The Chop-Chop Reform and the Mass of the Ages

An altar missal ca. mid-1960s, hand-edited to reflect mandated changes

About two years ago, I was paging through my Liber, and as I looked again at the Order of Mass at the front, I thought: “Wouldn’t it be interesting... eye-opening... to make a photocopy of this Ordo Missae, and then strike out, in different colors, the things that were removed or changed or made optional by the Novus Ordo.” So I made the copy, and got out the highlighters... and then promptly lost the pages in a big pile of paper (that’s the way it goes in my office).

Fast-forward to Mass of the Ages Episode 2 (which was yanked off of YouTube by YouTube’s overlords at close to 1.8 million views because of an unjust copyright-strike from Sony, but which may now be viewed via the Mass of the Ages website here). The moment I saw, a few months before its release, a prototype of the now-famous animation sequence, I realized: “They have done it: they have succeeded in showing how much was changed, and how radically.” Most of you know by now the one-minute segment of the episode that I’m talking about. Here it is as a video clip posted at my YouTube page (with permission of MotA):

 

I’m convinced that, as the number of total views now surpasses 2 million (with the number of individuals affected being actually higher than that, since the movie-watching often takes place with families or groups of friends), this episode and its unforgettable lessons will transform mentalities and pull down idols from their high places. Even tendentious critiques of MotA 2 will not be able to stop the momentum and the effects.

(It goes without saying that this animation sequence shows only the heart of the iceberg, focusing on the fixed Order of Mass; it does not show the equally great or greater deformations that were visited upon the changing parts of the Mass, that is, the orations, antiphons, and readings. When one realizes that the entire reform — that is, of the missal in all its parts, of every other sacramental rite, of the pontifical rites, of all sacramentals, and of the breviary — shared the same character and that such animation sequences could be produced for all of them, one is perhaps for the first time in a position not only to know cognitively but to feel viscerally the magnitude of the revolution.)

A friend was telling me that his parents for a long time wondered “what’s the big deal, why are so many young people going back to the Latin Mass.” He then asked them to watch episode 2 with him. They were deeply moved by it, not to say disturbed and troubled, and felt a new openness to the old liturgy. For some, watching it confirmed what they already suspected or dimly understood; for others, it opened up a whole new way of seeing the past sixty years. For everyone it has underlined the abject failure of the 1960s reform to obey explicit provisions of the Council and, most of all, to respect tradition as the Council Fathers pledged to do and as the pope is bound by office to do.

There is nothing, nothing, the Vatican can do that will overcome the effect of the truth finally getting out in the central information/entertainment medium of our time, namely, online video. (As a writer, I’m not terribly happy that this is our society’s main medium, but in this case we can see the copious benefits Divine Providence has arranged to draw from it.)

Sure, the opponents of the Western liturgical heritage can thunder and fulminate, call names and wag fingers, ghettoize and demonize, cancel and suppress—they can try all of that, as their forebears did decades ago after the Council, and often with the same tactics. Yet they will ultimately fail, because those of us who hold on to the traditional Roman liturgy (and with it, the traditional Catholic Faith in toto) do so as a matter of principle, not as a pragmatic “take it or leave it” affair, and there are more of us all the time — far, far more than there were in the dark days of the 1970s. Moreover, our human enemies are much less diplomatic and guarded about their intentions; they have made no attempt to hide their modernist agenda. They have made it easy for us to see through their specious reasons and disdain their illicit acts.

Just recently when organizing my office papers, I happened to stumble across the aforementioned pages photocopied from my Liber and decided to post them here. What you are seeing is the fixed or unchanging parts of Mass, not the Propers (which were also, for all intents and purposes, abolished in the reform). Black means the text was removed altogether. Blue means this text was rewritten. Orange means this text is optional but typically unused.

One benefit of seeing the Ordo Missae laid out like this over seven dense pages is that it shows just how simple and brief the traditional Roman Rite of Mass actually is, compared (say) with the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, which would cover at least twice, maybe three times the number of pages. Our authoritative and venerable Roman Rite is already concise and sparse compared with all other Eucharistic rites of tradition.

It is therefore impossible to believe — rationally and with good will — that it needed to be further simplified, abbreviated, or cleared of redundancies and accretions; and the experience of priests and laity today who become familiar with it by a humble and trustful disposition can bear out the ascetical-mystical value of every one of its existing elements, from the prayers at the foot of the altar all the way to the genuflection in the last Gospel. The brutal amputations of the Novus Ordo are born of rationalistic prejudice, impatience with cultic prayer, and a grossly utilitarian activism that thinks it has something better to do than the opus Dei and would, if it could get away with it, simply replace the Mass with a communion service — preferably one in which a female is distributing the host, wearing a rainbow-colored stole.

Can Comprehension Be a Disservice?

At Pentecost each year the Church reads the story of the Apostles being given the gift to speak so as to be heard in the languages of all the nations. One might view this as a kind of "exaltation of the vernacular": each group must hear the Gospel, the Good News of the death and resurrection of Christ, proclaimed in its own tongue. Obviously, the language of preaching needs to be accessible to the particular audience. But we should ask a further question. Is there a language of worship that reaches the human heart—a "universal vernacular of the sacred," if one might put it that way? Is there a unifying language that the Holy Spirit empowers the Church to speak to all the nations, ancient and modern?

Recent years have seen an increasing number of articles and stories that draw attention to the role of the traditional Latin Mass in the conversion or reversion of young people to the Catholic Faith, and, in particular, to the way that the “thickness” of the old liturgy (to adapt an expression of C. S. Lewis) better expresses the mysteries of that Faith—how its complex layers of prayer, symbolism, ceremony, and chant, even in their apparent foreignness, have the power to speak more directly to the soul. It is the paradox of a practice so dense that it becomes transparent, a reality so ineffable that it impresses itself unforgettably on the mind, a mystery so transcendent that it communicates a piercing message in this place and time. There can be a darkness that furnishes more light than our human light, a self-emptying ritual that enriches the soul with a more lasting and substantive content than our creativity and spontaneity could ever do.

Of many examples one could choose from, here is a first-person account I saw at NLM back in September 2013, written under the pen name Zita Mirzakhani:

Before flying back to the states from London, I was obliged to visit Oxford where my favorite authors who helped lead me to my conversion lived and taught. It was here where I first experienced the Mass in Latin. It was a solemn high Mass, and it was perhaps the most beautiful experience I have ever had. Though now I know the liturgy, understand what is happening upon the altar, and am familiar with the replies in Latin, in my ignorance on that happy day in Oxford I was able to experience that Mass as a blind child, imagining the angels singing from on high, as I was too embarrassed in this foreign place to turn my head back to get a glimpse of the choir loft. … There is an unsurpassed solemnity that the “old” rite carries. I am living proof that you do not need to be an expert in Latin to understand that something holy is happening; quite the contrary, it appears that wider use of this form of the Mass may be necessary today to regain the belief in the holy Eucharist and our Catholic identity.

Along these lines, I am pleased to share a letter I received from a reader some months ago.

Dr. Kwasniewski,
          I am a nineteen-year-old layman living in the Diocese of *******.  I am quite interested in things liturgical and theological, and so from time to time I stumble onto the New Liturgical Movement and Views from the Choir Loft.
          I just read your article “Nothing That Requires Explanation?” and found that it resonated with me. I have found that reading Sacrosanctum Concilium, as well as the rest of the Conciliar documents, really is at least as much an exercise in literary comprehension as in spirituality and theology. Often, the documents read more like spiritual treatises or semi-technical sermons than juridical documents outlining actions or reforms to be undertaken. We all know the Conciliar documents were intended to be just what they turned out to be in that sense, more meandering and lightly prodding than commanding and defining. But that cannot possibly be anything but a weakness in their ability to bring about what they do ask for. In my opinion, your article validates my observations. Half the time I think to myself when reading the documents, “What, exactly, does that even mean? What are they asking for? Do they not see the implications and the ways this can be exploited by the unscrupulous?”
          Now, I am not writing you to complain or find a sympathetic ear. Rather, one of my observations about the liturgical reality has been that, perhaps ironically, the Extraordinary Form of the Roman Rite is, in a certain way, more clear and understandable than the Ordinary Form. I first began to consider this because the sacred realities being lived out at Mass are, by their very nature, incomprehensible. The only way to even begin to bring a semblance of understanding of these realities to Catholic people is through symbols in the liturgy. So when one begins to remove signs and symbols and figurative language, the ability of the liturgy to speak for itself is reduced. It is strangely disconcerting to read side-by-side comparisons of the texts of the Extraordinary and Ordinary Forms, as there is a significantly reduced amount of figurative language in the latter as compared with its predecessor—so much so that this could practically be a conspiracy theorist’s dream! One need only think of the Offertory prayers.
          In your article you say, “To go further still, the traditional Roman liturgy is, in a way, far more transparent, far more immediately understandable, because it is more attentive to the majesty and solemnity of the sacrifice and does not attempt to simplify (and thereby cheapen) the contents of worship.” I agree completely. In a sense, the Extraordinary Form is clearer because it is less clear, and the Ordinary Form is less clear because it is more transparent.

*          *          *

In the traditional Mass there is a sublime integration of music, text, and silence, a coherent unity of elements, the simultaneity and hierarchical execution of which are a vivid reflection of the diverse and simultaneous layers of cosmic reality and of intelligible meaning—and which, on a purely practical level, respect and foster diverse ways of participation on the part of different members of the congregation.

Rationalism seeks the linguistification of reality, seeks to capture transcendent mystery in handy formulas, speaks on and on as though one could create an image of eternity if one only talks long enough. Catherine Pickstock is good at critiquing this aspect of the reform. The old liturgy knows better: the priest praying at the altar, primarily addressing himself to God on behalf of all; the schola chanting antiphons and psalms; the incense rising and bells ringing; the people following their missals or praying rosaries, singing the Creed or just watching, letting their souls be taught by images, sounds, motions—everyone is glued together by the complex simplicity and simple complexity of the divine mysteries, which are always somehow far beyond us and yet right there before us and inside us, at once transcendent and immanent.

Many Catholics today, however, are harassed with a simple simplicity (the banality of all-too-human utterance) combined with a complex complexity (since language as such, especially when it attempts to be “self-explanatory,” is often a distraction, a barrier, to the apprehension of inward meaning). Thus modern liturgical praxis re-instates unintelligibility precisely by insisting overmuch on intelligibility; contrary to the stated intentions of the reformers (“simplify, simplify”), the complexity is never actually reduced to an aesthetic-spiritual simplicity. Cardinal Ratzinger put his finger on this very problem:

More and more clearly we can discern the frightening impoverishment which takes place when people show beauty the door and devote themselves exclusively to “utility.” Experience has shown that the retreat to “intelligibility for all,” taken as the sole criterion, does not really make liturgies more intelligible and more open but only poorer. “Simple” liturgy does not mean poor or cheap liturgy: there is the simplicity of the banal and the simplicity that comes from spiritual, cultural, and historical wealth. (The Ratzinger Report, 128)

Or, as Fr. Mark Kirby, Prior at Silverstream, more recently observed:

There is a cold, reasonable, and altogether too “grown-up” form of religion that fails to address the needs of the heart. Chilly and cerebral, it is foreign to the spirit of the Gospel because it is so far removed from things that children need and understand. In many places, the past fifty years saw the imposition of a new iconoclasm, an elitist religion without warmth, a religion for the brain with precious little for the heart, a religion stripped of images and devoid of the sacred signs that penetrate deeply those places in the human person where mere discourse cannot go.

The classical liturgy is already simple in a profound way that comprises complexity of word, image, gesture, song, silence; it is simple in the way that a living animal is simple, in spite of an inconceivable multitude of parts, because it is a single whole, a unified center of action and suffering, a substance that sustains all predication. The modern liturgy is simple in the manner of reductionism, not in the manner of holism.

To set up a goal of complete transparency would mean the total evaporation of liturgical substance. Just as natural substance (not to mention the Blessed Sacrament!) is hidden behind accidents—rerum essentia sunt nobis ignotae—so the essence of the Holy Sacrifice is beyond the pale of human appearances, and yet glimpsed through them when they are not standing in the way.

Noble Simplicity: Guildford Cathedral

Br. Lawrence was kind enough to point me in the direction of a very good set of photographs of one of Britain's more overlooked modern Anglican cathedrals, Guildford, built from 1936 to 1961, with an interruption for World War II. Sir Edward Maufe designed it, and also one of my own favorite English deco-Gothic parish churches, St. Thomas, Hanwell. Overshadowed by more explicitly modernistic Coventry and elaborate Liverpool, it is nonetheless a really beautiful example of a modernized Gothic that nonetheless retains a sense of strength and decorum. While lacking the expressiveness of Comper's later work, it is still eminently serviceable and a good model for austerity done well. The delightful furnishings, like the font cover, do much to enliven it also. About the only things I can say against it are to remark on the rather bland dossal (a colorful one, or, even better, or gilt ciborium magnum in the Comper manner would really be amazing in that space) and the somewhat unfortunate boxy clerestory windows in the nave. The massing is simple but well-executed and if one looks there are quite a few clever integrations of sculptural elements here and there which help soften the austerity of the overall design. Have a look here.

Modernism and the Other Modern: A Cautionary Tale

Noble simplicity



Industrial austerity

A point Shawn and I have brought up a number of times before in our discussions of the Other Modern and its relationship to both traditional architecture and mainstream twentieth-century architectural Modernism is that there is a distinct difference between the Other Modern and the more deliberately iconoclastic work of most twentieth-century architects. (Please bear in mind there is no deliberate or conscious link between theological Modernism and architectural Modernism, though philosophically one could draw a number of analogies; below, I use the term "modernist" to refer to the architectural style and it should not be taken in a theological sense.) There is an excellent article on the blog Sancrucensis which, through a case study of Heilig-Kreuz parish church by the modernistic architect Dominikus Böhm in Dülmen, highlights this subtle but very important difference.

The continental Liturgical Movement is a good place to begin such a discussion. Looking through back issues of Liturgical Arts Quarterly it is fairly easy to see that even in the early stages of the movement a fairly significant gulf had opened up between the architectural tastes of the European clergy and their opposite numbers in America. At the time when the best of the Liturgical Movement in the U.S. was exemplified by structures such as St. Vincent Ferrer, a highly ornamented modern Gothic structure with a very traditional aesthetic, most European churches had embraced significant aspects of the industrial aesthetic of mainstream modernistic design. Böhm's work at Heilig-Kreuz is less overtly iconoclastic than some examples of industrial modernism, and has some connections with the historic past, but there is still clearly a very evident philosophical rupture with traditional architecture in his use of proportion and detail--his exaggerated proportions and his lack of detail. Even the most austere Cistercian church uses moldings to allow the eye to transition between the geometric elements of the interior; and the boxy, low-slung modernistic proportions have a novelty to them that create a sort of chilly discomfort in the viewer. The architect seems to be trying too hard, and the result is the interior and exterior lacks the sort of visual comfort that comes from a careful understanding of time-tested proportion, and which is indispensible to make a very austere structure work. The shade of white on the walls is also rather glacial, as well, showing how much even small differences in color can make to create a certain mood or feeling. Sancrucensis writes [my comments in brackets]:

At first it seems that Böhm uses austere simplicity for reasons very close to S. Bernard [i.e., a desire for monastic perfection and purity]. He wanted a complete lack of distraction, a complete concentration on the mystery of salvation that is made present on the altar. But Böhm does not see this austerity as tied to a particularly state in life [monasticism]—he wants it for all Christians. There is a kind of one-size-fits-all attitude to the 20th century Liturgical Movement, that is probably tied to modern egalitarianism, and perhaps also to attitude toward human life fostered by industrialism. And it is its roots in the industrial that is perhaps the chief aesthetic difference between Böhm’s architecture and Cistercian Romanesque. The huge expanses of featureless steel, glass, and concrete which Böhm uses have the kind of machine-like quality [...]. But this machine-aesthetic is very different from the Cistercian aesthetic. The Cistercian Romanesque is ordered to withdrawing from the beauties of the visible world to seek God alone, but it does not deny those beauties. Even in its plainness, Cistercian architecture has a human quality; the proportions, the workmanship, the few ornamental details—they all speak of a basically friendly world, one which it is a real sacrifice to give up. The machine aesthetic has a kind of Manichean contempt for the material world; its featureless expanses of industrial perfection speak of a world which is basically alien to man. Far from showing the visible as a world of sensible delight, from which one withdraws into the desert to be alone with God, it tries to de-mask the world as a basically ugly, strange place, in which there is no danger of our feeling at home anyway. Böhm does achieve a certain grandeur, but it is a grandeur (to quote Gill again) ‘ultimately incompatible with the nature of man’. For the “Other Modern” Böhm’s industrial austerity can serve as an example of what to avoid.

(You should really read the whole thing). There are a few pleasant features to the design, such as the tabernacle and the sanctuary light, which, while perhaps smacking of a touch of cloying pseudo-primitivism, are nonetheless rather appealing. Still, Heilig-Kreuz shows the dangers of lumping all sorts of simplicity together: God is, as one says, in the details.

(Photo credits at Sancrucensis).

Noble Simplicity as Expressed Through Cistercianesque Sobriety: One Variant (Updated)

Recently Matthew Alderman and I have been speaking about the concepts of noble simplicity and noble beauty. As we have noted by way of preliminary caveat, in considering these principles we cannot make the assumption that these necessarily produce a plain result, nor that they exclude colour and ornament -- let alone (heaven forbid) advocate a sterile form of minimalism or liturgical and ecclesiastical impoverishment. (Rather than discussing the point anew at this particular moment, I would simply point interested readers to an earlier article, Contextualizing Noble Simplicity, for more on this discussion. I would also point readers again to Fr. U.M. Lang's recent Zenit article, The Noble Simplicity of Liturgical Vestments.)

Now all this said, there is a place within our tradition for what we might call a more sober approach -- historically we might see this expressed within the Cistercian architectural tradition for example. While this is not the only approach to noble simplicity and noble beauty -- let me be clear -- it is certainly one approach, and one which some today wish to explore -- or one which they at least feel compelled to explore for one or another practical reasons.

As such, it seems worthwhile to explore how this particular approach might be manifest well and in continuity with our tradition, particularly since so many modern attempts at it have tended toward a cold, sterile, and impoverished minimalism rather than a more sober form of beauty.

In considering what might serve as a reasonably modern example of how this particular approach might be expressed, my mind immediately turned to a particular chapel which could be understood as a modern heir to that certain kind of historical Cistercian simplicity we have mentioned. It is the chapel of St. Stephen's House built for the Anglican Cowley Fathers (that is, the Society of St. John the Evangelist) which includes a ciborium magnum which was designed by Sir Ninian Comper:

(Photo by Br. Lawrence Lew)

Now in showing this particular example (which gives a good sense of the chapel in daylight), I would note that the altar shown above (which is admirable and noble in its own right, but out of proportion with the ciborium) is not the original which was wider and solid in form and thus more substantial; nor is this the altar that presently sits within this chapel, which is now closer again to the original. The original altar, as in the case of the present arrangement seen below, was also vested with antependia, which provided a striking bit of liturgical colour; it further had a carpet which led up to the altar. All of this lent and lends primacy and centrality to the altar, providing added colour and warmth to the whole arrangement, while still retaining its sobriety and simplicity.

Consider the present arrangement which is more proximate to the original and intended view of the chapel when it was constructed.


(Image by James Bradley)

When one adds to this the sacred vestments which would be worn by the clergy and the warm glow of the candlelight upon the altar, one has a more complete picture of the sober beauty of the entire arrangement. Indeed, considering the chapel as a whole, I believe one can take from it a vision of a more appropriate, dignified and truly beautiful approach to noble simplicity where it is being defined by a certain sort of Cistercian sobriety and restraint.

In commenting on why it works, one would likely come up with the same reasons as to why medieval Cistercian architecture works: classic proportions and the use of traditional decorative moldings which add a flourish of warmth and interest to the design. Matthew perhaps put it best when he noted that these elements help the eye transition between the basic geometric elements of the structure, thus preventing it from feeling like a diagram.


Detail from the ciborium. Photo by Bro. Lawrence Lew)

Of course, the use of the ciborium is also a significant factor and the success which these architectural aspects bring of their own accord is amplified by what the liturgical ornaments further bring -- which must be understood as a fundamental, and not a merely peripheral aspect.

Noble Simplicity: A Carmel in New York City

This is an image from an old edition of Liturgical Arts Quarterly, of a Carmel in New York City. I am unsure if the building still stands, though I wonder if it has some connection to the complex in the Bronx occupied by the Sisters of Life at present. There is nothing necessarily earth-shakingly important about this particular space but it shows a handsome use of space, materials and form in a comparatively humble context. "Noble Simplicity," it is important to understand, was first used in an art-historical context by Winckelmann, the great apologist for Greek architecture, and had less to do with minimalism than a unity of physical form and concept, which I think can be seen here to a certain extent. If you look at this example, actual ornment is kept to a comparative minimum save sculpture; the windows are just rectangles. Yet a sense of scale and texture is preserved through the use of bricks, brick patterns and brick edging, such as around the sanctuary arch.

Some aspects of the design are not really cost-effective in a modern context--the curved wooden ceiling is quite elaborate, but a simple plaster vault treated in the right way could actually be quite handsome, and the large stone Calvary could be replaced with a simple brocade dossal and tester if necessary. Another important aspect is the care taken to ensure liturgical authenticity in the simple altar, fully-veiled tabernacle and candlesticks--the true integration of form and function. Another thing to consider is that where there is ornamentation and sculpture, it is deployed carefully; rather than wasting money on a surfeit of catalog purchases, the sisters appear to have stewarded their resources wisely and commissioned a small number of good-quality religious art suited to the structure rather than strewing a dozen bad-quality plaster Madonnas all over the interior without much rhyme or reason.

This is an important lesson. Many parishes will be considering retrofitting their 1960s churches in the next few decades; not all will be able to afford elaborate renovations. Rather than superficially trying to Catholicze their interiors with "badges" chosen for their mental associations rather than artistic worth (Mary and Joseph shrines of an indifferent 19th century quality bought from a closed Ruritanian ethnic parish in southern North Dakota), better to invest in a few original works by a classically-trained liturgical artist or sculptor able to draw out some virtue from an otherwise problematic interior. (I amaze myself that I am usually able to think of at least one good feature to highlight even in the worst interiors. The trick is to think like Bernini and find a way to build the entire composition around the one flaw you can't change, and make it into a virtue). At the very least, you will create more beauty rather than simply moving existing resources around.

Contextualizing "Noble Simplicity"

On May 9th, 2009, in the article, Noble Simplicity and the Liturgiologist Edmund Bishop, some considerations were given both by myself and Fr. Anthony Symondson, S.J., about the question and nature of noble simplicity as it might have been conceived and approached long before the Council.

A number of worthwhile considerations came out of that discussion, including Matt Alderman's comment that "...one very important thing to remember is during the Liturgical Movement, the call for simplicity was also tied to... the classical Roman rite in general. I believe Fortescue underscores that the historic Roman rite (i.e. today's extraordinary form) ... is characterized by an elegant terseness. If one contrasts this with the ebullient character of the Greek rite (which is beautiful as well) one gets his point. The historic Roman rite, properly followed, is noble simplicity!"

It is an important point I believe, particularly as there are those who are tempted to consider (let alone employ) the principle of noble simplicity far too simplistically -- and likewise there are those who are prepared to reject it out of hand for similar reasons and assumptions. But we need to take a more broad and nuanced consideration of the matter.

As Matt referenced, Fr. Adrian Fortescue so commented on the Roman rite in a paper read at Westminster Cathedral in the presence of Cardinal Bourne in 1912 (later published by the Catholic Truth Society and Paulist Press as "The Vestments of the Roman Rite"):

Whether you like symbolic ritual or not, the Roman rite is essentially not ritualistic... If you want symbolic ritual you must go to the Eastern rites. They have plenty of it. Symbolism and deliberate ornament are suited to the expansive Eastern mind. They loved stately processions and gorgeous rites. The old Gallican rite, too, was grand and full of mystic ceremonies... The Roman rite has always been exceedingly plain, almost bald. Nothing was ever done for effect... We have no gorgeous procession at the grand entrance, as in the Byzantine rite; no such dramatic anticipations as their Cherubikon...

The character of ancient Rome -- stern, plain, sensible, rather than poetic -- shows in the Roman rite, just as Eastern effusiveness shows in the Eastern rites.

Fortescue justifies his own argument by explaining that some of the ceremonies of the Roman rite may now seem more symbolic, but merely because of their antiquity; an antiquity that is retained by way of the principle of continuity within our liturgical rites.

Whatever one might think of Fortescue's suggestion about the absence of rituality in the Roman rite, the comparative point as regards the Eastern liturgical rites most certainly stands and his reference to the antiquity of liturgical expressions raises a relevant point. While our tendency today is, arguably, to think of noble simplicity relative to the (artistically) modernist principles of minimalism and functionalism, or by the modern categories of the usus antiquior versus usus recentior (in terms of ceremonial actions, texts and so on), the core principle and expression of Roman noble simplicity surely ought to be considered in a much different, more historical context and light; namely, as has been said already, in the light of the historic Roman liturgical tradition, its comparison to other ritual traditions, and also relative to a more culturally and ecclesiastically ancient and Roman expression -- which, it should be noted, will be quite distinct from a modern expression in many regards.

Of course, this does not close the debate about how that might be specifically expressed in our own day, nor how the call of Sacrosanctum Concilium might be heeded (though the principle of continuity does weigh in here as an important factor), but it does show, I believe, that we must be careful in our modern day assumptions of what "nobili simplicitate" specifically entails and how it might be expressed, and, further, what might have been intended and envisioned when the Council Fathers spoke of it -- and most certainly with regard to those who spoke of this principle before them.

Some have proposed that our Northern European understanding of "simplicitate" is generally too tied to the idea of plainness and lack of (by modern standards let us recall) ornamental qualities and that what was rather intended is more a dignity and harmony of parts. That seems to be a case that yet remains to be formally made and explored, but it is worth mentioning in passing.

As well, if in addition to looking at this through the historical lens of the classical Roman liturgical tradition, we also look to a consideration of the origins of the actual concept of "noble simplicity" we perhaps gain further possible insights.

The art historian Johann Joachim Winckelmann who wrote on this idea as early as 1755 (in Gedanken über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Malerei und Bildhauerkunst) spoke of it in relation to "noble simplicity and calm greatness of Greek statues." In this regard, his point of reference was classical. In the 20th century, the English liturgiologist Edmund Bishop helped further popularize this concept in a directly Catholic and liturgical context, and as Fr. Symondson suggests, his view of the matter was tied to "rich but controlled beauty" and "austerity and reserve informed by canons of beauty expressed in the developed Gothic style" with reference to the likes of Sir Ninian Comper specifically.

There is nothing to say the ideas of Winckelmann or Bishop must be taken as absolutes of course, but they are perhaps relevant as considerations in the understanding of this concept, at least in its origins, and when one considers that it likewise seems to be rooted within a comparative liturgical consideration tied to the classical Roman liturgical tradition, it does raise some interesting prospects which challenge the particular assumptions of our own day, calling for a greater contextualization and creativity with regard to Council's mention of noble simplicity.

Noble Simplicity and the Liturgiologist Edmund Bishop

“

R

itus nobili simplicitate fulgeant..." Nobili simplicitate. Noble simplicity. It is a concept that, like participatio actuosa, is oft quoted, but it is also one that often comes laden with certain assumptions as to its meaning and expression; assumptions which are sometimes expressed by a kind of rigid minimalism, or other times misunderstood in a rupturous sense of a rejection of the past and past expressions, and still again often equated with a kind of sterility, as though being bereft of ceremony, colour, warmth or ornament was of necessity for its pursuit.

A part of the issue may be that the word "simplicity" is that element which is quite often focused upon and in a rather narrow sense at that. Turning our attention toward the liturgical arts, it may be helpful in rounding out our considerations of what might constitute noble simplicity to recall that Sacrosanctum Concilum also speaks of the sacred arts being characterized by a "noble beauty." Within these concepts there are a variety of potential expressions of course, but that this may be forgotten seems to be precisely a part of the problem. Using a gothic context, it strikes me that the noble simplicity and noble beauty that the Church envisions could equally be found in the forms that characterized much mediaeval Cistercian architecture, to the more colourful and luminous work of the gothic revival movement and the likes of Sir Ninian Comper for example. (And I would be remiss to not also mention that the earlier Liturgical Movement may also help to shed some light upon still further expressions of this matter.)

In evaluating the Church's intent with regard to the principles of noble beauty and noble simplicity, we must take into account the fullness of Sacrosanctum Concilium and the greater corpus of the Church's statements on sacred art. We must not allow personal presumptions and private stylistic preferences to absolutely determine what constitutes ostentatiousness or "mere sumptuous display," (SC, para. 124) recalling as well that "[the] Church has not adopted any particular style of art as her very own; she has admitted styles from every period" (para. 123); we must seek to distinguish between personal preference and universal principle. We must further take into account the principle of continuity that characterizes the Church's tradition and the Church's own continued valuation of the treasury of sacred art it has brought into being over the centuries and "which must be very carefully preserved." (para. 123)

Beyond this however, it will also be helpful to consider the historical context and origin of these liturgical principles; a kind of ressourcement in its own right. We have already referenced, for example, the oft misunderstood principle of active or actual participation, and there we have seen research which has examined the earlier origins of that liturgical principle, in an attempt to gain a greater insight in its fuller meaning -- which, I might add, might thus also provide some insight into its later use by the Council Fathers. (See: Daniel van Slyke, “‘Active Participation’ from Pius X to Benedict XVI”, Sept. 2007)

As regards the question of noble simplicity, we are thankfully seeing this topic also re-approached and re-considered. In the upcoming Fota Liturgical Conference in Cork, Ireland, for example, Dr. Alcuin Reid will present a paper on ‘Noble Simplicity’ Revisited which promises to be of great value and interest.

In addition, the NLM is pleased to present today a paper by Fr. Anthony Symondson, S.J., co-author of Sir Ninian Comper: An Introduction to His Life and Work (Spire Books, 2007) which, similar to the pursuit of Dr. Daniel van Slyke in relation to participatio actuosa, gives historical consideration to this principle of noble simplicity as understood by one who has become historically associated with it and commonly referenced with regard to it: Edmund Bishop, the Victorian era, English liturgiologist.

As regards noble simplicity, Bishop is often quoted for his essay, "The Genius of the Roman rite" where he speaks of how "[the] genius of the native Roman rite is marked by simplicity, practicality, a great sobriety and self-control, gravity and dignity..." Accordingly, it is of great interest -- and relevance -- to know what Bishop himself understood as expressions of that same principle for which he, himself, is so often referred. It is this particular matter which Fr. Symondson presents to us today.

Noble Simplicity

by Fr. Anthony Symondson, S.J.

On 8 May 1899 Edmund Bishop (1846-1917), the liturgiologist, delivered a paper to the Historical Research Society at Archbishop’s House, Westminster, on ‘The Genius of the Roman Rite’ which maintained that the two chief characteristics of the Roman Rite (when divested of Gallican accretions) were ‘soberness’ and ‘sense’. Bishop was received into the Church in 1867 at the age of twenty-one and hoped to become a monk at Downside Abbey but his intention was frustrated by bad health. He maintained a close connection with Downside where he made the friendship of Dom Aidan Gasquet, who shared his liturgical interests. Bishop’s research in the British Museum underpinned Gasquet’s own research and his best books were deeply indebted to him. But Bishop’s most notable contributions to liturgical scholarship lay in his investigations in the early history of the Roman liturgy, especially the text of the Canon Missae and the history of the Gregorian Sacramentary.

This essay had a profound influence on 20th century liturgical scholarship and gave rise to the ambiguous phrase ‘noble simplicity’ prescribed as a hallmark of authentic liturgical ceremonial and church planning; it has been much misunderstood ever since. In our time ‘noble simplicity’ has been interpreted as whatever we want it to be. And it has given rise to some adverse developments since the Second Vatican Council of which most readers of the New Liturgical Movement’s website will be well aware. Further elaboration is needless and comments are unnecessary, we know. But what does this phrase mean in the setting of Bishop’s definition of ‘soberness’ and ‘sense’ as characteristic of the Roman Rite and how did he and his successors understand the implications of his research and their ceremonial and architectural expression?

Bishop’s own taste was romantic and Puginian and his love of the Gothic style of architecture was permanent. He deplored the choice of the Byzantine style for Westminster Cathedral, designed by J. F. Bentley in 1892. In a letter to Everard Green he wrote, ‘My own summing up of the building is that it spells … the end of that romanticism which carried many of us to “Rome” and a good many to Romanism.’ Westminster marked for him the death of Puginian hope. He described himself as ‘simply “Goth” and “Roman” both, and never got over the “Romanticism” and enthusiasms of days long since departed, and the hopes that go with them.’

His hopes were unexpectedly raised when Thomas Garner, the architectural partner of G. F. Bodley, the leading English church architect of the Gothic Revival, was given the commission to build the choir of Downside Abbey, the crowning work of his life. Garner had been received into the Church in 1896. ‘Much time is spent – or wasted if you will – in the bare rising choir … I shall never have another chance again of seeing a building such as this rising and growing now rapidly to completion … a dreamlike realization of a dream – and yet there is the hard stone, all concrete and material … and in a manner better, nobler than had been first conceived – I do not get over my wonder.’ Garner had worked closely with Bishop on his design and together they discussed plans for the completion. ‘He was two hours with me.’ Bishop recalled, ‘and the half dozen plans for the future.’ But Garner died in 1906 (he is buried in the abbey church) at the point when they were discussing the high altar and none of these plans came to fruition. Bishop did not appreciate what replaced them.

So what does this tell us of ‘noble simplicity’ in the contemporary setting of the litiurgiologist who established the principles behind what became a misunderstood shibboleth? At the heart of Bishop’s aesthetic preferences lay austerity and reserve informed by canons of beauty expressed in the developed Gothic style. He greatly admired the rich but controlled beauty of Gothic vestments designed by the young Ninian Comper, Francis Davenport (himself a convert), the manager of Watts & Co in their heights, and Garner himself. The vestments they designed for Downside (which still exist) illuminate his fastidious taste. It was the refined, aspirational aesthetic of the late Gothic Revival that he admired and saw as an ideal setting for liturgical worship.

(Above Right: A Cope by Sir Ninian Comper)

But Bishop was the principal advocate of the ciborium magnum as an integral member of the Christian altar. It is significant that he published his learned paper, ‘On the History of the Christian Altar’, in the Downside Review in July 1905 at the time when he and Garner were discussing the completion of the Downside monastic choir. And it is entirely due to Bishop that the great ciborium magnum of Westminster Cathedral came into being as a modern interpretation of an Early Christian precedent achieved against Bentley’s instinctive suspicions. ‘I was hammering at that for months together,’ Bishop recalled, ‘for J. F. Bentley’s behoof. He was as obstinate as only that obstinate “he” could be. I pelted him with texts and examples of all ages.’ Westminster Cathedral embodied the taste of Adrian Fortescue who applied Bishop’s liturgical principles to his own church, St Hugh’s, Letchworth, when he commissioned a severe classical ciborium from F. L. Griggs.

(Above Right: The ciborium of St. Hugh's, Letchworth)

If you want to see what ‘noble simplicity’ meant to the minds of these great scholars then one need only look so far as Downside and Westminster Cathedral and the worship conducted within them. At Downside they still wear fine Gothic Revival vestments and the servers apparelled amices and albs; and at Westminster they maintain the severe Roman tradition applied to the modern Roman liturgy, and Latin chasubles continue to be laid out for priests who want to use them. Soberness and sense, indeed, resulting in noble simplicity.

While it would be absurd to expect the Second Vatican Council to have embraced the Gothic Revival, there is no harm in knowing Bishop’s expectations when he coined terms that led to such contradictory results.