The Bells of Easter, Part 2: Bell-Song of the Risen Christ - Guest Article by Robert Keim

Onec again, we are grateful to Mr Robert Keim for sharing some of his writing with us, this time in a two part article on the subject of the liturgical use of bells. Part 1 of this article, which explores the paschal significance of bells in Old Testament liturgy, may be found here. Mr Keim is a secular brother of the London Oratory of St. Philip Neri, a linguist, and a literary scholar specializing in the poetic and dramatic literature of the English Renaissance. A longtime student of the arts and spirituality of sacred liturgy, he teaches university courses in rhetoric and is pursuing research into the devotional, scriptural, and liturgical culture of medieval England.

Though bells are present in Catholic worship throughout the annual cycle of feasts and fasts, the Church teaches us in her liturgy that they bear a special relationship to the Resurrection of Our Lord: it is only during the days immediately preceding Easter that altar bells are formally prohibited. The stark, jarring sound of their replacement—a wooden clapper known as a crotalus—is an unforgettable feature of the Roman rite’s Triduum ceremonies. It powerfully evokes the dismal, dissonant state of a world that has chosen Barabbas over the divine Musician, and it ensures that the return of sweet-sounding bells on Holy Saturday will be closely associated with Christ’s glorious return to life.

Bells as Heralds of the Resurrection

All four Gospels portray the announcement of the Resurrection as central to its occurrence: “go quickly, and tell his disciples, that he is risen from the dead” (Matthew 28, 7); “he goeth before you into Galilee: there shall ye see him, as he said unto you” (Mark 16, 7); “they ... returned from the tomb, and told all these things to the eleven, and to all the rest” (Luke 24, 8–9); “Mary Magdalene cometh and telleth the disciples, I have seen the Lord” (John 20, 18). There is a sense that the Resurrection is so joyous and wondrous, so momentous, that it cannot be merely believed or experienced or contemplated: it must be proclaimed.

The holy women of Easter Sunday are depicted in this fourteenth-century Italian illumination (tempera, ink, and gold on parchment).

The early Church continued this tradition by giving much prominence to the Resurrection in her preaching. Indeed, the phrase “Christ is risen”—spoken and sung with overwhelming emphasis in the Byzantine Easter liturgy—is an emblem, even a distillation, of all Christian preaching. Bells are also an emblem of Christian preaching. Justin Martyr, for example, interpreted the golden bells of Aaron’s priestly robe as “a symbol of the twelve apostles,” through whose voices “all the earth has been filled with the glory and grace of God and of His Christ.” (Dialogue with Trypho, 42) Gregory the Great similarly wrote that the high priest had to enter the sanctuary “encompassed with bells; that is, he shall have about him the sounds of preaching.” (The Book of Pastoral Rule, 4.)

But bells are not merely symbols of preaching. Rather, they accomplish what they signify, for as Christendom grew, so too did the role of bells as a means of proclaiming the liturgical and sacramental presence of the eternal God. Bells announced the Mass, the Angelus, the hours of the Office, the elevation of the eucharistic Host, the singing of a sequence, the reading of the Gospel, and various events—births, deaths, weddings, etc.—in what we might call the liturgy of daily life.

This fourteenth-century bronze bell includes figures of four Apostles in relief and an abbreviated form of a Latin inscription meaning “Christ conquers, Christ reigns, Christ rules.”

The Christian community that gathered physically and spiritually around their church had many opportunities, day after day and year after year, to hear the sounds of Resurrection in the pleasing, elevating resonance of bell-song. The effect is strangely powerful. The soul somehow tunes itself to the voice of the bell, and naturally moves in response to its wordless preaching. I say this because I experienced it, when living in a village in Eastern Europe. I suspect that the peasants there, suffering from modernity and pragmatism like the rest of us, have grown somewhat uninterested in their church bells; they probably could not understand how much I love those bells, and long to hear them again.

A Romanian Orthodox church

Bells and the Resurrected Body

Further kinship between bells and Easter lies in the nature of the sound that bells produce. Here we are speaking primarily of “campaniform” or “musical” bells, that is, the refined “bell-shaped” bells that are now iconic elements of church architecture. Bell-founders in the late Middle Ages developed this form through their attempts to make bells more pleasing to the ear and more predictable in pitch.

A late-sixteenth-century Italian example of a campaniform bell.

Musical bells have various characteristics that create an intimate relation with paschal theology. I’ll briefly discuss their unique clarity, their method of use, their extraordinary range, and their special tonal quality. We’ll see that bell-song evokes the four properties of the resurrected body, as taught by St. Thomas: brightness, impassibility, agility, and subtlety.

Brightness: This attribute refers to visible light, but the sound of bells is an acoustic equivalent to the shining splendor of a glorified body. The adjective “bright,” when applied to sound, means “clear and vibrant.” A well-tuned bell produces multiple notes in a harmonic series, and we naturally perceive the resulting sound as bright, clear, and pure. Also, bells are unusual in that one of their natural intervals is a minor third. This adds a plaintive and distinctively spiritual quality to bell-song.

Impassibility: Bells produce exceptionally beautiful sound in response to brute violence. It is as though they are immune to physical harm: we strike the bell, and it sings.

Agility: Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, written in the eighth century, informs us that the death of Abbess Hilda was communicated by means of a bell to a certain Sister Begu who was, at the time, thirteen miles away. The occurrence was probably understood as a miracle, but in any case, it is an early indication of a phenomenon that is known even to many modern people, despite catastrophic levels of noise pollution: bells have a singular ability to overcome long distances. It is almost as though the sound of a bell, like Our Lord’s glorified Body, moves freely and effortlessly through physical space. Indeed, the tolling of a great bell is almost a separate and mysterious species of sound; John Senior wrote that “the bell is the strike of silence,” in which “noise is hollowed out.”

Subtlety: A resurrected body is “perfectly within the soul’s dominion,” as St. Thomas says, and the action of a bell is fully within the dominion of its (physical) form. No precision or special technique is required when playing a bell. A crude striking apparatus can be used, and the bell naturally finds the harmonic tonalities determined by its form.

The gleaming, glorified body of Christ in a fourteenth-century Anastasis icon (tempera on wood with gilding).

The Chimes of Heaven and Earth

Bells were integral to the rhythmic, harmonious, poetic life that was made possible by the Resurrection of Our Lord, and which was continually nourished by the liturgical ceremonies of His Church. This way of life was all but extinguished in the West when Christina Rossetti, an Anglo-Catholic poet of the Victorian era, wrote a short poem that is worthy of a few moments’ contemplation.

Earth has a clear call of daily bells,
A rapture where the anthems are,
A chancel-vault of gloom and star,
A thunder when the organ swells:
Alas, man’s daily life—what else?—
Is out of tune with daily bells.
While Paradise accords the chimes
Of Earth and Heaven: its patient pause
Is rest fulfilling music’s laws.
Saints sit and gaze, where oftentimes
Precursive flush of morning climbs
And air vibrates with coming chimes.

The Bells of Easter, Part 1: The Golden Bells of the High Priest - Guest Article by Robert Keim

Onec again, we are grateful to Mr Robert Keim for sharing some of his writing with us, this time in a two part article on the subject of the liturgical use of bells. Mr Keim is a secular brother of the London Oratory of St. Philip Neri, a linguist, and a literary scholar specializing in the poetic and dramatic literature of the English Renaissance. A longtime student of the arts and spirituality of sacred liturgy, he teaches university courses in rhetoric and is pursuing research into the devotional, scriptural, and liturgical culture of medieval England.

One of my most cherished experiences during the liturgical year is made possible by a rather unhistorical mingling of rites. I typically entrust my Lenten journey to the plaintive beauty and deprivation of the Roman liturgy. But after enduring six weeks of penance and ritual austerity, my soul is thirsty for paschal joys, and I prefer to seek them in the effusive Easter Sunday celebrations of the Byzantine rite. Honestly, though, one hardly needs to seek them, for they are all but inescapable at certain moments—for instance, when the priest, vested in the brilliant white of the Resurrection, walks among the faithful and reminds them again and again that “Christ is risen.” His voice is exultant and insistent, and his words are accompanied by the gladsome song of thurible bells.

It is a noble object indeed that can simultaneously delight three of the five senses: an Eastern rite censer, which adds the pleasures of sound to those of sight and smell, has twelve bells that symbolize the twelve apostles. (Some Eastern censers have a thirteenth bell that makes no sound—it represents Judas.)

As anyone knows who regularly attends the Roman Mass or the Byzantine Divine Liturgy, bells are prominent features of Catholic worship throughout the liturgical year. Christians of centuries past would also be thoroughly familiar with their continual use as signals—signum, in fact, was one of the medieval Latin words for a church bell—that announced hours of prayer and worship from morning till evening. However, bells also have a special connection with the Easter season, and give us an opportunity to contemplate the Resurrection of our dear Lord through the material realities of sacred liturgy.

The Golden Bells of the Old Testament

Bells of various types have been favored instruments in Christian liturgical life for well over a thousand years. This relationship, which is unique among world religions, began in the early days of the Hebraic covenant, but remained rather dormant until the early medieval period.

The Hebrew scriptures contain two words for bells. One of these, metsillah, appears only once (in Zechariah 14, 20) and probably denoted instruments that we would identify as cymbals rather than bells. The other word, paʿamon, is also uncommon, but it appears in a passage of far greater significance:

And thou shalt make the tunic of the ephod all of violet.... And beneath at the feet of the same tunic, round about, thou shalt make as it were pomegranates, of violet, and purple, and scarlet twice dyed, with little bells set between: so that there shall be a golden bell and a pomegranate, and again another golden bell and a pomegranate. And Aaron shall be vested with it in the office of his ministry, that the sound may be heard, when he goeth in and cometh out of the sanctuary, in the sight of the Lord, and that he may not die. (Exodus 28, 31, 33–35)

Truly, the God of Israel scrupled not to let His chosen people glimpse the divine realities of heaven through the sensual realities of earth. And Aaron must have been a formidable minister indeed as he approached the altar of sacrifice arrayed in exotic garments, splendid colors, precious metal, stone engravings, and the gleaming bells that turned his very movements into a song of protection against the overwhelming holiness of God’s sanctuary.

An eleventh-century mosaic of the high priest Aaron. The censer alludes to an event, recounted in the Book of Numbers, when Aaron’s intercession, aided by the appeasing aroma of incense, saved the fractious Israelites from divine chastisement: “he offered the incense: and standing between the dead and the living, he prayed for the people, and the plague ceased.” The narrative is rich with the possibilities of allegorical and prefigurative interpretations. [1]

Hearing the Harmony of the Cosmos

Ancient Jewish commentators assigned various interpretations to the bells of the high priest. Among these was a view shared by Philo of Alexandria and Flavius Josephus, who both understood the golden bells as a liturgical manifestation of harmony in God’s Creation. Philo, for example, savors the visual poetry of the high priest’s vestments, which were “ornamented with golden pomegranates, and bells, and wreaths of flowers; ... a most beautiful and skillful work ... of hyacinth color, and purple, and fine linen, and scarlet, gold thread being entwined and embroidered in it.” He observes that the flowers symbolize earth, the pomegranates symbolize water, and “the bells are the emblem of the concord and harmony that exist between these things” – for only in the union of earth and water does the natural world bring forth abundant life.

The harmonious sound of bells, then, evokes the primordial harmony of the cosmos, which Our Lord both restored and sublimated through His victory—on Easter Sunday, the “eighth day” of consummate re-Creation—over sin and death. Philo’s imagery of flower, earth, fruit, and water also has strong sacramental resonance; we are reminded of the waters of Baptism, the chrism of Confirmation (made from olive oil and aromatic balsam), the natural fecundity of matrimony, and the supernatural fecundity of the wheat and grapes that become our divine nourishment. Thus, we might imagine the complex yet unified tonality of altar bells as signifying the deep spiritual unity of the Sacraments.

This thirteenth-century illumination depicts King David, the archetypal religious musician, playing a set of bells. The text is from Psalm 80: “Exultate deo adiutori nr̄o: iubilate deo iacob. Sumite psalmum et date tīpanum: psalterium iocundū cum cythara” (“Exult ye to God our helper: sing aloud to the God of Jacob. Take ye up a psalm and give the timbrel: the pleasing lute with the lyre”).

Hearing the Harmony of the Church

The liturgical bells of the Old Covenant also prefigure the harmony that, as a distinctive feature of Christ’s mystical body [2], is the fruit of His Resurrection and the subsequent outpourings of divine grace. Aaron’s bells were woven into his robe, and the psalmist surrounds this robe with themes of brotherly love, sanctification, renewal, and everlasting life:

Lo, how good and pleasant it is,
      for friends to dwell together:
like precious oil upon the head,
      flowing down upon the beard:
Aaron’s beard, that cometh down
      to the edge of his robe;
like dew of Khermón, that cometh down
      upon the hills of Syón;
for there the Lord ordained a blessing:
      life, to ages and forever. (Psalm 132)

Golden bells, being both luminous and sonorous, reach what may be their poetic apogee when we see them as symbols of the saints in heaven, who live in perfect charity, shine with divine splendor, and offer to Almighty God an unceasing sacrifice of ineffably harmonious song. As Aaron’s priestly garment was made specially rich and sacred by the presence of bells, so is the mystical body of the eternal High Priest singularly adorned with the gleaming, ever-praising souls of the blessed in heaven. The ringing of the altar bells and the tolling of the church bell remind us that we are called to join them some day.

Dante and Beatrice were in the Sixth Heaven when “all those living lights, ever more luminous, began to sing”—heavenly music that il sommo Poeta described as the chiming of angelic bells (Paradiso, canto 20).

The Bells of Christendom

Bells never attained further prominence in Judaic liturgy. Their historical moment would arrive along with the gradually developing liturgical life of Christian civilization, and in the next article part of this article, we will look more deeply into the paschal theology of bells.

NOTES:

[1] “And when there arose a sedition, and the tumult increased, Moses and Aaron fled to the tabernacle of the covenant. And when they were gone into it, the cloud covered it, and the glory of the Lord appeared. And the Lord said to Moses: Get you out from the midst of this multitude, this moment will I destroy them. And as they were lying on the ground, Moses said to Aaron: Take the censer, and putting fire in it from the altar, put incense upon it, and go quickly to the people to pray for them: for already wrath is gone out from the Lord, and the plague rageth. When Aaron had done this, and had run to the midst of the multitude which the burning fire was now destroying, he offered the incense: and standing between the dead and the living, he prayed for the people, and the plague ceased” (Numbers 16, 42-48, Challoner-Douay-Rheims translation).

[2] “By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you have love one for another.” (John 13 35)

A Baptism of a Bell in Rome

Last week, His Eminence Franc Card. Rodé, former archbishop of Ljubljana, Slovenia, and Prefect Emeritus of the Congregation for Religious, blessed a bell for Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini, the FSSP church in Rome. This ceremony has some features which are broadly analogous to some of the ceremonies of baptism, including the naming of the bell (this is one is named in honor of the Holy Trinity, the titular dedication of the church, and of St Lucy), and has therefore been long been referred to popularly as “the baptism of the bells.” Further explanation is given in a post which I wrote as part of my series on the reform of the Roman Pontifical in 2013. A description of the ceremony is given in this post of the same series; the text can be read in Latin here, and in English in this book on archive.org.

The bell is washed and anointed on the inside and outside, and later on, has a brazier full of burning incense put under it, as will be seen further down. For this reason, it is set up suspended in this fashion, so that the inside can be reached.

The various accoutrements needed for the ceremony, clockwise from the lower left: a salver with a towel for wiping oil; a bunch of hyssop for sprinkling the outside of the bell with holy water; more towels, and a hammer for ringing the bell after the blessing (not a formal part of the ceremony); the oils for anointing the bell (in the silver box); cotton for wiping the oil off the bell; a card with the formula which is said at the anointings; the incense which is burned in the brazier; lemons for washing oil off the finger; the ewer and basin; the bugia and the book.

Pontifical vestments set up on the altar of the right transept, since the celebrant vests at a faldstool set up in front of the bell. A lectionary is also on the altar, since the ceremony concludes with the singing of a Gospel.

The ceremony begins with a recitation of seven Psalms, which as a group are unique to this blessing (50, 53, 56, 66, 69, 85 and 129), ...

after which the bishop blesses holy water in the normal fashion, but with the addition of a special prayer. “Bless, O Lord, this water with a heavenly benediction, and may the power of the Holy Ghost come upon it, so that when this vessel, prepared to call together the children of the Holy Church, has been washed with it, there may be kept far away from wheresoever this bell may sound, the power of those lying in wait, the shadow of spectres, the ravages of whirlwinds, the stroke of lightning, the damage of thunder, the disaster of tempests, and every breath of storm; and when the sons of Christians shall hear its ringing, may their devotion increase, so that hastening to the bosom of their loving mother the Church, they may sing to Thee, in the Church of the Saints, a new canticle, bringing therein to play the proud sounding of the trumpet, the melody of the harp, the sweetness of the organ, the joyous exultation of the drum, and the rejoicing of the cymbal; and so, in the holy temple of Thy glory by their service and their prayers, may they bid come the multitude of the angelic hosts. Through our Lord...”

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Progressive Solemnity: Traditional Interpretations and Methods

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gradations in Gregorian Chant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Realm of Sight 

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

(Photo courtesy of Liturgical Arts Journal)

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

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

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

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Traditional Baptism of a Bell Celebrated in Omaha

Here’s something which we have never shown before on NLM, the blessing of a church bell according to the traditional rite. The ceremony was done this past Sunday at St Barnabas Catholic Church in Omaha, Nebraska, a church of the Personal Ordinariate of the Chair of St Peter, by His Excellency Elden Curtiss, Archbishop Emeritus of Omaha. Since it was done at an Anglican Use church, the blessing followed the original version of the Pontifical of Clement VIII, whch the Anglicans very wisely elected to followed, rather than the drastically mutilated version promulgated in 1961: yet another reason to rejoice at the creation of the Ordinariate Rite. These photos by Mr Mel Bohn are reproduced from the parish’s Facebook page, with the permission of the pastor, Fr Jason Catania.

The bell is suspended in such a way that it can easily be touched on both the inside and outside, and so that the bishop can walk around it.

In according with the long-standing custom that bells are named for Saints, this bell is called Leo, after Pope St Leo I.

The bishop wears a white cope and miter. A faldstool is place near the bell, at which the bishop sits for the beginning of the ceremony, while the choir recites a group seven psalms without an antiphon. (These are Psalms 51, 54, 57, 67, 70, 86 and 130, according to the Hebrew numbering traditionally used in Anglican Bibles.)

The bishop then makes holy water with the normal blessing found in the Ritual and in the Missal, which is also used elsewhere in the ceremonies of the Pontifical. However, before the mingling of the water and salt, he adds the following prayer, which is unique to this blessing.

“Bless, O Lord, this water with a heavenly benediction, and may the power of the Holy Ghost come upon it, so that when this vessel, prepared to call together the children of the Holy Church, has been washed with it, there may be kept far away from wheresoever this bell may sound, the power of those lying in wait, the shadow of spectres, the ravages of whirlwinds, the stroke of lightning, the damage of thunder, the disaster of tempests, and every breath of storm; and when the sons of Christians shall hear its ringing, may their devotion increase, so that hastening to the bosom of their loving mother the Church, they may sing to Thee, in the Church of the Saints, a new canticle, bringing therein to play the proud sounding of the trumpet, the melody of the harp, the sweetness of the organ, the joyous exultation of the drum, and the rejoicing of the cymbal; and so, in the holy temple of Thy glory by their service and their prayers, may they bid come the multitude of the angelic hosts. Through our Lord...”

The bishop begins the washing of the bell with the holy water, taking an aspergil and sprinkling it along the edge both inside and out. This is the part of the ceremony which has given it its traditional nickname, the “baptism” of a bell.

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Two Books for Children — One New and One Classic Reprint

M. Cristina Borges. Of Bells and Cells. Illustrated by Michaela Harrison. N.p.: St. Bonosa Books, 2014. 44 pp., paper. List: $13.50. Purchase at Amazon.com.

Maria Montessori. The Mass Explained to Children. [Unaltered reprint of the original publication from Sheed & Ward, 1933.] Foreword by Rev. Matthew A. Delaney. Kettering, OH: Angelico Press, 2015. i + 88 pp., paper. $9.95. Purchase at Amazon.com.

As parents know, the work of educating children in the Faith starts at the very beginning and never really ends. It might end formally when they leave for college or move out of the home, but that's still a good 17 to 20 years' worth of education. Those crucial years should be marked by exposure to good (as in: beautiful and reverent) liturgy, an introduction to orthodox theology, and an initiation into traditional spirituality. What I've seen in homeschooling families is that formation in the faith is happening more or less all the time, and this is a large part of the reason why the boys and girls know their faith, love it, practice it, and run circles around their peers. You simply can't put students with an otherwise secular mentality in a religion class for an hour a week and expect them to get anything out of it.

But parents, like all educators, need good resources to lean on. We can't be making everything up as we go along. After decades of relative drought, it is heartening to be witnessing a downpour of solid, traditionally Catholic books being published for children. Some of these have already been reviewed here at NLM (see here, here, and here). Recently I received two more that I can highly recommend to our readers.

The first is M. Cristina Borges' Of Bells and Cells. This book endeavors to present vocational discernment, religious life, and priesthood to small children in a way that they will understand, but without cutting corners, dumbing down the truth, or lessening the radical nature of the calling. Indeed, her strategy seems to be very much that of Pope Benedict XVI, namely, to present the reality in all its demanding grandeur precisely because this is when we can see most clearly how wonderful a gift it is, how worthy of Our Lord, and how appropriate to His holy Church. I do not know exactly which sources Borges is drawing upon, but her theology of vocation is both traditional and profound, yet clearly and simply expressed. She emphasizes the universal call to holiness while underlining the unique conformity to Christ present in religious vows and the priestly character.

Borges devotes several fine pages to the three evangelical counsels, which she explains with admirable simplicity but without the slightest hint of that wishy-washy embarrassment so typical of modern discussions of poverty, chastity, and obedience. In this book, the vows are presented as the ways in which men and women make a total gift of themselves to the Lord, rely completely on Him, surrender all to Him, and emulate, as perfectly as they can, His life and virtues. (Indeed, I cannot help thinking that this children's book would make a better introduction to the subject than many highschool and college texts out there.) I also appreciated her entering into how religious life is structured, its daily round, the steps of entering and making vows, the taking of a new name, the rationale behind wearing the habit (some of the best pages of the book!), the differences between religious orders, and the active and contemplative lives.

The portion of the book dedicated to the priesthood is equally luminous and inspiring. Once again, the fact that the author is willing to explain things like the difference between a secular/diocesan priest and a religious priest, why the clergy wear black (and, in particular, the cassock), how the priest is made "another Christ" through ordination such that he can then offer the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and forgive sins, sets this book in a class by itself.

An appendix contains brief accounts of the Benedictines, Carmelites, Carthusians, Conceptionists, Dominicans, Franciscans, Poor Clares, Missionaries of Charity, Redemptorists, Little Sisters of the Poor, and Jesuits, to give children some basic information about their founders, most famous saints, and characteristics. This is an especially nice touch, because it helps children to start thinking about how God has provided many different "realizations" of the Gospel and raised up many different kinds of saints who are all living out the baptismal vocation of holiness.

Turning to the reprint of a 1933 classic, The Mass Explained to Children, I doubt that Maria Montessori needs an introduction to readers here. This book saw many printings in the days before the auto-demolition of the Church, and we owe Angelico Press a debt of gratitude for reprinting it as a handsome and affordable paperback, now that so many in the Church are worshiping once again in the classical Roman Rite, for which Montessori obviously wrote this and all her other books on the liturgy. In its pages we find Montessori's remarkable gift for explaining objects, movements, texts, and other signs to children in a way they can relate to, bolstered by her conviction that children have a capacity for wonder, symbolism, and sacred action that most adult educators leave entirely untapped.

Montessori explains in her Preface that this book is not meant to be used at Mass, but before Mass, to help prepare children to understand what they will be seeing and hearing and doing. It serves that catechetical purpose admirably. It strikes me as an ideal religion text for somewhere in the grammar school years, depending on the aptitude of a given child. Again, I have placed a few photos below to give a better sense of it.

(Attention Montessori teachers and admirers: I've been wondering for a long time if anyone has developed a "Catechesis of the Good Shepherd" approach that fully comports with the traditional Latin Mass for which Maria Montessori originally designed her catechetical materials and approaches. If anyone has any information on this matter, I'd be grateful if you would write it into the comments below, or send me an email.)

Pages from Cristina Borges, Of Bells and Cells

Pages from Maria Montessori, The Mass Explained to Children

Look at the text: it's amazing how far we have fallen away from the sense of reverence!

Written in 1933, this deep reverence for the priesthood became almost unknown after the Council.

Note how Montessori lovingly explains the details rather than demanding their simplification.

The holding together of the fingers is connected with the awesome mystery on the altar.

Watch the Casting of New Bells for a Church Live

From Fr. Robert Matya of the University of Nebraska Newman Center, and Mr. James McCrery of McCrery Architects:

Four bells for the St. Thomas Aquinas Church and Newman Center bell tower will be cast on Monday, January 27 at 1pm Central by the Verdin Company in Cincinnati, Ohio. You can watch the process LIVE through a webcast here, http://www.verdin.com/special/bell-casting01-2014.php .

In keeping with tradition, the Newman Center is naming the bells, and we would love your help! Bells are typically named after Saints. Send your naming suggestions to newmancenter@unl.edu with the following (include “Name the Bells” in the Subject Line):

1. Submission of name(s) for the four bells.

2. Why the Newman Center should select these names (please limit your response to 200 words or less). Etching will begin soon; the deadline to submit names is Monday, January 27th at Noon Central Time.

From McCrery Architects’ website: This project is for a new St Thomas Aquinas Chapel and new Newman Center complex in welcome collaboration with Mr. Kevin Clark and his firm Clark Architecture Collaborative. The Chapel and Center will replace the existing 1960’s-era complex now rendered obsolete by the rich, vibrant and highly-active Catholic student culture fostered by the Priests, Religious and Staff at the Newman Center. The project is in the fundraising stage. Please see: http://www.huskercatholic.org/

the old Newman center, thankfully now torn down in preparation for the new building...

is that eery glow from the transporter beam...?

On the Ringing of Bells and Other “Anachronisms”

Many years ago, when I was living abroad, I worked in a place where a single church was shared by several different communities of Catholics, all with different ways of worshiping—one might say, to use today’s language, different artes celebrandi.

On one occasion, the liturgical convictions of a particular priest were categorically spelled out in a homily for the benefit of the assembled faithful. I happened to be attending that Mass, and I will never forget the heart of the message:

The ringing of bells at consecration is disturbing. There is no need for bells in the new liturgy because Mass is in the vernacular and people know when the consecration takes place. During the Tridentine Mass, the laity were praying their own private prayers while the priest was offering the Mass, and the bells alerted the people that the consecration was about to take place. There is absolutely no need for them today. Those who favor these practices—Latin, Gregorian chant, incense, bells, lots of candles, organ music, the priest turning his back to the people—are victims of nostalgia who are not where the Church wants us to be today. Let me explain why having the priest face away from the people is such a bad idea. Vatican II taught that the priest is a presider. It would be absurd for a teacher who is presiding over his classroom not to face his students. Likewise, it is absurd for a priest not to face the people during the celebration of the liturgy.

If one traced out their theoretical implications, these statements might well represent the manifesto of a different religion. The last remark implies a classically Protestant notion of worship—for neither a teacher nor any other kind of presider offers sacrifice to God. However, I also fear that these views are those of many clergy and laity, and thus have to be stated, and refuted, in their starkest form.

Is the ringing of bells done solely on account of the people’s ignorance? Quite apart from the respect due to centuries of tradition, is there no anthropological reason behind the use of bells, incense, chant, or other such things? Why would bells have been rung in a monastery at the moment of consecration, when the monks know Latin and are able to follow the liturgy with the closest attention? Speaking of the bells, I am reminded of scholars who say that the elevation of the host and the chalice had no other purpose than to “show” the Sacrament to the poor, groveling, superstitious laypeople of the Middle Ages, relegated as they were to a place far away from the main altar—and thus, that today, when our more mature congregations can easily watch as the priest conducts the Lord’s Supper facing them, these medieval elevations can have no meaning, no significance. Fortunately, this opinion did not prevail in the redaction of the Novus Ordo Missae.

Query: Do people still believe that the Mass—or, as it is more properly called, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass—is essentially the sacramental renewal or re-presentation of the sacrifice of Calvary? That this is its very definition, and the very reason our Lord Jesus Christ, who redeemed us on the Cross, gave it to us, who always and in every age need His plentiful redemption? If this is what the Mass is, it makes a lot of sense to surround with special signs of attention and adoration the most solemn moment when Christ becomes really, truly, substantially present as the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. You could think of the bells as a sort of sonic italics or underlining. When tastefully used, we appreciate italics or underlining in books; it’s not an indication that we’re illiterate or have poor eyesight.

Moreover, is it really true that most of the laity who attended the traditional Latin Mass didn’t know when the consecration was going to take place—or that the laity who attend today are similarly handicapped? What about the widespread use of missals in the twentieth century? Even the little prayer manuals of the various Sodalities and Confraternities printed the Ordinary of the Mass, in addition to prayers suggested for different points of the Mass. What about the gestures of the priest, which speak louder than any bells? The constant assumption in popular and pseudo-scholarly literature that the era of the old Mass implied the darkness of total ignorance on the part of the people is gratuitous and demonstrably false, as is the assumption that many of its externals have no other function than to spoonfeed the liturgical action to an ill-catechized congregation. We traded in many of those externals for a vastitude of verbiage, and what has been the result? One shudders to think of the average catechetical knowledge of Mass-going Catholics today, compared with that of so many of their preconciliar forebears.

Moving right along, what can one make of the phrase “victims of nostalgia”? The last two Popes recognized, as any sensible person would do, that people attached to the older liturgical forms are not attached in a merely sentimental or nostalgic way—they do not, as it were, suffer from an overwrought “sensitivity”—but love the tradition because of its intrinsic merits. It is worthy of our love because it is beautiful, holy, sanctifying, and, in addition to these inherent qualities, simply because it has been handed down for many centuries as the most treasured family heirloom. (Those of us who are under the age of 44 may find it hard to feel nostalgic for something that disappeared before we were even born!) 

And what if, for the sake of argument, we grant that nostalgia is a factor for some—what then? Nostalgia is a profound psychological phenomenon that has its roots in the felt absence, or the condition of emptiness, following upon a loss or taking away of something of the greatest personal importance. In his first encyclical Pope John Paul II said that self-knowledge brings about a “creative restlessness” in which “what is most deeply human beats and pulses”: “the search for truth, the insatiable need for the good, hunger for freedom, nostalgia for the beautiful, and the voice of conscience” (Redemptor Hominis 18).

With authoritative acts of the Church in support of the traditional liturgy and its adherents, it would be presumptuous, to say the least, to claim that “where the Church wants us to be today” is necessarily in the Novus Ordo sphere. Most Catholics inhabit the world of the Ordinary Form, but a sizeable minority do not, and the Church has permitted them, encouraged them, and blessed them in their adherence to the Latin liturgical tradition (as she has done, more recently, with her faithful of Anglican heritage). Indeed, Pope Benedict XVI expected all the local churches to get reacquainted with the ancient form of worship so that the newer form could be enriched and reconnected with its origins.

Finally, we come, as we must, to the ever-controversial Second Vatican Council. Where, could someone point out, does Vatican II say that the term “presider” is the best or the correct characterization of the minister who offers the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass? Yes, Sacrosanctum Concilium mentions the one who “presides over” the liturgy, but it does not limit itself to that language and uses much traditional language as well, as when it refers to the “divine sacrifice of the Eucharist” (n. 2). Is it not a curious thing that perhaps as much as 90% of what has been justified in the name of Vatican II is not to be found in the Council’s documents themselves, while 90% of what is actually in the documents is never discussed or preached or followed? Even the document on the sacred liturgy, which, as many have pointed out, is no model of clarity and coherence, is far more traditional in what it says and stipulates than most of the liturgical opinions and practices purportedly derived from it.

I think back fondly on those days of delirious disputation (I refer to the 1990s), because it was just at that time that, in spite of so much confusion in the Church and in the world, I fell head over heels in love with the Roman liturgical tradition and realized what a treasure had been guarded and transmitted to us for our illumination and sanctification—ours, right here and right now. “What earlier generations held as sacred, remains sacred and great for us, too, and it cannot be all of a sudden entirely forbidden or even considered harmful. It behooves all of us to preserve the riches which have developed in the Church’s faith and prayer, and to give them their proper place” (Benedict XVI, Letter to Bishops, July 7, 2007). And now that we appear to be entering, after a lovely summertime, into a more wintry period, where gains will be hard won and wolves will prey freely upon the sheep, we should thank the Lord again and again for His mercy to us in opening our eyes, our ears, and our hearts to the beauty of the sacred liturgy—that beauty ever ancient, ever new, destined to endure long after we have gone to our rest.