The Sequence Veni Sancte Spiritus (Part 4)

Lost in Translation, #4

“Thou… art glorified in the assembly of the Saints… By crowning their merits, Thou crownest Thy own gifts” (Gallican Preface, All Saints’ Day)

In the realm of study, the mind is in “focused mode” when it concentrates and learns new information; only afterwards, when it is at leisure, does the mind goes into “diffuse mode” to ruminate on the data and connect it to the larger framework of what it already knows.  Diffuse mode may sound like the less important, but it is not. As we see in the classical case of Archimedes and the baths, it is in diffuse mode that new breakthroughs occur, and it is in diffuse mode that a mystery is infused more deeply into the soul.

Unlike Ordinary Time in the new calendar (which, as I point out here and here, has a different rationale), the traditional Time after Pentecost functions as a diffuse mode for the focused mode that is Paschaltide, when we have the opportunity after the intensity of Easter and Pentecost to ruminate quietly on the mysteries we have just encountered. And so we unabashedly continue (and conclude) our reflection on the Pentecost sequence Veni Sancte Spiritus by examining its last two stanzas.

Da tuis fidélibus, In te confidéntibus, Sacrum septenárium.

Grant to Thy faithful, Who confess to Thee, The sacred sevenfold [gift].

The last line of this stanza is particularly intriguing. Septenarius in Latin is an adjective for sevenfold, and sacrum (sacer is the adjective for “sacred”) is used here as a noun. “Give us your sevenfold sacred thing,” the poet implores. The reference, of course, is to the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, with a focus on their unity. As Augustine explains, “The Spirit is sevenfold (septenarius) and the Spirit is one, one by a sevenfold operation” (Sermon 8.11.13).

But why does the author say sacrum septenarium (“sevenfold sacred thing”) and not something clearer like septiformis munere (“by the sevenfold gift”), as does that other great hymn to the Holy Spirit, Veni Creator Spiritus? The answer may be that he has in mind a wry word play.

Septenarius in Latin can also refer to a line in poetry that consists of seven feet, and indeed this is the definition of the English word “septenarius, n.” Further, word order is not as important in Latin as it is in English. Putting these pieces together, sacrum septenarium can just as easily be translated “sacred septenarius.”

But what on earth is a sacred septenarius? Perhaps it is a sacred poem that only consists of seven-syllable verses, a poem like (you guessed it) Veni Sancte Spiritus. By asking the Holy Spirit for a poem that he has already written, the poet may be alluding to the paradoxical nature of prayer. Sometimes, our very petition to God contains the answer.

Da virtútis méritum Da salútis éxitum, Da perénne gáudium. Amen. Allelúja.

Grant the reward of virtue, Grant an exit with salvation, Grant joy unending. Amen. Alleluia.

The last stanza of this remarkable sequence marvelously encapsulates in just three lines 1) a good Christian life, 2) a good Christian death, and 3) a good Christian afterlife.

A good Christian life involves moral, intellectual, and religious excellence, that is, it is resplendent with moral, intellectual, and theological virtues. Our sacred poet is asking for the reward of virtue, but because he knows that such a reward is a consequence of virtue, he is essentially asking for a lifetime of virtue. And he needs to ask because man cannot become virtuous without God. It is a lovely if paradoxical arrangement: God helps us grow virtuous and then gives a reward for being virtuous! As the Gallican Preface for All Saints’ Day puts it, when God crowns the merits of His saints, He is crowning His own gifts. Unfortunately, many a Protestant brother does not understand this paradox and falsely accuses Catholicism of having a “works righteousness” doctrine of salvation, as if the Church had never condemned Pelagianism in all its forms early on.

A good Christian death is one that overcomes the final assaults of the Devil, who often makes a last-ditch effort at the dying by inducing fear or despair or even defiance. And how does one exit with salvation? By persevering with the Holy Spirit who, as we learned from the Collect on the Ember Friday after Pentecost (when the Veni Sancte Spiritus was still being used liturgically), keeps us from being disturbed by every assault of the Enemy. “He that shall persevere to the end, he shall be saved” (Mt. 24:13).

Finally, a good Christian afterlife is one that consists of union with God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the Beatific Vision. St. Augustine defines happiness as “joy in truth” (Confessions 10.23.33-34), but the truth only brings joy when you are in love with it. Seeing the truth causes the damned in Hell pain, for they hated the truth in life, and they hate the truth when it exposes their wicked lives. But when the saints in Heaven see the Truth, they experience pure joy, for they have at last attained what they have loved. As we learned in the Gospel reading on Pentecost Monday (likewise when the Veni Sancte Spiritus was being used in the Mass): “For every one that doth evil hateth the light, and cometh not to the light, that his works may not be reproved; but he that doth truth cometh to the light, that his works may be made manifest, because they are done in God” (Jn. 3:20-21).

The Sequence Veni Sancte Spiritus (Part 3)

Lost in Translation, #3:

One of my favorite seasons of the liturgical year is the Time after Pentecost. Although none of the propers during this season are especially pneumatological, the very name invites us to interpret what we are celebrating in the wake of the first Christian Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles and breathed life into the Church. It is therefore appropriate to continue our contemplation of the sequence Veni Sancte Spiritus (see here and here for earlier reflections) even though it is not being used liturgically at this time.

We turn to three (nonconsecutive) stanzas that I am tempted to label by stealing the title “Opposites, More Opposites, and a Few Differences” from one of Richard Wilbur’s delightful books of poetry.

4. In labore requies, In aestu temperies, In fletu solatium.	In labor, Thou art rest, In sweltering heat, Thou art the cool, In tears, Thou art comfort.
7. Lava quod est sordidum, Riga quod est aridum, Sana quod est saucium.	Cleanse what is dirty, Water what is parched, Heal what is wounded.
8. Flecte quod est rigidum, Fove quod est frigidum, Rege quod est devium,	Bend what is rigid, Warm up what is frozen, Guide what is astray.

Saint Augustine writes that Jesus Christ is a Divine Physician who cures our sins sometimes through contraries and sometimes through similarities. A doctor sometimes applies a cold pack to an inflamed part of the body and sometimes applies a round bandage to a round wound, and so too, in a manner of speaking, does Our Lord. Regarding contraries, Christ heals man’s pride through His humility and defeats the serpent’s wisdom through His folly. Regarding similarities, “He was born of a woman to deliver us who fell through a woman, came as a man to save us who are men, as a mortal to save us who are mortals, by death to save us who were dead” (On Christian Doctrine 1.14.13).

Contraries rather than similarities are on full display in the Veni Sancte Spiritus, which is appropriate for the Holy Spirit since He did not become Incarnate and hence similar to us in the way that Christ did. Indeed in sacred art, although it is permissible to portray the Father and Son in human form, it is generally forbidden to portray the Holy Spirit anthropomorphically (remember, Andrei Rublev’s famous icon The Trinity portrays three angels appearing as men who are types for the Trinity). [1]

In the stanza In labore requies, the poet addresses the Holy Spirit as the counterpoint to his various negative experiences: “In labor, you are rest,” “in the heat, you are [literally] just the right mixture or temperature,” and “in tears, you are comfort” (a nice allusion to the Holy Spirit as the Paraclete or Comforter). The verb “to be” is implied in all three verses (common in Latin), and the context makes clear that the action is happening in the present tense. In other words, the poet is not saying that the Holy Spirit is rest after labor, but that He is rest in the midst of labor. He is not a cold drink when the hot day is done; He is a cool breeze during hard, sweltering work. And He is not going to wait to console us after we have dried our tears; He is consoling us right now, entering into our sorrow and providing sweet relief. Happily, even amidst the entanglements of this world, we can enjoy a foretaste of the total bliss which is to come, thanks to the Holy Spirit.

The other two stanzas consist of six urgent pleas to the Paraclete, again in terms of opposites. In my original post a couple of weeks ago, I translated Rege quod est devium as “Straighten out what is crooked” to capture a sense of deviance. Now, however, I agree with Gihr's commentary that “Guide what is astray” is the better rendering. Rege means “keep straight” while de-vius literally means “off-road” (etymologically, a “deviant” is someone who lives in an out-of-the-way place). Going off-road is fine when you are playing the weekend warrior and roughing it on your ATV, but spiritually it means that you are the lost sheep who has gone rogue, like Dante in the opening lines of the Comedy:

Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

I like how the generality of these two stanzas invites self-examination. What is in my life that is dirty and requires cleaning? That is dehydrated and needs watering? That is wounded and cries out for healing? That is rigid when it should be flexible? That is numb, chilly, or cool and in need of warming up? That is wandering around and can’t find the way home? Fix us, O Holy Spirit: You are our Cleaner, Gardener, Healer, Chiropractor-Masseur, Warm Fire, and Park Ranger of our filthy, parched, bleeding, frozen stiff, and lost souls!

With its daily use of the Veni Sancte Spiritus, each of the seven days of the Pentecost Octave (not counting Trinity Sunday) invites us to answer these questions, but the vicissitudes of life being what they are, our answers will vary over time. What is too tight one year may be too loose the next or vice versa. (The traditional calendar gives us an annual barometer for measuring our progress as pilgrims, and this sequence is one example of how it does that.) The spiritual life is one of constant adjustment and re-calibration, and the Holy Spirit is the Master Mechanic with whom we collaborate in the fine tuning.

[1] One interesting exception is the fresco on the ceiling in the sanctuary of the Mission Santa Clara de Asis in northern California, completed by Mexican artist Agustin Davila in 1825 and portraying the Trinity as three young, bearded men sitting together. I have been told that the unusual depiction was an artistic attempt to explain the Trinity to the native converts. (Sorry, I can't find an image of it in the public domain.)

The Sequence Veni Sancte Spiritus (Part 2)

Lost In Translation, #2

 

Last week we examined parts of the Veni Sancte Spiritus, the beautiful sequence that is being prayed at every Extraordinary-Form Mass all week during this, the Octave of Pentecost. Today, we take a closer look at just one stanza of this remarkable masterpiece, the sixth:

Sine tuo numine Nihil est in homine,  Nihil est innoxium.

Without Thy numinosity,  Nothing is in man, Nothing is harmless.

Sine tuo numine contains a word that is difficult to translate. Numen is one of the Latin terms for deity or divine majesty, but because it comes from the verb to nod or give approval, it also conveys a sense of command or will: numen is divine sway, divine power. Without your approval and support, our sacred poet is saying to the Holy Spirit, everything we have—our temporal goods, talents, efforts, etc.—ends up harming us. As Augustine puts it in the Confessions: “Without Thee [O Lord], what am I but a guide to my own destruction?” (4.1.1).

By the way, did you know that the motto for the state of Colorado is nil sine numine (“Nothing without Thy Divine Will”) and that it comes from then-Secretary of the Territory L.L. Weld, who was descended from a long line of English recusant Catholics? When asked what the new state’s motto should be, he suggested Nil sine numine, which was his family motto. Perhaps one of Weld’s ancestors had been inspired by the sequence verse Sine tuo numine as he assisted at a Whitsuntide Mass.

The rest of the stanza poses a mild problem. “Nothing is in man (homine)/ Nothing is harmless” is somewhat confusing, and so translators usually simplify it to something like “Nothing in man is harmless.” But why is the Latin here somewhat clunky in an otherwise eloquent poem? The answer is that, unfortunately, somebody along the way changed the wording. The original stanza had lumine (light) rather than homine (man) and thus read:

Without Thy numinosity,
Nothing is in [its proper] light,
Nothing is harmless.

The original stanza is much richer: it loses none of the moral claim that without the Holy Spirit nothing is harmless, and it adds an intellectual observation: without the Holy Spirit we cannot see reality properly, for to see things in their proper perspective is not simply to grasp their natural essences but to see them in light of how God sees them, or at the very least, to see them sub specie aeternitatis. “In Thy light we shall see light,” sings the psalmist (35:10), and rightly so, for if we only aspire to a natural knowledge of things, we will not see reality to the fullest; we will be blind to its providential meaning and its sacramental significance.

And it is the Holy Spirit who is instrumental in enabling us to see reality to the fullest. Several if not all of His seven gifts (especially wisdom, understanding, and knowledge) have as their aim a supernatural view of things. In one of his analogies of the Trinity, Saint Augustine writes that God the Father is He who is, God the Son is He who is understood (like the Word that He is), and God the Holy Spirit is He who makes all things understood (Soliloquies 1.8.15). The distinctions make sense, for as the Collect from the Ember Wednesday after Pentecost reminds us, the Son has promised that the Holy Spirit will lead us to all truth (see Jn. 16:13), and I take it for granted that when one understands all things, one is no stranger to the truth.