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.

Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, Part 4: The Versicles and Dominus vobiscum

St Thomas Aquinas, by the Spanish painter Antonio del Castillo y Saavedra (1616–68); public domain image from Wikimedia Commons.

Lost in Translation #92

Before we leave the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, let us take a look at the versicles and the Dominus vobiscum.

Having finished the Confiteor, Misereatur, and Indulgentiam, the priest and servers bow slightly and say:

℣. Deus, tu conversus vivificábis nos.

℟. Et plebs tua lætábitur in te.

℣. Ostende nobis, Dómine, misericordiam tuam.

℟. Et salutáre tuum da nobis.

℣. Dómine, exaudi oratiónem meam.

℟. Et clamor meus ad te veniat.

℣. Dóminus vobiscum.

℟. Et cum spíritu tuo.

P. Orémus.

Which are usually translated as:

℣. O God, Thou wilt turn again and quicken us.

℟. And Thy people shall rejoice in Thee.

℣. Show us, O Lord, Thy mercy.

℟. And grant us Thy salvation.

℣. O Lord, hear my prayer.

℟. And let my cry come unto Thee.

℣. The Lord be with you.

℟. And with thy spirit.

P. Let us pray.

The slight bow stands in contrast to previous bodily comportments during the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar. The priest and server were erect when they recited Psalm 42 (one standing, one kneeling), and they bowed profoundly during their own confessions (the Confiteor) and when they prayed for each other (the Misereatur). They straightened up again when their sins were forgiven (the Indulgentiam), and now, in the final prayers before the priest ascends the altar, they bow slightly as if to suggest that the profound self-abnegation during confession and absolution is over, but the priest and server are still in the mode of plaintive petition, much like the bow in the Gloria during the verse “receive our prayer” (suscipe deprecationem nostram).

Psalm 84, 7-8

The first two rounds of dialogue are taken from Psalm 84, 7-8. Psalm 84 is a psalm of refugees returning home from the Babylonian Exile, and contains beautiful passages such as “Mercy and truth have met each other; justice and peace have kissed.” (vs. 11) The Psalm is also is a popular source for sacred liturgy: verse 5, “Convert us, O God our Saviour, and turn off Thy anger from us”, is used in the Office of Compline.

Knowing the entire Psalm is useful in understanding the role that verses 7 and 8 play here. Ps. 84, 4 is: “Thou hast mitigated all Thy anger: Thou hast turned away from the wrath of Thy indignation.” Having just received absolution, the priest and server are relieved that God’s wrath has been averted. But they are not done petitioning, for the priest has yet to enter the daunting Holy of Holies.

Verse 7 creates an interesting image. The Douay Rheims translates Deus, tu conversus as “O God, Thou wilt turn again,” but since conversus is a past participle, it can also be translated as “being turned toward us,” which is what God did when He forgave us our sins during the absolution. Con-version, which is literally a turning again or turning around, is usually a human activity, for we who have fallen must turn towards the Lord for help by converting. But here, it is God turning toward us, which is what He does in the Mass.

And when God turns towards us, it bestows new life, for “quicken” in this verse does not mean to speed up but to revive or bring back to life. There is also a hint of the Holy Spirit in the passage, for the verb for quickening (vivifico) is used in the Creed to describe the Holy Spirit as the Lord, the Giver of Life (Dominum vivificantem).

God breathes life into Adam: mosaic in the Palatine Chapel in Palermo, Sicily, 12th cent.

I suspect that like so many Psalm verses, the two statements “O God, Thou wilt turn again and quicken us” and “Thy people shall rejoice in Thee” are simply two ways of saying the same thing, and thus “us” and “Thy people” have the same referent. In the context of the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, however, one can think of “us” as referring to the priest and his ministers and “Thy people” as referring to the laity, for plebs (people) is the traditional way to designate the latter. [1] God will breathe new life into his clergy, and the grateful laity shall rejoice. The whole Church will be happy.

The priest and server then pray verse 8, asking God to show mercy and grant salvation. The priest (and congregation) are wonderfully greedy when it comes to grace. They have just been shown mercy through the absolution, and they are about to ask for more mercy in a few moments with the Kyrie, but they want mercy again right now. This, of course, is an example of a liturgical stammer, but it also reflects the restlessness of our fallen hearts and our constant need for divine assistance.

Psalm 101, 2

The Domine, exaudi orationem appears frequently in the Roman Ritual preceding the Dominus vobiscum (as it does here); and in the Divine Office, when the speaker is a layman or minor cleric, it is used instead of the Dominus vobiscum in front of a collect or prayer.

It is the second verse of Psalm 101, which is described in the Vulgate as the “prayer of a poor person who was in trouble”; in sixth century A.D., Cassiodorus listed it as the fifth of the seven penitential psalms. The intensity of the Latin in this verse is difficult to translate. Audi is “listen,” but adding the prefix ex strengthens the plea, as if to say, “O Lord, really, really listen to my prayer.” And while a “cry” in English can be soft, a clamor in Latin cannot; by definition, it is a loud, noisy sound. “Where charity is cold, the heart is silent,” St. Augustine explains. “Where charity is on fire, the heart is all a clamor (clamor). If charity remains forever, the heart is always clamoring (clamans).” [2] Fr. Nicholas Gihr rightly describes this petition in terms of a “holy vehemence” and a “devout impetuosity.” [3]

The Dominus vobiscum

The expression “The Lord be with you” appears several times in the Bible [4], while the reply “And with thy spirit” echoes St. Paul’s greeting to St. Timothy: “The Lord Jesus Christ be with thy spirit.” [5] Paul appears to be using a Hebraism, substituting “you” with “your spirit,” (see Job 15, 13) but whatever his intentions, the expression in the Roman liturgical tradition is an allusion to the spirit of holy orders conferred upon deacons, priests, and bishops. Laymen and minor clerics, therefore, cannot use the greeting Dominus vobiscum, for the reply it elicits is for those with major orders only. This usage is not an example of clericalism but a recognition of the burden that major orders place upon the recipient. It is as if the people of God are replying, “And may the Lord be with the spirit of holy orders that made you a deacon/priest/bishop, for that spirit may be a privilege and a grace, but it also comes at great personal cost and exposes you to great spiritual dangers.”

The Annunciation, by Leonardo da Vinci

One grammatical curiosity about the greeting is that it lacks a verb: Dominus is “Lord” and vobiscum is “with you.” Context shapes which mood of the verb “to be” should be used. During the Annunciation, St. Gabriel employs the same form of greeting to the Blessed Virgin Mary--Dominus tecum--and the Church wisely interprets the salutation as “The Lord is with thee,” for Mary is full of grace. [6] Here, however, as we begin our entrance into the numinous, it makes more sense to use the subjunctive: “May the Lord be with you.”

St. Thomas Aquinas sees an allegorical significance to the fact that during the Mass of his day, before the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar and the Last Gospel were formally added to the rite, the priest greeted the people seven times, six with the Dominus vobiscum and once with the Pax Domini. This, Aquinas speculates, betokens the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. In the 1570/1962 Missal, Dominus vobiscum is used eight times, and in the same hermeneutical spirit, we can imagine the number betokening the Resurrection, for Christ rose on the eighth day. Such an interpretation fits in nicely with Aquinas’ observance that the priest turns around to the people five times during this Mass, and this denotes “that our Lord manifested Himself five times on the day of His Resurrection.” [7]

Notes

[1] See the prayer Unde et memores in the Canon.

[2] Expos. in Psalm 37, no. 14.

[3] The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass: Dogmatically, Liturgically and Ascetically Explained, 6th ed (Herder, 1902), 366.

[4] See Ruth 2, 4; Numbers 14, 42; 2 Chron. 15, 2.

[5] 2 Timothy 4, 22.

[6] Luke 1, 28.

[7] Summa Theologiae III.83.5 ad 6.

Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, Part 3: Jansenist Scrupulosity or Liturgical Stutter?

Lost in Translations #91

One peculiarity of the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar is their apparent redundancy and what it might mean theologically. The two Confiteors--first the priest’s and then the server/congregation’s--are followed by an absolution. Then, after a short series of versicles, the priest prays two prayers (one when is he is approaching the altar and one when he arrives), both of which ask for a forgiveness of sins. The worry, then, is that because these prayers are said so soon after the absolution, they bespeak a despair that the absolution was efficacious, that the priest thinks that he still has sins on his soul even after God has forgiven him. The repeated plea for forgiveness, therefore, may indicate a kind of Jansenist scrupulosity.

To address this worry, let us first examine the prayers more closely before offering an alternative interpretation.

The Misereatur and Indulgentiam

The two prayers said by the priest after he and the server/congregation have recited their Confiteors are:

Misereátur vestri omnípotens Deus, et dimissis peccátis vestris, perdúcat vos ad vitam aeternam.

Indulgentiam, absolutiónem, et remissiónem peccatórum nostrórum, tribuat nobis omnípotens et miséricors Dóminus.

Which I translate as:

May almighty God have mercy on you, and once He has forgiven your sins, bring you to everlasting life.

May the almighty and merciful Lord grant us pardon, absolution, and remission of our sins.

In the traditional Roman liturgy, both here and in the Sacrament of Penance, the prayer Misereatur is always followed by the prayer Indulgentiam. The Misereatur acts as a sort of overture or grand vision of our hope while the Indulgentiam makes good on that hope. In the Misereatur, we want God to have mercy on us and to lead us to eternal life, but first He will need to forgive us our sins. It is the Indulgentiam that then provides that forgiveness. The dimissis peccatis vestris in the Misereatur is an ablative absolute with a perfect passive participle: it imagines a world in which the action is completely finished.

The Indulgentiam brings about the completion of that action. In the Sacrament of Penance, on the other hand, the absolutory prayer is the Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat, which includes the line ego te absólvo a peccátis tuis--“I absolve you from your sins.” This is the moment in the sacrament when the priest absolves all sin, mortal and venial, by the authority of Jesus Christ. In the Mass, the absolutory prayer is Indulgentiam, but it only has the power of a sacramental, something that can erase venial sin (but not mortal). Sacramentals differ from sacraments, as Fr. John Hardon, S.J. explains,

in not having been instituted by Christ to produce their effect in virtue of the ritual performed. Their efficacy depends not on the rite itself, as in the sacraments, but on the influence of prayerful petition; that of the person who uses them and of the Church in approving their practice. [1]

Sacramentals

In the new Mass, the Indulgentiam is omitted and instead the Misereatur is called in the rubrics the absolutio sacerdotis or “the absolution.” Because the Misereatur now has the task of absolving sins, the 2011 English translation (like its predecessors) ignores the grammatical construction of the Latin prayer and inserts a direct request for forgiveness:

May almighty God have mercy on us,

forgive us our sins,

and bring us to everlasting life. [2]

But according to some, this new absolution should not be considered an absolution at all. Fr. Dennis C. Smolarski, S.J.’s How Not to Say Mass was written to awaken readers to “the authentic celebration of the renewed Eucharist in the Roman Rite.” [3] Fr Smolarski does not like the “quasi-sacramental” character of the Tridentine formula (why “quasi”? it is a sacramental), and so he advises celebrants not to do anything at this part of the Mass that “heightens the significance of the act of penitence” such as making the sign of the cross (which was omitted in the new Mass) because the real forgiveness of minor sins occurs when we “openheartedly [hear] the Word of God and [partake] in the eucharistic [sic] banquet.” [4]

Finally, it is common to translate perducat as “bring,” as do both I and the official 2011 translation. The prefix per, however, intensifies the action, and thus it might be better to think of the prayer as asking God to “thoroughly bring” us to eternal life, to really, really get us there good.

As for the Indulgentiam. In the Misereatur, we ask God to be merciful; in the Indulgentiam we are assured that God is not only merciful but omnipotent and therefore both willing and able to grant our request. And there are two ways to think about the petition for indulgentia, absolutio, and remissio. First, since all three words can mean the same thing in ecclesiastical Latin (forgiveness), we can see the words bestowing a lyrical power to the prayer that the petitioner finds encouraging, the threefold repetition emphasizing a thorough forgiveness.

Second, we can reflect on the different connotations of each word. Indulgentia originally meant leniency and came to signify a remission of temporal punishment for sin; absolutio was originally an acquittal in court and later a dissolving or forgiving of the bonds of sin; and remissio was first a remitting of a penalty or a reduction in rent before it took on the Christian meaning of a remission of sins. [5] Putting these meanings together, we can imagine a process of sanctification in reverse. First, sins are forgiven (remissio); then, the bonds of sin, that is, our attachment to them, are removed (absolutio); and finally, any temporal punishment brought on by our sins is remitted (indulgentia).

The Aufer a nobis and Oramus te

A dialogue of sorts then takes place between the priest and the server/congregation through the voice of several Psalm verses that express hope. After greeting the server/congregation with Dominus vobiscum, the priest climbs the steps of the altar, saying:

Aufer a nobis, quáesumus, Dómine, iniquitátes nostras: ut ad Sancta sanctórum puris mereámur méntibus introíre. Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen. [6]

Which I translate as:

Take away from us our iniquities, we beseech Thee, O Lord, that we may be worthy to enter into the Holy of Holies with pure minds. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The prayer fits nicely with Psalm 42 and its antiphon, which repeatedly declare Introibo ad altare Dei - “I will go unto the altar of God.” Here, the priest announces that he is doing precisely that right now, entering into (introire) the Holy of Holies.

The prayer imagines that the altar and the space immediately in front of it are the Holy of Holies and the sanctuary is the Holy (Place). But these references to the Holy Temple in Jerusalem have a heavenly signification. The Epistle to the Hebrews refers to Jesus Christ the High Priest entering into the Holy of Holies (Heaven) after His Ascension with His own Blood, having obtained our eternal redemption. (see Heb. 9, 11-13)

When the priest reaches the altar he says:

Orámus te, Dómine, per mérita Sanctórum tuórum (kissing the altar) quorum reliquiæ hic sunt, et omnium Sanctórum: ut indulgére dignéris omnia peccáta mea. Amen.

Which I translate as:

We pray Thee, O Lord, by the merits of Thy Saints (kissing the altar) whose relics are here, and of all the Saints, that Thou wouldst deign to forgive all my sins. Amen.

The prayer asks for the intercession of the Saints whose relics are beneath the altar stone, an erstwhile requirement for every Catholic altar. (Note to priests: hic with a short I means “this”; hic with a long I means “here.” When you pray this prayer, say hic with a long I.) The custom of placing the relics of a saint (specifically, a martyr) is tied to Revelation 6, 9:

And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held.

Just as the Martyrs’ souls are in Heaven under the altar that is Christ, so too are their bodies on earth under an altar that represents Christ. The priest is again thinking of Heaven, where he has mystically arrived. The Prayers at the Foot of the Altar may be plaintive, but they too eventually sound a note of arrival.

Gebhard Fugel, Apocalypse, 1933

Significantly, these two prayers are in the first person plural voice, even though the priest is ascending the steps alone. The most obvious explanation is that the prayer is designed for a Solemn High Mass, in which the deacon and subdeacon approach the altar together with the priest, and thus the “we” refers to these three ministers. But there is another explanation. In the days of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, the High Priest entered the Holy of Holies alone and only once a year. And as we learned from the Epistle to the Hebrews, Jesus Christ, entered Heaven in an analogous manner, alone and once for all.

But there is a way in which Jesus is not alone, for the Elect are truly members of His Body. (See 1 Cor. 12, 12) Therefore, when the priest acts in persona Christi, that persona somehow includes us. And so when the priest moves physically closer to the holy altar, we move spiritually with him. And when this movement is a symbolic entry into Heaven, we, the members of Christ's mystical Body, likewise symbolically enter into Heaven at this point of the Mass.

One final peculiarity about these two prayers. In the first, the priest prays that we may have our iniquities taken away so that we may be worthy to enter into the Holy of Holies. In the second, the priest declares that we pray that all my sins may be forgiven. The switch to the first person singular is curious. I am not certain, but I suspect that this personal plea on the part of the celebrant expresses his feelings of trepidation about his kissing the sacred altar and his entering physically into the Holy of Holies.

A Liturgical Stutter

The Aufer a nobis and Oramus te also provide the key to exonerating the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar from the charge of scrupulous redundancy. Both prayers identify the “destination” towards which all the Prayers of the Foot of the Altar are ordered as Heaven. The priest, of course, does not literally enter Heaven, but the liturgy that he is celebrating is a participation in the heavenly liturgy described in Hebrews and the Book of Revelation. [7] We can therefore conclude that the priest, ministers, and congregation are in a very real sense entering into what Rudolf Otto calls the numinous, which he defines as a mysterium tremendum et fascinans--a terrifying and enchanting mystery. [8]

  

And if we are entering into something as awesome as the numinous, it is understandable that we hem and haw. Catherine Pickstock speaks of a “stammer” in traditional liturgies that instantiates “the ‘slow tongue’ of Moses, the ‘unclean lips’ of Isaiah, the demur of Jeremiah, and the mutism of Ezekiel.” [9] Rather than moving in a Cartesian, linear fashion from A to B to C (as the Novus Ordo does, Pickstock argues), the traditional rite often takes two steps forward, one step back. This stammer or dance reflects the proper attitude that one should have in the face of the numinous, namely, a mixture of hope, fear, awe, personal unworthiness, gratitude, hesitancy, and perseverance.

The repeated requests for purification during the Prayers of the Foot of the Altar do not bespeak a lack of confidence in God’s power to forgive but the proper response to the prospect of participating in so great a mystery. They are a perfect enactment of Psalm 5, 8--“I will come into (introibo) Thy house, I will worship towards Thy holy temple in Thy fear”--where “God’s fear” can be taken to mean the correct reaction to being in the presence of the numinous.

Conclusion

Finally, the Prayers of the Foot of the Altar make clear the fact that this entry into the numinous is made possible by the action of the liturgy and not by a mere physical approach to the altar. An altar should always be treated with respect, but outside the liturgy it is not approached with the same fear and trembling. Outside the liturgy, for example, a simple bow is all that is needed when walking past it (or a genuflection if the Blessed Sacrament is reserved in a tabernacle on it). Outside the liturgy, the altar can be touched by lay persons, male and female, as when they are changing the linens in their duty as sacristan. Outside the liturgy, one does not need to pray and pray again before drawing near to an altar.

But in the liturgy, reverence towards the same altar is much greater, so much so that when a priest celebrates a Low Mass, immediately before the Mass begins, he ascends the altar without fanfare, sets up the chalice, and returns to the foot of the altar. But when he reaches the foot of the altar, makes the sign of the cross, and thus begins the Mass, his attitude changes significantly. The same altar that he was touching almost nonchalantly a few seconds ago he now quivers before as he repeatedly asks God for forgiveness. The same altar that he did not greet or acknowledge when he was laying out the corporal he now kisses with timid yet affectionate lips as he pays honor to the Saints whose bones lie therein.

The implications are clear. Sacred liturgy is more than an act of worship or the fulfilment of an obligation or a way of giving thanks or a memorial or even a sacrifice; it is a portal through which we enter another dimension, the dimension of the numinous.

The Introductory Rites of the Novus Ordo, on the other hand, are strikingly different. Where in the traditional rite, the kissing of the altar is the dramatic culmination of a pious stammer before a great mystery, in the new Mass it is the anticlimactic beginning of the rite. When the priest nears the altar after the procession, he bows, walks into the sanctuary without hesitation, and kisses the altar without praying. He then makes the sign of the cross and greets the people. Depending on which optional formulas he chooses and how liberally he interprets the rubric “In these or similar words,” the priest can spend more time speaking to the congregation than he does to God. The sample tropes during the Kyrie (the third form of the act of penitence) make no mention of our sins, leading one liturgist (not unreasonably drawing an inference) to advise celebrants who adlib their tropes to “concentrate on divine mercy rather than human faults.” [10] Taken cumulatively, these changes give the penitential rite a less penitential air and do little to encourage a holy fear of the mysterium tremendum et fascinans.

Notes

[1] John Hardon, S.J., Pocket Catholic Dictionary (New York: Doubleday, 1985), 380.

[2] 2011 Roman Missal, p. 515.

[3] Fr. Dennis C. Smolarski, S.J., How Not to Say Mass (Paulist Press, 2003), 1-2.

[4] Smolarski, 54-55.

[5] See Sr. Mary Pierre Ellebracht, Remarks on the Vocabulary of the Ancient Orations in the Missale Romanum (Nijmegen: Dekker & Van de Vegt, 1963), 155-56, 13.

[6] I loosely include the Aufer and Oramus among the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar even though neither takes place at the foot of the altar because 1) they are a part of the controversy surrounding the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, and 2) they are part of what I call the “front porch” of the Mass (to be explained later).

[7] See Catechism of the Catholic Church 1090; Sacrosanctum Concilium 8; Lumen Gentium 50.

[8] See Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy, chapter 3.

[9] After Writing: On the Liturgical Consummation of Philosophy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 215.

[10] Smolarski, 53.

Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, Part 2: The Divine Courtroom

The Last Judgment, by Michelangelo, 1536-41

Lost in Translation #90

Psalm 42 was an ingenious choice for this part of the Mass, for the psalmist declares that he will: 1) ascend God’s holy mount, 2) approach His holy tabernacles, and 3) go in unto the altar of God. This is precisely what the priest does moments later when he: 1) climbs the steps of the altar (traditionally, there must be at least one), 2) approaches the tabernacle on the altar, and 3) kisses the altar and remains there.

On Trial

The Psalm also begins with a request for divine judgment about a case we have against an unholy nation and an unjust and deceitful man, and that request is soon granted. After reciting Psalm 42 and repeating its hope-filled antiphon, “I will go in unto the altar of God: to God Who giveth joy to my youth,” the priest and server/congregation pray Psalm 123, 8: “℣. Adjutórium nostrum in nómine Dómini. ℟. Qui fecit cælum et terram”, which the Douay Rheims translates as, “℣. Our help is in the name of the Lord. ℟. Who made Heaven and earth.”

The Church uses this verse in the Rituale Romanum to precede a blessing. Here, it is used to steel one’s courage before entering the divine courtroom as we remind ourselves that God is not only our judge but our advocate or defense attorney as well. Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini has no verb, so it can just as accurately be translated in the subjunctive, that is, “May our help be in the name of the Lord.” However, I think the indicative works better here as a sign of holy confidence. It is as if we are saying, “I’m scared, but I know that God is my helper.”

It is when the priest recites the Confiteor that he enters the so-called courtroom.

Confíteor Deo omnipotenti, beátae Maríae semper Vírgini, beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joanni Baptistæ, sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus Sanctis, et vobis, fratres: quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo, et ópere (striking breast three times) mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa. Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Vírginem, beátum Michaélem Archángelum, beátum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apóstolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et vos, fratres, oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum.

Which is usually translated as:

I confess to almighty God, to the blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the Saints, and to you, brethren, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed (striking breast three times) through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore I beseech the blessed Mary ever Virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Saints, and you, brethren, to pray for me to the Lord our God.

The Publican and the Pharisee, 1886-94, by James Tissot

Fr. Pius Parsch describes this prayer as “a judicial scene in two parts.” His reflections are worth quoting in full:

When I recite the Confiteor, I imagine myself transported to the court of heaven, where I stand before the judgment seat of God. The eternal Judge is enthroned amid the saints; among these saints I see the Blessed Virgin, Michael the captain of the heavenly host, John the Baptist the precursor of the Lord, and Peter and Paul the princes of the Apostles. Standing thus before this heavenly court, I know they are accusing me because I have been unfaithful to the grace of my baptism, I begin to realize my sinfulness, and I wish that I could sink away into nothingness. “Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.” Here is the climax of the Confiteor, or rather the profound moment when I descend into that pool into which flow the tears of contrition. There is now a sudden reversal in the scene: these saints who a moment ago were my accusers, are now my defenders and petitioners, turning to the almighty Judge to pray for my forgiveness. Such is the drama of the Confiteor. [1]

And the drama, we may add, is compounded by the irony that it was we who requested judgment in the first place. One of the things that converted Aleksander Solzhenitsyn to Christianity in the gulag camp was the realization that although he was falsely arrested, he was still guilty of many things, that he was a sinner. Similarly, we began the Mass wishing to be exonerated from unholy and unjust persecution, but once on trial, we come to see that we are indeed guilty, perhaps not of the accusations made against us, but of other sins that make us unworthy to participate in the sacred mysteries of the Mass that has just begun. We therefore throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.

Parsch calls the saints our accusers, but it is perhaps more accurate to describe them as a jury or as judges. “Know you not that the saints shall judge this world?” St Paul reminds the Corinthians. (1 Cor. 6, 2-3)

Incidentally, having a judicial motif in the Mass should not be a cause for surprise. In a fascinating article entitled “Courting Reverence,” Father Paul Scalia, son of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, argues that both the Mass and the court deal with forgiveness and punishment, innocence and guilt, life and death, and that the appropriate response to both is a sense of awe and respect. [2]

And the traditional Western courtroom was no doubt inspired by traditional sacred architecture. Public seating in a courtroom gallery, for example, is akin to the pews in the nave of a church; the space for the lawyers and judge is similar to the sanctuary where traditionally only the clergy and their ministers would be allowed; this space is demarcated with a low barrier, the proverbial “bar,” that is analogous to a communion rail; the judge’s bench, elevated and set apart, assumes the same importance as the similarly situated high altar, which only certain members of the clergy are permitted to approach and only at certain times; the jury benches resemble the choir stalls found in many medieval churches; and the personnel who move in and out of the bench area, such as the bailiffs, resemble the acolytes serving the priest. And if the sanctuary inspired the courtroom, we can use the courtroom to remind us of the judicial connotations of the sanctuary.

Courtroom in Nuckolls County Courthouse, Nelson, Nebraska, 1890

Notes on the Language

The Confiteor invokes five saints by name in descending order of their holiness, but it puts them into two categories by virtue of the titles “beatus - Blessed” and “sanctus - Saint”. The Virgin Mary, Michael the Archangel, and John the Baptist are called the former, while Peter, Paul, and the rest of the Saints are called the latter. Today, a Blessed is lower in rank than a Saint, but in the Confiteor, “Blessed” marks off the Mother of God, the Head of the Heavenly Armies, and the Forerunner of the Lord as especially powerful intercessors. All three have lived their lives without sin: the Blessed Virgin was conceived without original sin, and according to tradition, John the Baptist was conceived with original sin but sanctified afterwards while still in the womb, and that he never committed a personal sin. Blessed indeed are the creatures who receive such grace. [3]

Altar piece in Braga Cathedral (Portugal) depicting the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Michael the Archangel, and St. John the Baptist delivering souls out of Purgatory.

The penitent succinctly confesses that he has sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed through his fault, his fault, his most grievous fault. There is a parallel between the three words of thought, word, and deed and the triple use of “fault,” and there is a similar parallel between the amplifying words “exceedingly” and “most grievous.” Maxima, which most translations--including the 2011 English translation of the new Missal--render as “most grievous,” is rather difficult to translate. The most literal (and accurate rendering) would be “through my maximum fault,” but for whatever reason this sounds odd in English. “It was totally my fault” is more readily intelligible as well as accurate, but this expression is too colloquial for liturgical prayer.

Whatever the translation, the key is to recognize that by the phrase maxima culpa, we disavow all rationalizations, evasions, or justifications that would mitigate culpability in the sins that we commit. Adam and Eve compounded their sin by pusillanimously blaming someone else for their fall: Adam went so far as to implicitly blame God. “The woman, whom Thou gavest me to be my companion, gave me of the tree, and I did eat”--as if to say, “If you hadn’t created Eve, none of this would have happened.” In his Retractations, Saint Augustine states that he will be going over all his past writings with a “judicial severity” in the hopes that if he is hard on himself, God will go easy on him. [4] The Confiteor bids us follow examples like Augustine’s rather than our first parents.

Final Observations

Accusing ourselves is one thing; accusing someone else is another. The penitential rite in the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar is a beautiful lesson in humility and in bearing one another’s infirmities. (see Rom. 15, 1) The priest leads by example, confessing his sins by himself, and in his confession he includes the congregation among the saints as his would-be judges and asks for their prayers. But instead of judging the priest, the congregation prays the Misereatur, asking God to be merciful to their flawed leader, their wounded healer. The priest’s confession, in turn, inspires the congregation to make a confession of their own; they likewise include the priest among their would-be judges and ask him to pray for them. The priest gladly does so, praying the Misereatur and then granting them absolution. Instead of pronouncing judgment, he delivers mercy. But to understand the full significance of the Misereatur and absolution, we must wait until next week.

Notes

[1] Pius Parsch, The Liturgy of the Mass, trans. Rev. Frederic C. Eckhoff (London: B. Herder Book Co., 1937), 70-71.

[2] Paul Scalia, “Courting Reverence: Why Has the Courtroom Retained the Reverence the Mass has Lost?” Adoremus Bulletin 7:6 (September 2001), p. 3, available here.

[3] In the early centuries of Christianity, it was assumed that John the Baptist was second only to the Blessed Virgin Mary in sanctity. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, several Popes embraced the opinion that Saint Joseph was the second holiest. As a product of an earlier chapter in Church history, the Confiteor reflects the older view.

[4] Two Books of Retractations, trans. Sr. Mary Inez Bogan, R.S.M. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1968), prol.

Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, Part 1: Yearning for the City of God

The New Jerusalem, 1645, by Malnazar and Aghap’ir, two Armenian manuscript illuminators working in Persia. 

Lost in Translations #89

The Prayers at the Foot of the Altar consist of Psalm 42 (43), the Confiteor and absolution, several versicles, and two prayers said by the priest as he approaches the altar. The dominant note of these prayers is plaintive yet hopeful, and thus it stands in contrast to the Byzantine Rite, which begins with a glorious proclamation: “Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, now and forever and forever.” Where the latter begins with a note of arrival, and makes it immediately clear that sacred liturgy is a participation in Heaven, the traditional Roman Rite begins with a note of alienation and exile, dramatizing a different truth, that we are still pilgrims on earth exiled east of Eden and that the Heavenly liturgy is our only source of true joy.

The Prayers at the Foot of the Altar also stand in contrast to the new Roman Rite, which as we will see in a future essay, begins with an abridged penitential rite that is more cheerful, less plaintive, and less efficacious.

Psalm 42 is striking:

Júdica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab hómine iníquo et dolóso érue me.

Quia tu es, Deus, fortitúdo mea: quare me repulisti, et quare tristis incédo, dum afflígit me inimícus?

Emitte lucem tuam et veritátem tuam: ipsa me deduxérunt et adduxérunt in montem sanctum tuum et in tabernácula tua.

Et introíbo ad altáre Dei: ad Deum qui laetíficat juventútem meam.

Confitébor tibi in cíthara, Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es, ánima mea, et quare conturbas me?

Spera in Deo, quoniam adhuc confitébor illi: salutáre vultus mei, et Deus meus.

Which the Douay Rheims translates as:

Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the unholy nation: deliver me from the unjust and deceitful man.

For Thou, O God, art my strength: why hast Thou cast me off? and why go I sorrowful whilst the enemy afflicteth me?

Send forth Thy light and Thy truth: they have conducted me and brought me unto Thy holy mount, and into Thy tabernacles.

And I will go in unto the altar of God: to God Who giveth joy to my youth.

I will confess to Thee upon the cithara, O God, my God: why art thou sad, O my soul, and why dost thou disquiet me?

Hope in God, for I will still confess to Him: the salvation of my countenance and my God.

Believed by some to have been written by King David after he had been driven out of Jerusalem by his rebellious son Absalom, the Psalm begins with a plea for a court trial within a political context. [1] (Causa, which the Douay Rheims rightly translates as “cause,” can also refer to a legal case.) The Psalmist is not simply suing or countersuing “the deceitful and unjust man” but the “nation that is not holy.” And if an unholy nation is part of the problem, the solution lies in God’s judgment and in going to His holy place, to His mount and to His tabernacles and to His altar. For there we will be rejuvenated, there we will praise God on a cithara, a musical instrument (in fact the only musical instrument mentioned in the Ordinary of the Mass) that may allegorically refer to a well-tuned heart. [2] To put the lesson of the Psalm in Augustinian terms, if the problem is the earthly city, the solution is the City of God.

David Fleeing from Jerusalem is Cursed by Shimei, by William Hole, 2012

It is noteworthy that the use of Psalm 42 in Mass, which draws such a sharp contrast between the justice of God and the injustice of the political realm, was codified during the age of Christendom. [3] One does not expect to see talk about an “unholy nation” during the days when there was a close alliance between altar and throne, when kings were crowned by popes or bishops and expected to promote the true religion. But this talk alerts us to a profound truth: that not even the rule of Catholic monarchs can compensate for or eradicate the inherent deficiencies of political life, that there are and always have been two mystical “cities,” and that these two cities will exist side-by-side in tension with each other until the end of time. Catholic thought speaks of the “social” kingship of Christ the King, but it does not speak of His “political” kingship to make clear that His reign is not “political” in the sense that it is to be equated with this or that visible polity or constitution. Rather, it should extend to every nation, every culture, every citizen, every law, and all the arts; and this can happen in any number of different regimes, from monarchy to democracy, even though it can never happen in any of them perfectly.

The introductory prayers of the Tridentine rite, therefore, militate against political idolatry on one hand and anti-political irresponsibility on the other.

Maybe, maybe not

Regarding political idolatry, the recitation of Psalm 42 reminds worshippers that the actualization of God’s promises is not to be confused with any one particular political arrangement, not even a Catholic confessional state, and not even the American Founding. Salvation comes from God’s Holy Tabernacles, not from the nation.

On the other hand, Psalm 42 also guards us against an anti-political withdrawal. Christ’s social kingship means that the Catholic religion can never be seen as a purely private matter with no impact on the public forum; it cannot be put under a bushel. [4] Catholics have a duty to improve their country and their government through civic virtue and involvement. Our hope is in God, the joy of our youth, as the Psalmist reminds us (Ps. 42, 4), and with that hope we will try to make the unholy nation in which we live and which we love despite its failings a little less unholy in a prudent and responsible manner.

As the hart panteth after the fountains of water; so my soul panteth after thee, O God.

Conclusion

But as helpful as these political reminders are, they do not constitute the main goal of the Psalm, which is to turn our exhaustion and despair into a lively hope. I have described the Psalm as plaintive, and indeed it is. The speaker is in a “bad place,” as we would say, and He even asks God, somewhat testily, why He is casting him off. But once he remembers that he will go to God’s sanctuary, his attitude changes to one of hope. The next and only other time that he asks a question, it is one of self-approach: “Why are you sad, you silly soul? God has your back. Take heart!” Such hope helps us yearn for the City of God over and above the earthly city, and to enter more deeply into that City’s central liturgical act. The priest and ministers and congregation who recite this Psalm are now more ready to go unto the altar of God, the God who gives joy to our youth.

Notes

[1] See Nicholas Gihr, The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass Dogmatically, Liturgically And Ascetically Explained (St. Louis, Missouri: Herder, 1902), 353.

[2] Saint Augustine offers a more elaboration interpretation. According to him, a psalterium is a stringed instrument with a drum or shell on its upper parts while a cithara is a stringed instrument with a sounding-board on its lower part. A psalterium, then, signifies obedience to divine commandments from above while a cithara signifies virtuously suffering tribulations, which come to us from below. (See Enarrationes in Psalmos, Psalm 42, par. 5.

[3] Jungmann avers that although Psalm 42 was definitively fixed in current place by the Missal of Pope St. Pius V in 1570, it first began to appear in the Latin rites of the Church around the tenth century. See Josef Jungmann, The Roman Rite, trans. Francis A. Brunner (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1959), 199-201.

[4] James Likoudis, “Social Reign of Christ the King,” in Encyclopedia of Catholic Social Thought, Social Science, and Social Policy, 987-88.