3. An Ordinary of Seasons is an abstraction. Abstract concepts have their place in sacred liturgy and the study thereof, but the seasons themselves should be anchored in the concrete aspects of a particular part of the year. A season that attempts to be generic without being specific runs the risk of being more Cartesian than Incarnational, more Gnostic than Christian.

And regarding the 1969 Missal’s Tempus per annum:

1. It is incoherent. It is bizarre to hold something as distinct insofar it lacks distinction, and it is especially bizarre where the notion of a season is concerned, for an indistinct season is almost a contradiction in terms. In liturgy as in nature, seasons emerge as seasons because they have qualities that distinguish them from other seasons; they have differentiae which make them specifically different from others in their genus. And since when does a single natural season of the year have two phases? Not even an Indian or Martinmas summer qualifies, for it is a fluke appearance of atypical weather in the midst of autumn, not an orderly “second phase” of summer. The very notion of a season is undermined by this artificial tempus interruptum construction.

2. It is based on a false claim. In his writings Jounel links indistinction with purity and purity with the early Church. Each of the new Sundays in Ordinary Time, he writes, “is a Lord’s Day in its pure state as presented to us in the Church’s tradition,” that is, the state in which the primitive Church celebrated it. In claiming to have reconstructed or returned to the worship of the early Church, Jounel shows a confidence that most liturgical scholars today are careful to avoid.

But Jounel also admits that Ordinary Time as a single block is an innovation. As we mentioned in the previous post, the earliest sacramentary shows the Church celebrating the Time after Theophany (Epiphany) and the Time after Pentecost. But even if you insist that the Church had a different liturgical year prior to this eighth-century text, you must nevertheless concede that in whatever manner the early Christians may have worshipped, it is high unlikely that they conceived of these periods in the same manner as Jounel, for the simple reason that Jounel himself admits that he has invented something new. Jounel’s confidence therefore belies the experience of the early Church. Even if he and his colleagues succeeded in the herculean task of resurrecting Sunday in all its pristine integrity, today’s faithful are not experiencing the Lord’s Day in its pure state when their experience of it is filtered through the titular hermeneutic of Ordinary Time or Tempus per annum.

3. It is contradictory. Ordinary Time is supposed to be indistinct, but by the Church’s own admission, it isn’t. According to the Congregation for Divine Worship, Ordinary Time has a highly-structured, three-year lectionary in which “each year is distinctive… because it unfolds the doctrine proper to each of the synoptic Gospels” (emphasis added). Indeed, Ordinary Time may be even more distinctive than the Time after Pentecost that it replaced, insofar as its Gospel readings are logically planned from beginning to end: “There is a common pattern followed in all three cycles: the early weeks deal with the beginning of Christ’s public ministry, the final weeks have an eschatological theme, and the intervening weeks take in sequence various events and teachings from our Lord’s life.” Ordinary Time is also distinctive for including the Solemnity of Christ the King, which celebrates a particular aspect of Christ’s mystery (His kingship over the universe) and which was moved from the Sanctoral Cycle to the Temporal in 1969, even though Ordinary Time is supposed to be distinctive for refraining from celebrating a “particular aspect of the mystery of Christ.”

4. It is mystagogically problematic. For the great liturgist Blessed Columba Marmion, “there is no surer way, no more infallible means, of causing us to resemble Christ” than entering into the mysteries of Jesus through the liturgy and its annual rhythm. [1] When “we contemplate in their successive order the different mysteries of Christ, we do so…with the object that our souls may participate in a special set of circumstances of the sacred humanity and may draw forth, from each of those circumstances, the specific grace it has pleased the Divine Master to attach to it” (emphasis added). [2] For Marmion, the Time after Epiphany is the season for contemplating the “special circumstances” concerning the “wondrous exchange” of the Incarnation and the hidden life of the Holy Family in Nazareth [3] while the Time after Pentecost “symbolizes in particular the pilgrimage of the Church in this life” [4] as an extension of our Lord’s reign through the Holy Spirit.

The GIRM, on the other hand, states that rather than celebrate a particular aspect of the mystery of Christ like the other seasons, Ordinary Time “commemorates the very mystery of Christ in its fullness” (ipsum mysterium Christi in sua plenitudine recolitur). The official English translation for this passage, “the mystery of Christ in all its aspects,” omits the ipsum in ipsum mysterium, a pronoun that places an emphasis on the mystery taken as a whole—the very mystery in and of itself, in its fullness, all at once, and not sequentially (as the “proper” seasons do). Yet as we just noted, this is precisely what the new Lectionary does: its Gospel pericopes begin with the beginning of Christ’s ministry, continue with various teachings and events in His life (which, as Marmion rightly observes, necessarily reveal “particular aspects” of the mystery of Christ), and conclude with eschatological themes. There is, therefore, a tension between the explanatory account of the season and its actual content.

More to the point, having a season recollect the ipsum mysterium Christi in sua plenitudine implicitly discourages a “successive” appropriation of the mysteries of Christ that confers “specific graces” attached to them by the Divine Master. The GIRM appears to be stating that such an appropriation is the function of the “proper” seasons of Christmas and Easter only. Yet if this is true, then the approximately six months of the year that comprise the Temporal Cycle of the 1969 calendar no longer have a clear mystagogical point of entry.

All of which is to say that the difficulties with the 1969 Missal’s Tempus per annum run deeper than the name it popularly bears.

A chart of the traditional Roman liturgical cycle

NOTES
[1] Dom Columba Marmion, Christ in His Mysteries, trans. Alan Bancroft (Bethesda, MD: Zaccheus Press, 2008), 32.
[2] Marmion, Christ in His Mysteries, 29, 30.
[3] Marmion, Christ in His Mysteries, 29, 175 ff.
[4] Marmion, Le Christe dans Ses Mystères, 494, trans. mine.

This article is a summary of a more extensive and scholarly treatment: “The Origins and Meaning of Ordinary Time,” Antiphon: A Journal of Liturgical Renewal 23.1 (2019): 43-77.

Classics of the Liturgical Movement: Dom Pius de Hemptinne

Readers of the works of Blessed Columba Marmion, O.S.B., know firsthand the riches he spreads before us — a veritable banquet of the mystical life, rooted in Sacred Scripture and the Church’s traditional liturgy. Relatively few, however, are aware of his disciples and the correspondence he conducted with men and women throughout the world, especially religious men and women who turned to him for spiritual direction at a distance. One of these disciples was a monk, Dom Pius de Hemptinne, O.S.B. (1879–1907), who left behind precious spiritual writings of his own.

In keeping with the purpose of my occasional “Classics of the Liturgical Movement” series, I would like to share with NLM readers some excerpts from the writings of Dom Pius, who gives expression to a profoundly Benedictine fusion of liturgy, personal prayer, and the whole of life, including the message of the natural world. In this way he illuminates and encourages us to live ever more deeply the meaning of the sacred mysteries.

All excerpts are drawn from A Disciple of Dom Marmion, Dom Pius de Hemptinne: Letters and Spiritual Writings, trans. Benedictines of Teignmouth (London: Sands & Co., 1935).

On the Liturgy and the Eucharist

The death of a God, dying for the salvation of men, is the central point in the history of mankind. All ages bear witness to and converge towards it: the preceing centuries point to its coming, the others are destined to harvest its fruits.
The death of Christ is the centre of history, and also the centre of the life of each man in particular. In the eyes of God every man will be great in proportion as he takes part in that deed; for the only true and eternal dignity is that belonging to the divine Priest. The degree of each one’s holiness will be in exact proportion as he participates in that bloody immolation. For the Lamb of God alone is holy.
But although Jesus Christ the divine High Priest appeared only once on earth, to offer up His great sacrifice on Calvary; yet, every day He appears in the person of each one of His ministers, to renew His sacrifice on the altar. In every altar, then, Calvary is seen: every altar becomes an august place, the Holy of holies, the source of all holiness. Thither all must go to seek Life, and thither all must continually return, as to the source of God’s mercies. Those who are the Master’s privileged ones, never leave this holy place, but there they “find a dwelling,” near to the altar, so that they never need go far from it; such are monks, whose first care it is to raise temples worthy to contain altars. Making their home by the Sanctuary, they consecrate their life to the divine worship, and every day sees them grouped around the altar for the holy sacrifice. This is the event of the day, the centre to which the Hours, like the centuries, all converge: some as Hours of preparation and awaiting in the recollection of the divine praise — these begin with Lauds and Prime continued by Terce, the third Hour of the day; the others, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, flow on in the joys of thanksgiving until sunset when the monks chant the closing in of night.
Thus the days of life pass, at the foot of the altar; thus the life of man finds its greatness and its holiness in flowing out, so to say, upon the altar, there to mingle with that Precious Blood which is daily shed in that hallowed place: for, if the life of man is as a valueless drop of water, when lost in the Blood of Christ it acquires an infinite value and can merit the divine mercy for us. He who knows what the altar is, from it learns to live; to live by the altar is to be holy, pleasing to God,—and to go up to the altar to perform the sacred Mysteries is to be clothed upon with the most sublime of all dignities after that of the Son of God and His holy Mother.  (pp. 145–47)

A pure kiss is the great mark of love. A kiss may be given from different motives, as there are many kinds of love — but it is always the sign of a perfect union, of mutual and entire complaisance. . . . A true, sincere and faithful kiss is a noble act; but a false kiss is an infidelity, and almost always a betrayal. This mark of affection should only be given between persons united by blood or marriage. Between friends it should have only the meaning of union of souls; sensual motives should have no part there. The kiss of friendship is so great and noble a sign that it is given around the Altar. Here it is the Christian kiss, and under these conditions remains pure and sublime as love itself. But who knows the worth of a kiss? On all sides, this sign — like love itself — is profaned. (February 23, 1902, p. 140)

Jesus Christ is the great Master of souls. He nourishes them with His Flesh, His Blood and His whole Self. He really makes Himself their Food. And, just so, it seems to me that no one receives the care of souls without taking upon himself the duty of feeding them with his own self. We must give ourselves up to the souls put in our charge, with such fullness of love that the grace given to our own souls shall overflow into theirs.
We shall meet, perhaps, with souls that are famished, weak or wounded: little souls that throw themselves on to us, and would fain feed from us with too great avidity and familiarity. Such conduct will wound us, as it wounds Jesus Christ. But after His example we must feed these poor sheep, in order that they may recover strength and life.
O Jesus, from this day forward grant that the souls given into my care may drawn from my poor heart the grace that Thou givest me. It is Thou Thyself who hungerest; eat, then, and drink all that Thou findest in my poor house. May my soul be a manger where Thy lambs can be filled with Thee. (June 4, 1902, pp. 148–49)

Most holy and eternal Father, your divine Son has taught us that no one can come to Him unless you draw him, and that none shall be lost of those whom you have given Him. I beg of you, therefore, in the name of the mutual love you bear to Him and He to you, to offer me and all whom I love to this divine Son, begotten of you, so that being born again in Him, your Word, we may have a share in the eternal glory which He gives to you, and that we may thus be sanctified in you.
Eternal Son, whose holiness is equal to that of the Father, you have promised that “when lifted up from the earth, you would draw all to yourself.” Draw me, then, to you, O well-beloved of my soul, that being fed by you I may live by you, even as you live by your Father.
Holy Spirit, who descended upon the Virgin to accomplish the mystery of the Incarnation of the Word, come down upon me, O joy of my heart and strength of my soul! Impregnate me, to the end that Jesus Christ may grow in me, so that by your power, the closest union may be effected between my Saviour and my poor soul, inflamed by your love.
O adorable Trinity, look down and behold how I burn with longing to glorify you — see how my soul shrinks into nothingness — see how little it is — how it abandons itself utterly to you! . . . I love you by the Heart of Jesus and by every one of the souls on earth, and therefore I will bring them all to you. To this end, Christ Jesus, only object of my desires, I take refuge in the bosom of your Father, and in His Name I give you all these precious souls, that not one of them may perish. Uniting myself to you, I offer them all to the Father, for the eternal honor and glory of the most adorable Trinity. Amen. (April 18, 1901)

On Prayer

Labour is preceded and followed by rest; rest restores the strength and fits it for fresh effort. So it ought to be with the soul of the monk. His work is divine praise; his rest is prayer. In the first, he sings to God; in the second, he reposes in Him; first celebrating the object of its love, and then giving itself up to the caresses of that Love whom it adores. In that solemn prayer, the soul like a soaring eagle gives a few strokes with its wings, but soon rests in prayer and lets itself be borne on the impetus of grace.

The fruit of self-surrender is found in the ineffable peace and sweet repose which the soul, by the effect of loving confidence in God, keeps in the midst of difficult and sometimes inextricable situations. (p. 171)

On Nature as Revelation

A soul in love with the beauties of nature, which reveal God to it, does not want to dissect in genders and species the One, Indivisible Object of its admiration, but prefers to contemplate the works of the Creator with the simplicity of love. Is it not enough for the enthusiasm of a pure soul to admire the picturesque rocks in a lovely valley; to see their mantle of moss freshly watered drop by drop; the torrent rushing at their feet and then spreading a silver cloth over the verdant fields? A thousand flowerets perfume the air; hidden under its leaves, the violet is betrayed by its fragrance, the wild lilies open their chalices wide and look up to heaven. How many wonders of beauty that escape our notice! . . . And, if, in the silence of your soul, you listen to that voice of nature that speaks to your heart, you will hear one flower telling you, “I speak of humility” – another – “I love purity” – the crystal water says, “I praise chastity” – and the rose calls aloud, “I sing of love.” Listen to all these voices chiming together in such wondrous harmony, and you will better understand the praise sent up by Nature to her Author. (p. 115)

When twilight is ended and all around is silent, and nature alone, plunged in profound recollection, speaks aloud of the Divine Author of all things: then the pure soul hears and understand you, O God. . . . Yes, indeed – at the close of an autumn day, some mysterious influence which I cannot express seems to descend from heaven, and to hush the noises of broad day, even as the fading of noontide glare. How good it is – this time of peaceful dusk, enwrapping our very being and penetrating us with the sense of our need of love! So, surely, when all is tranquilly silent within the soul, when the passions seem to sleep and cease to excite it to the feverish pursuit of frivolous things, or even to a restless search after things divine – if the soul knows how to dwell “at home within itself” – what loving silence it will find in this interior sanctuary! This solitude is full of God! (September 1901, pp. 122-23)

Suffering isolates [us] from creatures. He who knows God is drawn into closer union with Him by suffering, but he who knows Him not, loses everything – created things fall away from him, and to divine things he is a stranger. To unite oneself to Thee, my God, in the silence of crucified nature, of a humble spirit, with a pure heart and in oblivion of all besides — this is not merely to love — but to live! (p. 122)

Littleness

A good action, being not so much the work of human frailty as of the divine Mercy, is not our best claim to merit before God. Man has his little share — not much more than his goodwill — the great part is God’s, since it was He who inspired the thought and gave the strength to perform the action. Thus, such an act is at once a sign and as assured pledge of God’s goodness in our regard. Our true Title to the divine favour is the Blood of Christ, to which we have the right through our own destitution and humbly acknowledged frailty. (January 26, 1902, p. 139)

When divine love has grown sufficiently in the soul to produce union between the soul and God; when that union has become deep enough to bear no longer the fragile stamp of human fidelity, but depends solely on the strong foundations of faith in immutable Truth; when that union has gained enough intimacy to allow of a holy familiarity (born of a more enlightened knowledge of the Divinity) — then, for the first time, the soul sees itself in God. The sight of the Infinite teaches it the nothingness of the finite: as soon as the soul considers the divine goodness, immediately it sees its own wretchedness. The warmth of divine charity makes it feel the chill of its own tepidity. The vision of the great All produces the understanding and scorn of the Nothing. It ponders over these things with the strength of reason and now it fathoms them by the light of faith. Formerly its action was guided by human wisdom, but henceforward by the touch of a divine influence. The soul now feels its own very littleness but this gives it an infinite peace, for even its own nothingness is to it a divine truth, divinely understood. (pp. 141–42, emphasis added)

The divine Master made me understand the necessity of ever advancing in the way of union of the soul with His own Sacred Heart. Herein, indeed, lies the principle of our life, the condition of our spiritual fecundity, and, as a consequence, our sanctity. Let us give all to Jesus. I feel so strongly that He asks from us all that we do, whether of good or indifferent things; let us bring them all to Him, like grain that has not yet been winnowed. He will refine the harvest Himself, and will increase its value by reason of the confidence which inspires us. How simple, then, is perfection! And yet, where do people go to look for it? But there is nothing astonishing in that; unless we consider how mistakenly men rely upon their own human strength in supernatural things; and, too, how the simple understanding of true holiness is a very rare grace. I believe it is the precious pearl of the Gospel. (Letter of October 8, 1902, p. 245)

In the ordinary course of things, God perfects us more through waiting — through asking us to wait — than through anything else. (p. 213)

The Ironic Outcome of the Benedictine-Jesuit Controversy

Back in July, I drew attention to an excellent series of posts by Fr. Mark Kirby at Vultus Christi on the debate, in the early twentieth century, between the Benedictines and the Jesuits over the centrality of the liturgy in the Christian life (and more particularly, the life of prayer). Once again, I highly recommend reading those posts for the ins and outs of the debate, but the gist of it is that the sons of St. Benedict strongly promoted the line of St. Pius X, later taken by the Second Vatican Council, that the sacred liturgy is the “fount and apex” of the Christian life, the point of departure for all of the Church’s pastoral activity and the goal in which the Church’s entire mission culminates, while the sons of St. Ignatius were presenting the liturgy as one among many tools useful for personal spiritual growth, with private meditation having a certain pride of place.

Illuminating in their frankness, the publications and correspondence associated with this debate deftly expose the principles underlying each side. Fr. Mark also shows how Pope Pius XII attempted to adjudicate this dispute in Mediator Dei by acknowledging the truths held by both schools while fundamentally siding with the Benedictine framework of his predecessor Pius X.

Well and good—the armies engaged one another, the battle was fought, and, at least officially, the Pio-Benedictine vision prevailed. But what about the later history, the post-Mediator Dei period from 1948 to 1970, when the Bugnini liturgy emerged, at first slowly, then more and more rapidly and radically?

This period exhibits a strange irony. Apparently, the Benedictines won across the board because everyone nowadays (beginning with the Consilium reformers themselves) talks about liturgy as if it’s the be-all and end-all of Catholic prayer, almost as if it’s the only kind of prayer that Catholics have—and yet what has triumphed is a “creative,” devotional, sentimental, largely subjective notion of liturgy, a utilitarian and custom-designed approach that is utterly contrary to the Benedictine vision of liturgy as objective, formal, given, stable, and received, an external standard to which we are subject and to which private devotions and personal preferences are to be subordinated.[*Note]

Speaking of the subjectivizing effects of Kantian philosophy, Fr. Chad Ripperger observes:

We often see this immanentization today: people expect the liturgy to conform to their emotional states rather than conforming themselves to an objective cult which in turn conforms itself to God.

A couple of months ago I read an eye-opening interview with a fairly well-known priest who dismissed the Tridentine Mass as a kind of idolatry (!) because of the impersonal ritualism of it, the exalted cultivation of form. Everyone was so focused on the rite that they were idolaters of it, he opined. Evidently, he has become too accustomed to the fabricated and ever-changing “meaningfulness” of modern liturgy, with its “personal touches” and “accessibility” and “relevance,” and hence feels chilled by the objectivity and otherness of formal worship in Latin, and the way its ministers and assistants yield their individuality and idiosyncracies to it.

The searing words of Laszlo Dobszay come to mind:

The turning around of the altars, celebration versus populum, was not commanded by the Council. In practice, however, the new rite and the new position of the altar are closely associated. We may say that changing back to the original direction will have a beneficial effect. Indeed, the very fact that the bulk of the clergy protests with intense emotions against this return shows its serious necessity; the principal motivation behind the protest is not pastoral care of the faithful, but the psychological distress of the priest.

The legacy of the post-conciliar reform is a Benedictine insistence on the primacy of liturgy, fused with a Jesuitized re-conception of liturgy as collective private devotion. It is as if new Jesuit wine has been poured into old Benedictine wineskins, causing them to rupture. The moment of triumph was the moment of disaster, as the very notion of a rite—a formal ritualized act of common worship based on a common orthodox tradition—gave way to a pluralistic, relaxed, malleable, and privatized praxis of variations on a more or less Catholic theme. In short, the Consilium’s exploitation of Sacrosanctum Concilium left us with a volatile mixture that makes genuine reform today much more difficult.

Cardinal Ratzinger when he celebrated the usus antiquior in Wigratzbad

Perhaps the most ironic twist in this still unresolved (and now more complicated) debate is the contrast between the current pope and his predecessor. Although not a Benedictine by profession, Benedict XVI closely identified throughout his career with the monastic vision of the all-pervasive centrality of the sacred liturgy, where God and man can meet most profoundly in praise and in communion, at once expressing and accomplishing the unity of the Mystical Body of Christ. At his first general audience in April 2005, he explained that he had chosen the name Benedict in large part as a homage to the Father of Western Monasticism, co-patron of Europe and architect of Christian civilization. With the first Jesuit and overseas pope, we have a pastor who appears to hold many of those modern Jesuit views that Blessed Columba Marmion and other Benedictines, in the name of fidelity to St. Pius X, so stalwartly resisted in the first half of the twentieth century, and that Ratzinger/Benedict himself patiently opposed in his writings and magisterial acts. We have unexpectedly seen the trajectories of the two schools played out before our very eyes in the magisterium, ars celebrandi, and priorities of each pontificate.

It is for this reason that the original Benedictine-Jesuit controversy remains of lively interest and massive importance for us today, if we would better understand the trials through which the Church is passing in this age.

*            *            *

[*Note]  Even when it comes to our personal prayer, we ought to strive for a maximal harmony with the liturgical feastdays and seasons. It would be strange indeed if our prayer life did not register and resonate with the changing seasons of Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Septuagesima, Lent, Easter, Ascension, Pentecost, which insert us into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, and the glorious triumph of His saints. As a blogger insightfully put it not long ago: “We should liturgize devotion as far as we can, rather than devotionalize the liturgy, as happened in the last several centuries when low Mass became the norm, public practice of devotions replaced the Office, and some odd feasts crept into the kalendar … Again, let us liturgize our devotion so we do not devotionalize our liturgy.” While I have no problem with a quiet and prayerful Low Mass for weekdays, it does seem regrettable that High Mass is not much more common than it is, although as more clergy are ordained for the usus antiquior, I believe we will see both the Missa cantata and the Missa solemnis more and more as a regular feature of Catholic life.

"Mighty Conquering Warrior": The Queenship of Mary

Andrea di Bartolo, Coronation of the Virgin

Today, on the calendar of the modern Roman Rite, is the Feast of the Queenship of Mary, which we also bring to mind every time we pray the Fifth Glorious Mystery. It is worth our while to ponder why she is, and is called, our Queen. We will find, as well, that there is an intimate connection with the mystery of her Immaculate Heart, which we celebrate today on the calendar of the usus antiquior.

Always feeling much safer when relying on a worthy authority, in this case I am happy to lean on Blessed Columba Marmion, who writes in his Rosary meditations:

What is the purpose of all the mysteries of Christ? To be the pattern of our supernatural life, the means of our sanctification, the source of all our holiness. To create an eternal and glorious society of brethren who will be like unto Him. For this reason Christ, the new Adam, has associated with Himself Mary, as the new Eve. But she is, much more than Eve, “the Mother of all the living,” the Mother of those who live in the grace of her Son. And since here below Mary was associated so intimately with all the mysteries of our salvation, at her Assumption into heaven Jesus crowned her not only with glory but also with power; He has placed His Mother on His right hand and has given her the power, in virtue of her unique title of Mother of God, to distribute the treasures of eternal life. Let us then, full of confidence, pray with the Church: “Show yourself a Mother: Mother of Jesus, by your complete faith in Him, our Mother, by your mercy towards us; ask Christ, Who was born of you, to give us life; and Who willed to be your Son, to receive our prayers through you.”

Dom Marmion observes that Jesus honors His mother not only with glory, as we celebrated a week ago on the feast of her assumption into heaven, but also with power, as we celebrate on the feast of her actual rulership, sub et cum Christo, over angels and men and, one may dare to say, the entire created order.

It requires little experience with devotional books to lament the fact that, especially in the past 150 years, Catholics have tended to sentimentalize the cult of the Virgin Mary, in ways that make it rather difficult to imagine her as powerful. Yet she is our queen, our empress, a victorious warrior who has crushed the serpent’s head. Where Mary reigns as queen, her Son reigns as king, for they are inseparable in the plan of salvation; where she reigns not, where her reign is ignored or denied, His royal reign is hampered, for His very identity is obscured and negated. Whoever has a weak or tepid view of Mary and her God-given authority over creatures will have a weak view of her Son and his properly divine authority over creatures. If she is made into a shy, wilting, fearful maiden, her Son will become a teary-eyed, slightly effeminate man, a dishonor done to Him by far too many holy cards and religious paintings.

The fact that Our Lady stood under the cross when nearly everyone else fled, and in the darkness of faith offered up her most precious treasure, her own flesh and blood, to the heavenly Father, means that she must have had the strongest human heart in the history of the world, with the greatest supernatural heroism. There is no martyr, confessor, virgin, or anchoress, no wife, mother, or widow whose virtues the Blessed Virgin did not possess in superabundance, in accordance with the grace of her divine Motherhood, which is the root and perfection of all her privileges.

As our Eastern brethren proclaim in ecstatic prayer:

Mighty conquering warrior, Mother of God, thy servants whom thou hast freed from ills offer up to thee songs of thanksgiving, and with thine unconquerable power, deliver us from all affliction, that we may cry unto thee, hail Bride unwedded!

Fra Filippo Lippi, Coronation of the Virgin

These regal and militant images can, of course, become a false portrait if they are taken in an excessively worldly sense. The Virgin Mary is our gentle and gracious Mother, humble and self-effacing, attentive to God alone, a “little flower” of exquisitely hidden beauty. And yet, I would maintain that taking either set of images and using it exclusively, as Catholics have tended to do with the “Mother dearest, meek and mild” type of language, is to miss something essential about the awesome reality of the Holy Theotokos as the archetype of all of God’s creations, the most resplendently holy, noble, worthy, and powerful person God has ever made, one fashioned in his wisdom before all the ages and destined to reign forever over the Mystical Body of Christ, the innumerable hosts of angels, the vast throng of men and women saved from the jaws of death by the indomitable faith and unconquered fortitude of the Mother of God.

On this day, then, we venerate the might and power of her holiness—and the intimate virtues of her Immaculate Heart that made (and forever make) such might and power possible and real. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Queen of heaven and earth, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, Amen.