The Offertory Incensation, Part I

Lost in Translation #122

After preparing and offering the gifts and himself, the priest blesses the incense. As he places three spoonfuls of incense onto a live coal, he says:

Per intercessiónem beáti Michaélis Archángeli, stantis a dextris altáris incénsi, et ómnium electórum suórum, incénsum istud dignétur Dóminus benedícere, et in odórem suavitátis accípere. Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen.

Which I translate as:

Through the intercession of blessed Michael the Archangel, who is standing at the right side of the altar of incense, and [through the intercession] of all His Elect, may the Lord deign to bless this incense of His and receive it as an odor of sweetness. Through Christ our Lord. Amen

When the priest incenses the bread and wine, he says:

Incensum istud, a te benedictum, ascendat ad te, Dómine, et descendat super nos misericordia tua.

Which I translate as:

May this incense of Thine, which has been blessed by Thee, O Lord, ascend to Thee, and may Thy mercy descend upon us.

Who You’re Going to Call

The Per intercessionem requests the intercession of all the Saints and an archangel. In the original prayer from the eleventh century, the role went to St. Gabriel, who stood “on the right side of the altar of incense” when he visited Zechariah. (Luke 1,11) But in the thirteenth century, Michael’s name slowly began appearing as a substitute and became obligatory in the 1570 Roman Missal. Even so, as late as 1705 the Congregation of Rites had to remind holdouts to stop using Gabriel’s name. [1]

Saint Michael on Mount Gargano, Cesare Nebbia

Michael may be associated with incense because according to some accounts he appeared on Mount Gargano bearing a censer in A.D. 490, and this apparition may have inspired later generations to identify him as the anonymous angel who stands in front of the altar with a golden censer in Revelation 8,3. But the 1570 version of the prayer only exchanges the names; it does not update the angel’s location. Michael, the angel who ostensibly carries his own censer, is thus portrayed standing at the right side of the altar of incense. In a Catholic sanctuary, incidentally, that would be the Gospel-side, for right and left are determined by God’s view of us from the sanctuary rather than vice versa.

Despite his not having an explicit biblical association with incense, Michael is arguably the better archangel to invoke at this point of the Mass. In the New Testament, Gabriel is the angel who delivers messages of great importance; Michael is the angel who casts out the dragon Satan. (see Rev. 12, 7-9) Invoking Michael is thus an implicit petition for spiritual fumigation in order to expel evil from the sanctuary before the Consecration. “In the liturgy,” writes Fr. Pius Parsch, “incensing has a positive and a negative purpose: to cleanse (to lustrate), and to sanctify. Here it is to free the gifts offered from every unholy influence and envelop them in an atmosphere of holiness.” [2] And let us be honest: Gabriel’s relationship to incense is literally tangential at best. He was there to speak to Zechariah, not to be close to the altar of the incense because it was the altar of incense.

Angel of the Censer, by Lawrence or AnNita Klimecki

Preferred Pronouns

The choice of pronouns in the Per intercessionem and Incensum istud is significant. Whereas English has two demonstrative pronouns, Latin has three. In English, “this” is used to point to things that are near the first person (I, me) while “that” is used to point to things that are near either the second person (you) or the third (he, him). In Latin, on the other hand, there are two different words to distinguish things near the second person and things near the third:

• Hic, haec, hoc is for things near the first person (“this”);
• Iste, iste, istud is for things near the second person (“this or that thing of yours”);
• Ille, ille, illud is for things near the third person (“that”).

One way to visualize this distinction spatially is that hic is for when the object is closer to me, iste is for when the object is closer to you, and ille is for when the object is equidistant from us.

By using iste to designate the incense at hand, the priest is indicating that the incense already belongs to God even before it is blessed. It is easy to concede that all natural objects belong to the Maker of nature, but incense, although it is biotic material, is a human artifact. Frankincense, for example, is made from the resin of the olibanum tree by workers tapping the tree, letting the resin ooze out, and allowing the resin to dry on the tree for several months. The hardened sap is then cut into grains to become incense.

It may seem odd to designate a man-made object as God’s, but it serves two purposes. First, on a more general level, it aligns with a Catholic way of viewing manufactured goods. The production of wine, for example, requires far more human invention and intervention than making incense, and the end-result (wine) is an entirely different substance from the natural materials out of which it was made. And yet in the blessing of wine for the sick, wine is called a “creature” that God gives as a refreshment to His servants. The blessing of wine on the feast of St. John the Evangelist goes even further with its opening line: “O God, who in creating the world brought forth for mankind bread as food and wine as drink…” In Genesis, it is Noah who first brings forth wine without any explicit encouragement or help from God, but the Catholic imagination nonetheless credits God with the win, and sees it as one of His gifts for which we are to give thanks. Instead of construing wine as the “work of human hands,” this pious hermeneutic omits the secondary causes of human agency and focuses on the Primary Cause in an act of gratitude. [3]

Second and more specifically, ascribing incense to God ties into the central paradox of the entire Offertory, namely, that we are offering to God what already belongs to Him, or as the Byzantine Divine Liturgy puts it, “We offer to Thee Thine own of Thine own, in all and for all.” [4] The priest first asks God to bless this incense of His and then asks God to make this blessed incense of His ascend to Heaven in order for mercy to descend to earth. The priest wants God to receive the burning smoke curling its way upwards as an odor of sweetness, but it is God who made incense have these properties in the first place.

Crosses and Crowns

Finally, we note the fulsome manner in which the gifts are incensed, three times cross-wise and three times in a circle. Joseph Jungmann interprets these actions as a performative extension or reinforcement of the Veni sanctificator [5], while Nicholar Gihr sees them as a visual fulfilment of the two prayers. “While the odor of ascending incense denotes devout sacrifice and prayer penetrating to heaven, the clouds of incense floating round about signify the effects of prayer and sacrifice, namely, the sweet odor of grace descending from Heaven or issuing from Christ on the altar.” [6] As for the detailed gestures, the interpretation of William Durandus is especially beautiful. The three crosses betoken the three times that Mary Magdalen brought fragrant spices or ointment to anoint the body of Our Lord Jesus Christ, while the three circles are crowns that symbolize the Trinity, the Three Persons to whom the Cross leads us. [7]

Notes

[1] Joseph Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite, vol. 2, 72, n. 11.

[2] Pius Parsch, The Liturgy of the Mass, 179.

[3] This shorthand method is similar to the biblical custom of describing God’s care for His creatures, e.g., Matt 6,26: “Behold the birds of the air, for they neither sow, nor do they reap, nor gather into barns: and your heavenly Father feedeth them.” God the Father does indeed feed the birds of air but through trillions of intermediary causes and not like an old man on a park bench.

[4] Tα σὰ ἐκ τῶν σῶν σoὶ προσφέροµεν, κατὰ πάντα, καὶ διὰ πάντα.

[5] Jungmann, vol. 2, 74.

[6] Gihr, The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, 373.

[7] William Durandus, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum IV.31.3.

The Sacred Heart in the Sacred Liturgy: Thoughts on the Symbolism of the Thurible

It is difficult to overstate the significance of fire in the collective imagination of Judeo-Christian civilization. It is, perhaps, the ultimate symbol. In ancient Greek thought, it represented the uniquely human; in Jewish thought, the divine. Young children are fascinated by it, perhaps because they sense its paradox—so easily snuffed out, like man, and yet so powerful, like God.

In Greek mythology, there are two fires: the celestial fire, which Zeus withheld from mankind, and human fire, given to mankind by Prometheus, who stole it from the Olympian gods. The former is immortal; the latter, like man, is ever on the verge of death.

The fire men have now at their disposal ... is a fire that is “born”—so it is also a fire that dies; it must be kept burning, it must be tended. This fire has an appetite like mortal man’s; unless it is constantly fed, it goes out.... It constantly recalls both his divine origin and his animal nature; it partakes of both—like man himself. [1]

The basic Hebrew word for fire is ’ēsh, which begins with א (aleph), the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, the letter of origins, creation, and the perfect Unity—despite apparent dualities—of the divine Essence. Fire, like God, creates ex nihilo, and enables life: from darkness, light; from cold, warmth; from grain, bread; from rock, iron. It also destroys.

The first occurrence of ’ēsh in the Bible is Genesis 15, 17: “And it cometh to pass—the sun hath gone in, and thick darkness hath been—and lo, a furnace of smoke, and a lamp of fire, which hath passed over between those pieces.” The lamp, casting light amidst the gloom, signifies the majesty of the Almighty and seals a covenant between Abram and his God. The next occurrence is Genesis 19, 24: “Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.” The next is Genesis 22, 6: “And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering, and laid it upon Isaac his son; and he took in his hand the fire and the knife; and they went both of them together.” First, the love of God, eternal and true, promised to Abraham and his seed forever. Second, His justice, enacted upon men for whom Abraham prayed. Third, His justice turned upon a Victim—Isaac, Christ—who will burn with agony to save men from burning in eternity.

In Exodus, fire becomes the prevailing manifestation of God. He appears to Moses in a bush that “burned with fire and … was not consumed,” He leads the Israelites as a pillar of fire, and He comes in elemental, awe-inspiring magnificence to Mount Sinai, “which was altogether on smoke, because the Lord descended upon it in fire: and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a furnace, and the whole mount quaked greatly.”

The theophany on Sinai is a sublimely liturgical moment. The people must purify themselves, fasting from carnal pleasures: estote parati in diem tertium, “be ye ready against the third day.” They gather and prepare to encounter the living God, but only from a distance, and only through signs and wonders. The privilege of entering into the sanctum is reserved for Aaron, the high priest, and Moses, the supreme prophet. Moses returns with an inestimable gift—the laws of God, so delightful to the faithful soul that in the Hebrew Bible’s longest chapter, Psalm 118, the inspired poet sings a love song to them.

Could fire, with a sacred history as illustrious as this, be absent from the Christian liturgy? Such a thought is not to be borne. But Christianity has no place for the funerary bonfires of the pagan Greeks, nor for the burnt offerings of the Jews. Instead, we have the orderly and aromatic fire of incense, which has been burned in Christian worship since the early centuries of the Church. This Christian fire burns hot indeed, but gently and discreetly; it is a fire of coals, hidden inside the thurible, whose shape is often reminiscent of a mountain, and whose smoke is that of silent prayer.

Exodus 24, 17 tells us that for the children of Israel, “the glory of the Lord was like devouring fire on the top of the mount.” For Christians—living in the age of grace, and called to worship in spirit and truth—the fire of the Lord is not so physically vast, not so externally tremendous. Rather than blazing in awesome splendor from mountain heights, it burns with infinite intensity in the Heart of Jesus Christ. Saint Margaret Mary saw what most of us must imagine:

Flames issued from every part of His Sacred Humanity, especially from His Adorable Breast, which resembled an open furnace and disclosed to me His most loving and most amiable Heart, which was the living source of these flames.

Catholic artists have struggled to worthily depict the Sacred Heart. Were I a painter, I would approach the task with fear and trembling, very much as the Israelites must have approached the mountain of the Lord: “when the trumpet soundeth long, they shall come up to the mount,” but “whosoever toucheth the mount shall be surely put to death.”

Perhaps the most worthy depiction of the Sacred Heart is not a depiction at all, but a symbol. The thurible shows us the Sacred Heart as a beautiful enclosure in which the sacred fire burns, and which swings and flows with the rhythms of life—the slow, solemn heartbeat of the liturgy. Hanging from a chain, as Our Lord hung from the Cross, the thurible reminds us that the divine Heart burns for men, was pierced by a man, and is entrusted to men when distributed in Holy Communion. [2]

From the crown of the thurible, as from the holy mountain of which the psalmist speaks, the smoke of prayer rises steadily, ever ascending from the Heart of Christ to the throne of His heavenly Father. But Our Lord wills that it be renewed from time to time by the devotion of His servants. The priest does this on our behalf, sprinkling grains of incense as the Gospel sower sprinkled “the word of the kingdom ... upon good ground” (Matthew 13, 19; 23). Indeed, the thurible is an enclosure, but it is not sealed. The Heart of Our Lord is ineffably holy yet offered to all who approach Him with humility and love, striving to “hear the word of God and keep it” (Luke 11, 28). 

Finally, we can reflect on the resilience of the thurible, an object made of metal and subjected repeatedly to heat that no flesh could endure. After St. Margaret Mary felt endangered by the overwhelmingly ardent fire of the divine Heart, Our Lord consoled her with these words: “I will be your strength. Fear nothing.”

NOTES

1. Jean-Pierre Vernant, The Universe, the Gods, and Men: Ancient Greek Myths, translated by Linda Asher, pp. 55–56. 

2. I am referring here to the Eucharistic miracle of Lanciano, which suggests, by means of twentieth-century scientific analysis, that the Flesh received in Holy Communion bears a special relationship with Our Lord’s physical Heart.

---

For thrice-weekly discussions of art, history, language, literature, Christian spirituality, and traditional Western liturgy, all seen through the lens of medieval culture, you can subscribe (for free!) to my Substack publication: Via Mediaevalis.

The First Blessing of Incense

Lost in Translation #92

After the priest kisses the altar at a High Mass, he places three spoonfuls of incense onto the lit coals of a thurible and incenses the altar. Even though the priest has, according to the imagery of the prayer Aufer a nobis, entered into the Holy of Holies, this ceremony is still part of the his preliminary activities, for the original beginning of the Mass in the ancient Roman rite occurs moments later, when the priest makes the sign of the cross and reads the Introit. To put it in architectural terms, if the Introit is the front door of the Mass, the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, the prayers Aufer a nobis and Oramus Te, and the incensation of the altar are the vestibule or front porch. Fr. Nicholas Gihr rightly describes this first incensing as the “solemn conclusion of the preparatory prayers at the foot of the altar.” [1]

Incense

Since our focus is on the Latinity of the Mass Ordinary and not the entire breadth and depth of liturgical meaning, we limit our remarks about the use of incense to three:

1. Incense is a rich part of Old Testament worship, and thus, when it is used in Christian liturgy, it acts as an allegorical or typological fulfillment of the jots and tittles of the Old Law. (see Matt. 5, 17) For the Mass is not simply a representing of the Sacrifice of the Cross but a grand consummation of all the just sacrifices and just acts of worship that were made since the dawn of time.
2. Because one of the Magi brought frankincense to the newborn King as an acknowledgement of His Divinity, incense can be both a reminder of our adopted Hebrew ancestry (see no. 1 above) and a symbol of the gifts that we Gentiles bring to God and of our belief that Jesus Christ is true God.
3. And since incense is mentioned in the Book of Revelation, (Rev. 8, 3-4) the act of incensation in sacred liturgy ties together past, present, and future: the Old Testament, the current age of the New Covenant, and the coming glory of the New Jerusalem.

The Benedicite

But let us turn to the petition for the blessing and the blessing itself – neither of which, incidentally, appears in the 1970 Missal. The priest is first asked to give a blessing: if it is a sung Mass or Missa cantata, the MC does the asking; if it is a Solemn High Mass, it is the deacon. Either way, both use the same formula:

Benedícite, Pater reverénde.

Which I translate as:

Bless [this], O most reverend Father.

The odd thing about this blessing is the verb number. In both classical and ecclesiastical Latin, when “commanding” one person to conduct a blessing, one addresses him with the second person singular, Benedic. In the grace before meals, for example, we pray: Bénedic, Dómine, nos et haec tua dona or “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts.” In the Benedicite, however, the verb is in the plural even though it is only one priest being addressed.

The difference can be explained by the rise of the so-called T-V distinction (from the Latin tu and vos), which began to be used in the fifth century (albeit rarely) and was crystallized and made commonplace in most European languages between the 12th and 14th centuries. In languages that observe the T-V distinction, one person addresses another with the second-person plural form in order to show respect or to acknowledge the other's superior rank. Accordingly, a servant would address his master with the vos form while the master would address his servant with the tu form. The Romance languages use the T-V distinction and English once did too: thou was the second-person singular, and you the second-person plural.

Usually, the T-V distinction does not appear in liturgical Latin. An objection in the Summa Theologiae complains about the priest saying to a single server at a private Low Mass, “The Lord be with you [vos]” and “Let us give thanks.” The objection is that “it is out of keeping to address one individual in the plural number, especially an inferior.” The objector is aware of what is fitting in Latin (at least liturgical Latin), and he is also aware of the T-V distinction. The implication is that even with this distinction, of which the objector does not seem to approve, one should never address an inferior in the plural. [2]

Overall the Mass Ordinary supports the objector’s assumptions, for all the other prayers therein follow the older Latin usage rather than the T-V distinction. The Benedicite prayer, then, is an anomaly, and as such, it testifies to a long, bumpy, and not always perfect liturgical history that, like a seasoned ship, picks up nicks and scratches along the way but wears these imperfections like an English veteran from the Battle of Agincourt proudly baring his scars on St. Crispin’s Day. Even if the prayer does not comply with the expected conventions of Latin, it can still be cherished as part of our shared family heritage.

The Ab illo benedicaris

The celebrant responds to the Benedicite petition with an equally noteworthy blessing.

Ab illo benedicáris, in cujus honóre cremáberis. Amen.

Which I translate as:

Be blessed by Him in Whose honor you will be burnt. Amen.

The Latin words of the prayer are rather straightforward and easy to translate; only cremaberis has an added meaning. As one would expect from our word “cremation,” cremo/cremare means to burn to ash, to cremate. But it also has sacrificial connotations. In the Vulgate translation of Leviticus 5, 12, the priest takes a portion of flour for a sin offering and burns it (cremare) “upon the altar for a memorial of him that offered it.” A similar logic is at play in this blessing, the exception being that incense is being offered not in memory of a sinner but in honor of Him who saves us from sin.

The use of the ablative in the phrase in cujus honore also betrays an ecclesiastical bent. While classical Latin leans towards the use of the accusative (in this case, in cujus honorem), “The Vulgate, the ancient liturgies and the entire vulgar-Latin literature construe the proposition (to the question where? or why?) frequently in the ablative.” [3]

There is an elegant parallelism in the two clauses of the prayer, for each clause begins with a preposition, follows with a pronoun or possessive adjective and noun, and ends on with a verb. A close English equivalent is:

By Him may you be blessed, in Whose honor you will be burnt.

The prayer Ab illo benedicaris is the default blessing of incense during Mass except at the Offertory, where a more elaborate formula is used. It is also used during Solemn Vespers and when a bishop consecrates an altar, and it can be used to bless incense when using the Roman Ritual, which sometimes requires both holy water and incense when blessing a person or thing.

Outside the liturgy, the Ab illo plays the role of punchline in at least two amusing anecdotes. According to one yarn, when a visiting group of Anglican bishops asked Pope Bl. Pius IX (1792-1878) for a blessing, he used the Ab illo on them. According to another, Pope Pius XII did the same thing when an impertinent anti-Catholic journalist crashed a papal audience and asked to be blessed.

Pope Blessed Pius IX: “Burn, baby, burn”?

The blessing is not new. A similar version of it appears in the fourteenth-century Ordo Romanus XIV, where it is mentioned in the papal Masses for the Christmas Mass at Dawn and for the feast of St. Stephen (December 26):

Ab ipso sanctificeris, in cujus honore cremaberis.

Which I translate as:

May you be sanctified by the very One in Whose honor you will be burnt.

In this Ordo, the blessing is used during the Offertory rather than at the beginning of Mass. Ordo Romanus XVI is considered to be the precursor of the Caeremoniale Episcoporum or Ceremonial of Bishops. Most editions of the latter have the current formula but place the blessing before the Introit.

The Ab illo is, I believe, the only time in the Ordinary of the Mass when an inanimate object is personalized and addressed. Usually in a blessing, the priest addresses God and asks Him to bless a person or object. Here, the priest addresses the object and expresses the wish that God will bless it. Were it not for the sign of the cross that the priest makes over the incense after he utters the prayer, we might be tempted to doubt the blessing’s efficacy.

There is nothing unusual for a believer to address inanimate objects or irrational creatures: the psalmist tells fire, hail, snow, ice, stormy winds, mountains, hills, fruit trees, cedars, beasts, cattle, serpents, and feathered fowls to praise the Lord, (Ps. 148, 8-10) and the three young men in King Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace (Ananias, Azarias, and Misael) tell dozens of things, from the winds of the sky to the whales of the sea, to bless the Lord. (Dan. 3, 57-88) Here, however, the priest tells incense not to bless the Lord but to be blessed by Him. While the Benedicite is distinctive for the verb number in its address, the Ab illo with which it is paired is distinctive for the object that it addresses. Both are curios from the wonderful bazaar that is our patrimony.

Plate from the illuminated manuscript “The Cloisters Apocalypse,” French, 13th century

Notes

[1] Nicholas Gihr, The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass: Dogmatically, Liturgically and Ascetically Explained, 5th ed. (Herder, 1918), 376.

[2] Summa Theologiae III.83.obj. 12. Aquinas’ reply to this objection is that it is acceptable for the priest to address a single server in this way because at a Low Mass he “takes the place of the whole Catholic people.” Earlier authors, such as St Peter Damian in his highly influential treatise, the Liber Dominus vobiscum, maintain that the liturgy should not be changed to suit the circumstances.

[3] Gihr, 376, no. 1.

God as Fire

As a layman in the pews, I often find myself wondering why the clergy do not preach more often on the symbolic meaning of the rites, gestures, and objects of the liturgy, not to mention the texts (especially the Propers of the Mass — in those fortunate places that utilize the Propers). Since the liturgy is the most obvious common object of perception and meditation for everyone present, it seems both useful and decorous to preach in such a way that the faithful may be led into a deeper understanding of what they are seeing and doing. Admittedly, this could get heavy-handed and risk didactic overload, but at least some of the content of a given liturgy could be brought in — I’m referring here not to the readings, which are what get the lion’s share of attention, but the other elements of the liturgy that take place around the readings, as it were. A sign that this is fair game can be seen in the remarkable amount of patristic and medieval preaching that concerns itself with unpacking the meaning of the liturgy for the faithful.

A good opportunity is rapidly approaching: I refer to the great Easter Vigil with its kindling of the new fire and the lighting of the Paschal candle. We have probably all heard some reference in homilies to fire and light, but it seems to get stuck in generalities, which have the effectiveness of clichés. Why not follow in the footsteps of St. Thomas Aquinas and ponder the deep symbolism behind fire — particularly, the reasons why God Himself is compared with fire? In his Scripture commentaries, the Angelic Doctor frequently comments on why God and His action are compared with fire.

• At Super Isaiam 33, three reasons are given: fire purges, sets other things aflame, and condemns.
• At Super Hebraeos 12, lec. 5, where fire is said to have, among sensible things, more nobility, more brightness, more activity, more altitude, and more purifying and consuming power.
• At Super Isaiam 30, five reasons are given for symbolizing charity as fire: it illuminates, boils up or heats [exestuat], turns things towards itself, makes one ready to act, and draws upwards.
• Super Ieremiam 5 gives five reasons why the word of the Lord is said to be a fire: it illuminates, sets aflame, penetrates, melts, and consumes the disobedient. 

Such descriptions of fire frequently parallel Thomas’s discussions of the effects of love. For example, in both Scriptum super Sent. III.27.1.1 ad 4 and Summa theologiae I-II.28.5, Thomas speaks of the way in which intense love causes fervor or burning, how it melts or “liquifies” the heart, and how it makes the lover penetrate into the inmost recesses of the beloved. This, indeed, is why extasis or ecstasy (for Aquinas, one of the many effects of love) is so aptly compared with fire, which seems to be ever rising up above itself and disappearing into the air, always tending outwards and upwards. Thomas charmingly notes that it is the custom of lovers to be unable to keep their love silent, but it bursts forth from them because its flames cannot be contained under their breast.[1] And elsewhere: “Burning comes from an abundance of heat; hence the Spirit is called burning, because, owing to an abundance of divine love, the whole man burns up into God.”[2]

The most ample comment on the symbolism of fire for God comes from Thomas's Commentary on Isaiah, chapter 10:

       Take note on those words, and He will be a light to Israel in fire, that our God is called ‘fire’ [for four reasons]. First of all, because it is subtle; and regarding this He is called subtle, [first] as regards substance, for He is called ‘spirit.’ Jn. 4: “God is spirit.” Secondly, as regards knowledge, because He is capable of penetrating. Heb. 4: “The word of the Lord is alive and active, more penetrating than any sword.” Thirdly, as regards appearance, because He is invisible. Job 28: “Whence therefore [is your] wisdom?”, and the same below: “It is hidden from the eyes of all the living.” Or Job 36: “All men [see him, every one beholds from far off],” etc.
       The second reason is that it is bright. Now, that He is bright is evident first from the fact that He makes something manifest to the intellect. Ps. 35: “In your light we shall see light.” Secondly, because He delights the affection. Tob. 5: “what kind of joy is there for me, for I sit in darkness and I do not see the light of heaven?” Thirdly, because He directs one’s acts. Below, c. 60: “The nations shall walk in your light, and the kings in the splendor of your rising.”
       The third reason is that it is hot; and this, first, because He vivifies. Job 39: “you perhaps will warm them in the dust?” Lam. 1: “From above He has sent fire into my bones and has chastised me.” Secondly, because He cleanses. Eccl. 38: “the vapor of the fire wastes his flesh, and He fights with the heat of the furnace.” Thirdly, because He devastates. Dt. 32: “A fire is kindled in my wrath, and shall burn even to the lowest hell.”
       The fourth reason is that it is light; and this, first, on account of motion [towards the end], because “the Lord made everything for the sake of Himself” (Prov. 16). Secondly, on account of His place, because “He dwells in the heights” (Ps. 112). Thirdly, because of His mode of unmixedness. Wis. 7: “[for wisdom is more active than all active things] and reaches everywhere by reason of her purity, for she is a vapor of the power of God [and a certain pure emanation of the glory of the almighty God, and therefore no defiled thing comes into her].”[3]

It is good to be reminded again, through such exquisite texts that demonstrate an Augustinian mastery of exegesis and lay out for us a feast of mutually illuminating cross-references, that the Angelic Doctor was, and saw himself as, primarily a commentator on Scripture, a Magister Sacrae Paginae, a teacher of the sacred page. The rest of his eminent intellectual activities flowed from the systematized lectio divina of the schools. This may also suggest a kind of reconciliation between preaching on the lectionary and preaching on the liturgical rites and symbols. In the end, those rites and symbols are themselves rooted in Scripture, and Scripture, in turn, is powerfully illustrated and enacted by them. Expounding the meaning of the liturgy is therefore not opposed to reflecting on the readings but is the essential context for it.

Moses and the Burning Bush (from Notre Dame in Paris)

NOTES
[1] Super Rom. 8, lec. 7 (Marietti, 127): “Hic enim amantium mos est, ut amorem suum silentio tegere nequeant: sed necessariis suis et charis asserunt et produnt, et flammas suas infra pectus cohibere non possunt. Enarrant ea frequentius, ut ipsa assiduitate narrandi amoris sui solatium capiant, et refrigeria immensi ardoris assumant.”
[2] Super Rom. 12, lec. 2, §988: “Procedit autem fervor ex abundantia caloris, unde fervor spiritus dicitur, quia propter abundantiam divinae dilectionis totus homo fervet in Deum” (Marietti 1:183). At ST I.108.5, Thomas gives as the first reason why the seraphim are named from fire: “Primo quidem, motum, qui est sursum, et qui est continuus. Per quod significatur quod indeclinabiliter moventur in Deum.”
[3] Super Isaiam 10 (28:76.330–63): “Nota super illo uerbo Et erit lumen Israel in ignem, quod Deus noster dicitur ignis primo quia subtilis; et quantum ad hoc dicitur subtilis quantum ad substantiam, quia dicitur spiritus, Io. IV «spiritus est Deus»; secundo quantum ad scientiam, quia penetrabilis, Heb. IV «Viuus est sermo Dei et efficax et penetrabilior omni gladio ancipiti»; tertio quantum ad apparentiam, quia inuisibilis, Iob XXVIII «Vnde ergo sapientia?», et infra eodem «Abscondita est ab oculis omnium uiuentium», uel Iob XXXVIII: «Omnes homines».
Secundo quia lucidus: quod autem sit lucidus, patet primo quia manifestat quantum ad intellectum, Ps. «In lumine tuo uidebimus lumen»; secundo quia delectat quantum ad affectum, Tob. V «quale gaudium est michi, qui in tenebris sedeo et lumen celi non uideo?»; tertio quia dirigit quantum ad actum, infra LX «Ambulabunt gentes in lumine tuo et reges in splendore ortus tui».
Tertio quia calidus: et hoc primo quia uiuificat, Iob XXXIX: «Tu forsitan in puluere calefacies ea?», Tren. I «De excelsis misit ignem in ossibus meis et erudiuit me»; secundo quia purgat, Eccli. XXXVIII «Vapor ignis urit carnes ejus et in calore fornacis concertatur»; tertio quia deuastat, Deut. XXXII «Ignis succensus est in furore meo et ardebit usque ad inferni nouissima».
Quarto quia leuis; et hoc primo propter motum, quia «uniuersa propter semet ipsum operatus est Dominus», Prou. XVI; secundo propter situm, quia «in altis habitat», Ps.; tertio propter incommixtionis modum, Sap. VIII «Attingit autem ubique propter munditiam suam, uapor est enim uirtutis Dei».”

Progressive Solemnity: Traditional Interpretations and Methods

Solemn Mass: the ancient norm and exemplar of the Roman Rite

In the world of the reformed liturgy, one encounters a concept of “progressive solemnity” that has little to do with the Latin liturgical tradition. Basically, the idea is this: start with a spoken Mass as your baseline, and then add things on to it ad libitum: for an ordinary day, sing the “presidential” parts; on a feast, add the propers; on a very special day, bring on the incense and chant the Introit, etc.

In practice, at least in my experience, it ends up being a random series of steps: on weekdays we sing the Alleluia but nothing else; on feasts, we sing the Gloria and the Alleluia; on Sundays we do the four-hymn sandwich and the celebrant sings his parts. Since there is much confusion about what rubrics, if any, govern these sorts of decisions, just about any mix-n-match combination can happen. [1]

With the traditional Roman rite, this confusion is simply not possible: a Mass is either a Low Mass or a Missa cantata or a Missa solemnis, etc., and each has strict requirements about what is to be sung (or not sung). As a result, followers of the traditional rite tend to use the forms of Mass as a way of distinguishing calendrical solemnity: ferias or low-ranking feasts will be Low Masses; high-ranking feasts are Missae Cantatae; Sundays and Holy Days are Solemn High Masses; and, on the most special occasions, a bishop may be invited in for a Pontifical High Mass.

While this is understandable for practical reasons (bishops are not commonly available to pontificate, and even a deacon and subdeacon can be hard to come by), we should recognize that it is not the primary way in which the liturgical tradition of the Church distinguishes degrees of solemnity. In a church sufficiently well equipped with ministers, such as a monastic community or a cathedral with canons, the liturgy will be sung every day; it could be solemn every day. The normative — in the sense of fundamental and exemplary — form of liturgy will always be the chanted rite in the presence of the bishop or abbot, or the nearest thing to it, the Missa solemnis.

On one of my visits to the Benedictine monastery of Norcia, I remember how beautiful it was to attend several solemn Masses in a week. It showed me that this can indeed be a norm rather than an exception. Moreover, since they were so skilled in the liturgy and the chant, and there was no homily, solemn Mass took less than an hour. Each day nevertheless had a distinctive feel to it because of the intelligent use of a plethora of other marks for distinguishing levels of feasts that Catholic tradition has developed over the centuries. In other words, taking the solemn form as normative does not mean placing everything at the same level of solemnity. The solemnity is distinguished rather by the accidents, the manner or mode in which the elements of the liturgy are configured.

Gradations in Gregorian Chant

While every liturgy should ideally be chanted, there are notable distinctions within the repertoire of chant itself. Fr. Dominique Delalande, O.P., observes:

It is too obvious to be denied that a celebration sung in the Gregorian manner is more solemn than a celebration which is merely recited; but this statement is especially true in the modern perspective of a celebration which is habitually recited. The ancients had provided melodies for the most modest celebrations of the liturgical year, and these melodies were no less carefully worked out than those of the great feasts. For them the chant was, before all else, a means of giving to liturgical prayer a fullness of religious and contemplative value, whatever might be the solemnity of the day. Such should also be our sole preoccupation in singing. As long as people look upon the Gregorian chant solely as a means of solemnising the celebration, there will be the danger of making it deviate from its true path, which is more interior. [2]

Put differently, Fr. Delalande is saying that the chant is integral to the expression of the liturgy, not a mere ornament tacked on, like a bow on a Christmas present, and that we do well to utilize the different spheres of chant rather than merely toggling back and forth between recited and sung.

Ordinary. For example, the Mass Ordinary given in the Liber Usualis for ferias is short and simple, while the Ordinaries suggested for Solemn Feasts (Mass II, Kyrie fons bonitatis, or Mass III, Kyrie Deus sempiterne) are melodically elaborate and grand in scope. Five Ordinaries (III–VIII), of varying complexity and length, are suggested for Doubles. Simpler feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary, e.g., the Holy Name on September 12, might use Ordinary X, while loftier feasts such as the Immaculate Conception or the Assumption could use the great Mass IX, Cum jubilo.

Creed. Similarly, the Liber makes available six settings of the Creed (and still others are in circulation), which vary considerably in their ornateness or “tonality.” Once again, the choice of a Creed melody can reflect something of the nature of the feast or occasion.

Preface. The missal offers three tones for the Prefaces: simple, solemn, and more solemn (solemnior). For a ferial Mass, a Requiem, or a lesser feast, the simple tone should be used; for a higher-ranking feast, such as that of an apostle or doctor, the solemn tone could be used; for the highest feasts, such as Christmas, Easter, Ascension, Pentecost, Corpus Christi, the Sacred Heart, the Immaculate Conception, or the Assumption, the more solemn tone would be highly appropriate. (In some versions of the anecdote, Mozart is said to have claimed that he would gladly exchange all his music for the fame of having composed the Preface tone. If he said this, he would doubtless have been thinking of the more solemn tone, which is indeed of rare beauty.)

Propers. The Proper chants should be sung in full in any case, but for a special occasion with incense and more ceremonial, a verse from the Offertoriale Triplex might be used, and at Communion time, verses and a doxology to go with the antiphon.

Beyond the chant, there are other obvious and subtle ways to elevate or lower the solemnity of a particular day on the calendar, so that ferias do not seem the equal of feasts of saints, and feasts of saints the equal of feasts of Our Lady, and these, in turn, those of Our Lord. It is true that many of the following presuppose a well-stocked sacristy the contents of which have been assembled over a period of time by people with good taste who understand that there is a symbolic value in having more than one kind of any given item.

In the Realm of Sight 

Since, as Aristotle says, the sense of sight is the one that gives us the most information about things, it is not surprising that the largest number of modes for signaling solemnity pertain to the visual domain.

(Photo courtesy of Liturgical Arts Journal)

1. Copes, chasubles, dalmatics, tunicles. It is obvious that plainer vestments should be used for ferias, more decorative ones for feasts, and over-the-top ones for solemnities. There are churches that have special sets used only at Christmas and/or Easter, or for a patronal feastday, etc.

2. Other vestments. For a feria, the alb can be plain; for a feast, it can be patterned; for a solemnity, with lacework. When worn with a Roman chasuble, the design of the alb becomes an important aesthetic element in itself. Similarly, the surplices of acolytes can be plain white or with worked bordered; the cassocks can be black throughout the year but red for Christmastide and Paschaltide.

3. Chalice, paten, and other vessels. It is obvious that these can be of simple or ornate design; in gold or silver or a combination thereof; with or without stones; taller or more squat, Romanesque, Gothic, or Baroque; engraved or plain; etc. This is one detail that is particularly noticed by the faithful, because of the custom of gazing upon the chalice as it is elevated and praying: “My Lord and my God!”

Continue Reading this Article. . .

Biblical Types or Anticipations of Traditional Catholic Worship

Photo by Ramses Sudiang on Unsplash

With unabashed admiration for medieval allegorical commentators on the Mass who did not stop at the level of practical or historical explanations but went for deeper significance, playing like children in the garden of spiritual meanings that spring forth from the original literal seeds, I share with readers today certain suggestive Scripture verses that support or at least add additional weight to practices familiar in the usus antiquior. I do not claim, of course, that the human authors of these verses had in mind a future Christian liturgy of Europe in its fully-developed medieval condition. But we know that the Primary Author of Scripture did have in mind the many ways in which He would inspire the Church to glorify Him worthily in her traditional rites.

Separation of Sanctuary from Nave

“And Aaron was separated to minister in the holy of holies, he and his sons for ever, and to burn incense before the Lord, according to his ceremonies, and to bless his name for ever.” (1 Chron. 23:13)

“The chambers of the north, and the chambers of the south, which are before the separate building: they are holy chambers, in which the priests shall eat, that approach to the Lord into the holy of holies: there they shall lay the most holy things, and the offering for sin, and for trespass: for it is a holy place. And when the priests shall have entered in, they shall not go out of the holy places into the outward court: but there they shall lay their vestments, wherein they minister, for they are holy: and they shall put on other garments, and so they shall go forth to the people.” (Ezek. 42:13–14)

“The priests, and Levites, the sons of Sadoc, who kept the ceremonies for my sanctuary, when the children of Israel went astray from me: they shall come near to me, to minister to me: and they shall stand before me, to offer me the fat, and the blood, saith the Lord God. They shall enter into my sanctuary, and they shall come near to my table, to minister unto me, and to keep my ceremonies.” (Ezek. 44:15–16)

“Christ, being come an high priest of the good things to come…by his own blood, entered once into the holies, having obtained eternal redemption…. For Jesus is not entered into the holies made with hands, the patterns of the true: but into heaven itself, that he may appear now in the presence of God for us. Nor yet that he should offer himself often, as the high priest entereth into the holies, every year with the blood of others: for then he ought to have suffered often from the beginning of the world: but now once at the end of ages, he hath appeared for the destruction of sin, by the sacrifice of himself.” (Hebr. 9:11–12, 24–26)

“And it came to pass, when he [Zachary] executed the priestly function in the order of his course before God, according to the custom of the priestly office, it was his lot to offer incense, going into the temple of the Lord. And all the multitude of the people was praying without, at the hour of incense.” (Luke 1:8–10)

Incensation of the Altar

“And I saw seven angels standing in the presence of God; and there were given to them seven trumpets. And another angel came, and stood before the altar, having a golden censer; and there was given to him much incense, that he should offer of the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar, which is before the throne of God. And the smoke of the incense of the prayers of the saints ascended up before God from the hand of the angel.” (Rev. 8:2–4)

“And Aaron was separated to minister in the holy of holies, he and his sons for ever, and to burn incense before the Lord, according to his ceremonies, and to bless his name for ever.” (1 Chron. 23:13)

“Who then can be able to build him a worthy house? if heaven, and the heavens of heavens cannot contain him: who am I that I should be able to build him a house? but to this end only, that incense may be burnt before him.” (2 Chron. 2:6)”

“Our fathers have sinned and done evil in the sight of the Lord God, forsaking him: they have turned away their faces from the tabernacle of the Lord, and turned their backs. They have shut up the doors that were in tile porch, and put out the lamps, and have not burnt incense, nor offered holocausts in the sanctuary of the God of Israel. Therefore the wrath of the Lord hath been stirred up against Juda and Jerusalem, and he hath delivered them to trouble, and to destruction, and to be hissed at, as you see with your eyes. Behold, our fathers are fallen by the sword, our sons, and our daughters, and wives are led away captives for this wickedness. Now therefore I have a mind that we make a covenant with the Lord the God of Israel, and he will turn away the wrath of his indignation from us. My sons, be not negligent: the Lord hath chosen you to stand before him, and to minister to him, and to worship him, and to burn incense to him.” (2 Chron 29:6–11)

“Let my prayer be directed as incense in thy sight; the lifting up of my hands, as evening sacrifice.” (Ps. 140:2)

Facing the Altar as Mediators, Not Towards the People

“And the priests went in, and stood before the face of the altar and the temple: and weeping, they said: Thou, O Lord, hast chosen this house for thy name to be called upon therein, that it might be a house of prayer and supplication for thy people.” (1 Macc. 7:36–37)

“And the priests prostrated themselves before the altar in their priests’ vestments, and called upon him from heaven…” (2 Macc. 3:15)

“And Solomon stood before the altar of the Lord in the sight of the assembly of Israel, and spread forth his hands towards heaven; and said: Lord God of Israel, there is no God like thee in heaven above, or on earth beneath: who keepest covenant and mercy with thy servants that have walked before thee with all their heart…. And it came to pass, when Solomon had made an end of praying all this prayer and supplication to the Lord, that he rose from before the altar of the Lord: for he had fixed both knees on the ground, and had spread his hands towards heaven.” (1 Kg. 8:22–23, 54)

“Our fathers have sinned and done evil in the sight of the Lord God, forsaking him: they have turned away their faces from the tabernacle of the Lord, and turned their backs.” (2 Chron. 29:6)

“And they have turned their backs to me, and not their faces: when I taught them early in the morning, and instructed them, and they would not hearken to receive instruction.” (Jer 32:33)

The Silences During Mass—especially in the Canon

“And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven, as it were for half an hour.” (Rev. 8:1)

“For thus saith the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel: If you return and be quiet, you shall be saved: in silence and in hope shall your strength be.” (Isa. 30:15)

“It is good to wait with silence for the salvation of God.” (Lam. 3:26)

“Hear in silence, and for thy reverence good grace shall come to thee…. In many things be as if thou wert ignorant, and hear in silence and withal seeking.” (Sir. 32:9, 12)

“For while all things were in quiet silence, and the night was in the midst of her course, Thy almighty Word leapt down from heaven from Thy royal throne.” (Wis. 18:14–15)

“But the Lord is in His holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before Him.” (Hab. 2:20)

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

Benedictine Monks on Incense: Sourcing It and Making It

Boswellia sacra, the source of frankincense

I recently visited a Benedictine monastery known for its excellent liturgical life. At Mass on Epiphany, the celebrant said the following in the course of his homily:

Frankincense represents the costly spiritual sacrifice that is adoration; frankincense is the vital essence of the tree that produces it; it is, if you will, the lifeblood of the tree. The tree is slashed, and the precious essence bleeds out of it. One who would adore in spirit must be ready to be stripped and slashed, like the frankincense tree, so as to give the blood of one’s very essence in sacrifice. A sacrifice that is measured, and calculated, and weighed, is no sacrifice at all. It cannot be a spiritual sacrifice, that is one worthy of God who created us in His image and likeness to participate in the royal priesthood and in the victimhood of His Son.

Given the symbolism not only of incense but even of how incense is produced, harvested, and purchased at a price, it seemed altogether fitting that the same chapel in which these words were spoken should be filled with the smoke of an incense that, to my nose, smelled better than others I had experienced — less smoky and resiny, more of a pure fragrance, almost like a spirit without a body. No matter how much was burned, the chapel still seemed full of breathable air. This contrasted with experiences I’ve had where the incense starts to make my throat tighten up or my eyes water a bit, and where one can start to wish for fresh air.

So I decided to ask the sacristan monk about the incense they were using, and he gave me quite a bit of interesting information!

Given the love of NLM readers for all things beautiful and liturgically proper, I thought I should share what he wrote to me, in case it might be of interest or aid to anyone. Then, at the end of the article, I attach a page from the most recent newsletter of the Monks of Norcia, telling of how Br. Anthony has learned the art of making the monastery’s incense. The article begins with edifying reflections on why we use incense to begin with.

* * *

We purchase most of our incense (and altar wine) through Holy Art. There are Italian, French, German, British, Polish, American, &c., versions of this site, and the prices do differ slightly. It seems we use the Italian version most often.

That said, pure frankincense is suitable for the Roman Rite at all times. Of late, I have been experimenting with varieties from Ethiopia and Somalia; at present, we’re using this variety for tempore per annum and for Exposition and Benediction [pictured below]. It has a warm, slightly tangerine scent. It came in a 1 kg package: we began using it every Sunday beginning on Pentecost and ending on the first Sunday of Advent, and still we have some left over. Note that the website has various search filters that make it easy to find what one is looking for. Any incenses on this page would seem safe to consider as well.

For Epiphany, I take up the mortar and pestle and simply grind up pure myrrh and add it to pure frankincense and it is wonderful.

I’m no physician, but the problem with many Roman-style incenses is, I suspect, the various additives. Incense makers begin with a base of frankincense, but then add various perfumes, sometimes fragments of scented woods, &c. N. Abbey incense [name withheld] is a fine example. They seem to be the classic choice in the traditional anglophone world. I think the quality is good, but they still add various essential oils, &c. Even if all the ingredients are of high quality, when you burn them there is still the resulting chemical reaction to account for. By using pure frankincense, one eliminates all the additives, and possibly thereby the allergic reactions people may be having.

The cheaper brands are probably little more than wood and paper soaked in essential oils.

As for Byzantine-style incenses, we use them for Mass and Vespers of festivals; however, I’m less certain about their composition. They are, more often than not, perfumed. That said, none of the brothers have ever found them a difficulty, and we’ve used many varieties. The rose-scented kind I’ve been using during the Christmas octave did not come from the above website, but it would be typical of what you’d find here. I intend to try a few of the offerings from the Bethlehem Monks. The only drawback is that, in my experience, many priests are unaccustomed to using the Byzantine style, where the grains are larger and it takes slightly longer for them to catch and begin to burn.

Incense as the Sacramental of Devotion

Dirigatur, Domine, oratio mea, sicut incensum in conspectu tuo. Let my prayer, O Lord, be directed as incense in Thy sight. (Psalm 140[141]:2)

St. Thomas Aquinas, in the fourth book of his Commentary on the Sentences of Peter Lombard, states: “Figures that signify what should always be done should not end, as is clear in the example of using incense, which signifies devotion.”[1] In context, Aquinas is arguing about whether circumcision should cease once baptism is in place, but what I was struck by is his matter-of-fact statement — said without any fear of contradiction — that the use of incense is just one of those symbols that we will always be using in our rites, since it signifies devotion, which ought always to be present.

At this point in the text, the editors of the Parma edition of Aquinas decided to insert a lengthy note, which is rather unusual. Evidently they thought readers would wish to know just how and when incense was used to express devotion:

Incense in Italy was not used in antiquity in the sacred rites of the Gentiles. Each one used to bring to the gods what he had at hand: honey, wine, milk, but mostly fruits or the first fruits; then they used to give those things that come from grains, like spelt and liba (cakes).  However, after this incense was imported from Arabia into Greece and Italy, although it was brought at great expense to Rome, people of every class could nevertheless purchase a little bit easily, even the poorest, which they would use as an offering.  The poor would offer three grains of incense with their three fingers. But the use of incense in the cult of the true God is extremely ancient. Whence Henry Cannegieter [1691-1770] must be rebuked for asserting the following propositions: 1) Christians abhorred the use of incense in the Sacred Rites or Mass. 2) There were no thymiamata [resin compositions of incense] in the ancient Church.[2]

Where Henry Cannegieter doubted the use of incense in the ancient Church or in the Mass, considering it an abomination, G. W. F. Hegel in Phenomenology of Spirit considered its use a sign of “the Unhappy Consciousness,” which, for him,

is only a movement towards thinking, and so is devotion. Its thinking as such is no more than the chaotic jingling of bells, or a mist of warm incense, a musical thinking that does not get as far as the Notion [or Concept], which would be the sole, immanent objective mode of thought. . . . What we have here, then, is the inward movement of the pure heart which feels itself, but itself as agonizingly self-divided, the movement of an infinite yearning . . . . At the same time, however, this essence is the unattainable beyond which, in being laid hold of, flees, or rather has already flown.[3]

For Hegel, devotion means abortive thinking, a gesturing towards conceptual clarity without attaining it. Devotion substitutes the ringing of bells and clouds of incense for rigorous thought; it settles for music rather than science. Yet what I find so delightfully odd is that Hegel has portrayed not an imperfection but, on the contrary, one important reason why the Christian is superior to the mere logician or scientist: the fact that the Christian is possessed of an infinite longing for the divine — this, a gift of God’s grace! — and that he is agonizingly self-divided, since he sees in himself, fallen creature that he is, both a renewed spirit that belongs to Christ and an old Adam that stubbornly clings to the earth. It is precisely through the virtue of devotion that he yields himself up again and again, like incense, to God, as to one who is not only ineffable and inaccessible but also nearer to me than I am to myself, present in all things as the one who holds them in being and endows them with their forms, capacities, energies, and destinies. It is only from the unbeliever that devotion’s object flees or has flown, only to him that it is unattainably beyond.

The saint has become incense that burns upwards to God and in so doing diffuses to men the sweet fragrance of divine gifts. He is flame that, in the intensity of his desire to keep burning and set others aflame, consumes whatever dares oppose it, the last remnants of selfish preoccupations and preferences. In unison with all voices of the Catholic tradition, St. Thomas teaches that holiness — which in one place he defines as “purity consecrated to God”[4] — is judged strictly in terms of charity, whereby one’s very self is handed over, yielded up, made wholly sacred.

We can learn much from pondering the narrow-mindedness of Cannegieter and Hegel. Cannegieter thinks the use of incense either superfluous or idolatrous; Hegel thinks it primitive and prephilosophical. For the one it is a form of excess, for the other a defect or retardation. What neither seems to grasp is the realm of symbol as symbol, and man as homo liturgicus whose path between creation and eternity is strewn with signs that clue him in or lead him astray. We cannot not be immersed in a world of signs; our only choice is which signs to surround ourselves with and what to make of them. Indeed, the result of iconoclasm and minimalism is the anti-trinitarian sign of emptiness, coldness, and barrenness, as we have seen and heard in all too many modern churches and liturgies.

It was fashionable for people in the sixties and seventies to talk about how Catholics had “grown up” (or how they needed to grow up… with a finger wagged at the stubborn folks who clung to the old ways), and thus had outgrown the need for medieval accretions and Baroque courtly excrescences. But such talk betrays an utterly superficial way of thinking, a fusion of the imbecilities of Cannegieter and Hegel. In reality, man matures by growing out to the things he loves and the signs he communicates with, and growing in to his own soul, which is experienced as more real and more important than the ephemeral and transient world.

This is the Christian addressed by (and, in a certain sense, created by) the traditional liturgy. This liturgy, too, has matured over great ages, expanding outward to encompass all the symbols it could reach, and moving inward by developing fully its own inner potentialities, becoming ever more itself.[5] This liturgy beckons and forms man in its image. Its sign-saturation becomes, over time, our sign-language. We think and feel in the images, words, and gestures it offers to us and inculcates in us.

Let us remember, with St. Thomas, the profound symbolism of incense, which should be in front of our eyes, filling our nostrils, clouding our imagination, and concentrating our minds. Its burning up, releasing billows of smoke and fragrance, is the offering of our hearts to God in sweet sacrifice that lifts us up to His throne in adoration. It is the outward sign of our inward devotion, and while it does not effect what it signifies, it affects what it permeates.

NOTES

[1] In IV Sent., d. 1, q. 2, art. 5, qa. 1, obj. 3: “Praeterea, figuralia quae significant id quod semper faciendum est, non debet cessare, sicut de thurificatione, quae significat devotionem, patet.”

[2] “Thus in Italia non erat antiquitus adhibitum in Sacris Deorum Gentilium. Quisque ad Deos ferebat quod obvium erat, mel, vinum, lac, plerique vero fruges, aut frugum primitias; deinde dabant quae ex frugibus his fiebant, farra et liba. Verum posteaquam Thus ex Arabia in Graeciam, atque in Italiam advectum est, quanquam magnis impensis Romam asportabatur, facile tamen tantillum inde comparabant cujusque fortunae homines etiam tenuissimi, quod Deo libarent. Pauperes tribus digitis tria grana thuris offerebant. Sed thuris usus in cultu veri Dei antiquissimus est. Unde reprobandus est Henricus Cannegieter asserens propositiones sequentes: 1. Christiani abhorruerunt a thuris usu in sacris; 2. Thymiamata ex thure in vetere Ecclesia nulla fuerunt.”

[3] Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A. V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), §217, p. 131.

[4] “Sanctitas enim importat puritatem consecratam deo” (Super ad Heb. 7, lec. 4). At Summa theologiae II-II, q. 81, a. 8, Thomas notes that the word sanctus may be derived from sanguine tinctus, sprinkled in blood. This purifying consecration and consecrated purity comes not from ourselves, but from Christ alone (cf. Heb. 9:14–15; Heb. 10:19; Jn. 1:12–13; 1 Th. 4:3).

[5] Nota bene, ever more itself—which is precisely why one must question the bizarre Byzantinisms grafted on to the Roman rite in the liturgical reform.

God as Fire

As a layman in the pews, I often find myself wondering why the clergy do not preach more often on the symbolic meaning of the rites, gestures, and objects of the liturgy, not to mention the texts (especially the Propers of the Mass — in those fortunate places that utilize the Propers). Since the liturgy is the most obvious common object of perception and meditation for everyone present, it seems both useful and decorous to preach in such a way that the faithful may be led into a deeper understanding of what they are seeing and doing. Admittedly, this could get heavy-handed and risk didactic overload, but at least some of the content of a given liturgy could be brought in — I’m referring here not to the readings, which are what get the lion’s share of attention, but the other elements of the liturgy that take place around the readings, as it were. A sign that this is fair game can be seen in the remarkable amount of patristic and medieval preaching that concerns itself with unpacking the meaning of the liturgy for the faithful.

A good opportunity is rapidly approaching: I refer to the great Easter Vigil with its kindling of the new fire and the lighting of the Paschal candle. We have probably all heard some reference in homilies to fire and light, but it seems to get stuck in generalities, which have the effectiveness of clichés. Why not follow in the footsteps of St. Thomas Aquinas and ponder the deep symbolism behind fire — particularly, the reasons why God Himself is compared with fire? In his Scripture commentaries, the Angelic Doctor frequently comments on why God and His action are compared with fire.

• At Super Isaiam 33, three reasons are given: fire purges, sets other things aflame, and condemns.
• At Super Hebraeos 12, lec. 5, where fire is said to have, among sensible things, more nobility, more brightness, more activity, more altitude, and more purifying and consuming power.
• At Super Isaiam 30, five reasons are given for symbolizing charity as fire: it illuminates, boils up or heats [exestuat], turns things towards itself, makes one ready to act, and draws upwards.
• Super Ieremiam 5 gives five reasons why the word of the Lord is said to be a fire: it illuminates, sets aflame, penetrates, melts, and consumes the disobedient. 

Such descriptions of fire frequently parallel Thomas’s discussions of the effects of love. For example, in both Scriptum super Sent. III.27.1.1 ad 4 and Summa theologiae I-II.28.5, Thomas speaks of the way in which intense love causes fervor or burning, how it melts or “liquifies” the heart, and how it makes the lover penetrate into the inmost recesses of the beloved. This, indeed, is why extasis or ecstasy (for Aquinas, one of the many effects of love) is so aptly compared with fire, which seems to be ever rising up above itself and disappearing into the air, always tending outwards and upwards. Thomas charmingly notes that it is the custom of lovers to be unable to keep their love silent, but it bursts forth from them because its flames cannot be contained under their breast.[1] And elsewhere: “Burning comes from an abundance of heat; hence the Spirit is called burning, because, owing to an abundance of divine love, the whole man burns up into God.”[2]

The most ample comment on the symbolism of fire for God comes from Thomas's Commentary on Isaiah, chapter 10:

       Take note on those words, and He will be a light to Israel in fire, that our God is called ‘fire’ [for four reasons]. First of all, because it is subtle; and regarding this He is called subtle, [first] as regards substance, for He is called ‘spirit.’ Jn. 4: “God is spirit.” Secondly, as regards knowledge, because He is capable of penetrating. Heb. 4: “The word of the Lord is alive and active, more penetrating than any sword.” Thirdly, as regards appearance, because He is invisible. Job 28: “Whence therefore [is your] wisdom?”, and the same below: “It is hidden from the eyes of all the living.” Or Job 36: “All men [see him, every one beholds from far off],” etc.
       The second reason is that it is bright. Now, that He is bright is evident first from the fact that He makes something manifest to the intellect. Ps. 35: “In your light we shall see light.” Secondly, because He delights the affection. Tob. 5: “what kind of joy is there for me, for I sit in darkness and I do not see the light of heaven?” Thirdly, because He directs one’s acts. Below, c. 60: “The nations shall walk in your light, and the kings in the splendor of your rising.”
       The third reason is that it is hot; and this, first, because He vivifies. Job 39: “you perhaps will warm them in the dust?” Lam. 1: “From above He has sent fire into my bones and has chastised me.” Secondly, because He cleanses. Eccl. 38: “the vapor of the fire wastes his flesh, and He fights with the heat of the furnace.” Thirdly, because He devastates. Dt. 32: “A fire is kindled in my wrath, and shall burn even to the lowest hell.”
       The fourth reason is that it is light; and this, first, on account of motion [towards the end], because “the Lord made everything for the sake of Himself” (Prov. 16). Secondly, on account of His place, because “He dwells in the heights” (Ps. 112). Thirdly, because of His mode of unmixedness. Wis. 7: “[for wisdom is more active than all active things] and reaches everywhere by reason of her purity, for she is a vapor of the power of God [and a certain pure emanation of the glory of the almighty God, and therefore no defiled thing comes into her].”[3]

On this (unofficial) octave day of the feast of St. Thomas, it is good to be reminded again, through such exquisite texts that demonstrate an Augustinian mastery of exegesis and lay out for us a feast of mutually illuminating cross-references, that the Angelic Doctor was, and saw himself as, primarily a commentator on Scripture, a Magister Sacrae Paginae, a teacher of the sacred page. The rest of his eminent intellectual activities flowed from the systematized lectio divina of the schools. This may also suggest a kind of reconciliation between preaching on the lectionary and preaching on the liturgical rites and symbols. In the end, those rites and symbols are themselves rooted in Scripture, and Scripture, in turn, is powerfully illustrated and enacted by them. Expounding the meaning of the liturgy is therefore not opposed to reflecting on the readings but is the essential context for it.

Moses and the Burning Bush (from Notre Dame in Paris)

NOTES
[1] Super Rom. 8, lec. 7 (Marietti, 127): “Hic enim amantium mos est, ut amorem suum silentio tegere nequeant: sed necessariis suis et charis asserunt et produnt, et flammas suas infra pectus cohibere non possunt. Enarrant ea frequentius, ut ipsa assiduitate narrandi amoris sui solatium capiant, et refrigeria immensi ardoris assumant.”
[2] Super Rom. 12, lec. 2, §988: “Procedit autem fervor ex abundantia caloris, unde fervor spiritus dicitur, quia propter abundantiam divinae dilectionis totus homo fervet in Deum” (Marietti 1:183). At ST I.108.5, Thomas gives as the first reason why the seraphim are named from fire: “Primo quidem, motum, qui est sursum, et qui est continuus. Per quod significatur quod indeclinabiliter moventur in Deum.”
[3] Super Isaiam 10 (28:76.330–63): “Nota super illo uerbo Et erit lumen Israel in ignem, quod Deus noster dicitur ignis primo quia subtilis; et quantum ad hoc dicitur subtilis quantum ad substantiam, quia dicitur spiritus, Io. IV «spiritus est Deus»; secundo quantum ad scientiam, quia penetrabilis, Heb. IV «Viuus est sermo Dei et efficax et penetrabilior omni gladio ancipiti»; tertio quantum ad apparentiam, quia inuisibilis, Iob XXVIII «Vnde ergo sapientia?», et infra eodem «Abscondita est ab oculis omnium uiuentium», uel Iob XXXVIII: «Omnes homines».
Secundo quia lucidus: quod autem sit lucidus, patet primo quia manifestat quantum ad intellectum, Ps. «In lumine tuo uidebimus lumen»; secundo quia delectat quantum ad affectum, Tob. V «quale gaudium est michi, qui in tenebris sedeo et lumen celi non uideo?»; tertio quia dirigit quantum ad actum, infra LX «Ambulabunt gentes in lumine tuo et reges in splendore ortus tui».
Tertio quia calidus: et hoc primo quia uiuificat, Iob XXXIX: «Tu forsitan in puluere calefacies ea?», Tren. I «De excelsis misit ignem in ossibus meis et erudiuit me»; secundo quia purgat, Eccli. XXXVIII «Vapor ignis urit carnes ejus et in calore fornacis concertatur»; tertio quia deuastat, Deut. XXXII «Ignis succensus est in furore meo et ardebit usque ad inferni nouissima».
Quarto quia leuis; et hoc primo propter motum, quia «uniuersa propter semet ipsum operatus est Dominus», Prou. XVI; secundo propter situm, quia «in altis habitat», Ps.; tertio propter incommixtionis modum, Sap. VIII «Attingit autem ubique propter munditiam suam, uapor est enim uirtutis Dei».”

Classics of the Liturgical Movement: Romano Guardini (2)

Two weeks ago we saw how masterfully Guardini spoke of the objectivity, preeminence, and emotional restraint of the sacred liturgy as the Church’s public prayer, and how tradition has bestowed on it a peculiarly balanced, well-rounded expression of the fullness of truth and integrity of doctrine, as well as how liturgy eagerly draws upon culture to enrich and elevate this expression.

This week, we take up at a gem of a work by the same author, Sacred Signs, first published in 1911. It would be difficult to exaggerate the beauty, power, and usefulness of this little book, which I have successfully used as a homeschooling assignment as well as a reading in college theology (it could serve many other purposes, too, such as a parish study circle). For many, this book has been a defining moment in coming to grasp the symbolic language of the liturgy, a language founded in a kind of heightened sensitivity to cosmology and psychology that moderns often lack. The table of contents reads like a grammar of ascent: “The Sign of the Cross, The Hands, Kneeling, Standing, Walking, Striking the Breast, Steps, Doors,  Candles, Holy Water, Fire, Ashes, Incense, Light and Heat, Bread and Wine, Linen, The Altar, The Chalice, The Paten, Blessing, Space Sanctified, Bells, Time Sanctified—Morning, Evening, Midday, The Name of God.”

In this book, Guardini helps us to see the Mass as the crown jewel of the liturgical “work” of Christ, who works through His Mystical Body to continue our divinization through sign, symbol, and sacrament. It is the Church's supreme and ancient love affair with Christ, where He has met to court her sweetly mid-way between heaven and earth, using the tools of every lover—song, word, gesture, symbol. In this splendorous spectacle of their love, we too are invited to join. We yearn to be an active partner in this drama of “fairest love.” To do that, we must make our own the Church's liturgical love-language, taught Her by Christ, so that with all the angels and Saints we can adore God with that “fairest love” we all desire. Through liturgy, Holy Church teaches us to love God as he deserves. Let us learn from Her!

Sacred Signs has been out of print for a very long time, and used copies are scarce. Since the text itself is in the public domain, I decided to produce a new edition of it, available here for $7.00. I'm pleased with the way it turned out.

Now for some tastes, to show why this has been a favorite book of so many readers over the past century!

* * *

Kneeling

          When a man feels proud of himself, he stands erect, draws himself to his full height, throws back his head and shoulders and says with every part of his body, I am bigger and more important than you. But when he is humble he feels his littleness, and lowers his head and shrinks into himself. He abases himself. And the greater the presence in which he stands the more deeply he abases himself; the smaller he becomes in his own eyes.
          But when does our littleness so come home to us as when we stand in God’s presence? He is the great God, who is today and yesterday, whose years are hundreds and thousands, who fills the place where we are, the city, the wide world, the measureless space of the starry sky, in whose eyes the universe is less than a particle of dust, all-holy, all-pure, all-righteous, infinitely high. He is so great, I so small, so small that beside him I seem hardly to exist, so wanting am I in worth and substance. One has no need to be told that God’s presence is not the place in which to stand on one’s dignity. To appear less presumptuous, to be as little and low as we feel, we sink to our knees and thus sacrifice half our height; and to satisfy our hearts still further we bow down our heads, and our diminished stature speaks to God and says, Thou art the great God; I am nothing.
          Therefore let not the bending of our knees be a hurried gesture, an empty form. Put meaning into it. To kneel, in the soul’s intention, is to bow down before God in deepest reverence.
          On entering a church, or in passing before the altar, kneel down all the way without haste or hurry, putting your heart into what you do, and let your whole attitude say, Thou art the great God. It is an act of humility, an act of truth, and every time you kneel it will do your soul good.

Incense

          “And I saw an angel come and stand before the altar, having a golden censer; and there was given to him much incense, and the smoke of the incense of the prayers of the saints ascended up before God from the hand of the angel.” So writes Saint John in the mysterious book of the Apocalypse.
          The offering of an incense is a generous and beautiful rite. The bright grains of incense are laid upon the red-hot charcoal, the censer is swung, and the fragrant smoke rises in clouds. In the rhythm and the sweetness there is a musical quality; and like music also is the entire lack of practical utility: it is a prodigal waste of precious material. It is a pouring out of unwithholding love.
          “When the Lord was at supper Mary brought the spikenard of great price and poured it over his feet and wiped them with her hair, and the house was filled with the odor of the ointment.” Narrower spirits objected. “Whereto this waste?” But the Son of God has spoken, “Let her alone. She hath done it against my burial.” Mary’s anointing was a mystery of death and love and the sweet savor of sacrifice.
          The offering of incense is like Mary’s anointing at Bethany. It is as free and objectless as beauty. It burns and is consumed like love that lasts through death. And the arid soul still takes his stand and asks the same question: What is the good of it?
          It is the offering of a sweet savor which Scripture itself tells us is the prayers of the Saints. Incense is the symbol of prayer. Like pure prayer it has in view no object of its own; it asks nothing for itself. It rises like the Gloria Patri at the end of a psalm in adoration and thanksgiving to God for his great glory.
          It is true that symbolism of this sort may lead to mere aestheticism. There are imaginations in which the fragrant clouds of incense induce a spurious religiosity; and, in such instances, when it does so, the Christian conscience does right to protest that prayer should be made in spirit and in truth. But though prayer is a plain, straight-forward business, it is not the so-much-for-so-muchness which the niggardly imagination and fleshless heart of the religious Philistine would make of it. The same spirit persists that produced the objection of Judas of Kerioth. Prayer is not to be measured by its bargaining power; it is not a matter of bourgeois common sense.
          Minds of this order know nothing of that magnanimous prayer that seeks only to give. Prayer is a profound act of worship, that asks neither why nor wherefore. It rises like beauty, like sweetness, like love. The more there is in it of love, the more of sacrifice. And when the fire has wholly consumed the sacrifice, a sweet savor ascends.

SOURCE

Sacred Signs. First published 1911. Trans. Grace Branham (St. Louis: Pio Decimo Press, 1956). Now available again in print, here.