Letter to a Maximalist Music Director in a Minimalist World

Auguste Danse, Study of Three Singers (detail)

The following is based on a real letter.

Dear Friend,

I’m sorry to hear that you’re experiencing some “ups and downs” with regard to the liturgy there, though it’s hardly surprising in a way. Your diocese is not well known for liturgical propriety or taste, and, beyond that, priests mostly have control over how the liturgy goes, which is why we end up with a lot of messes and relatively few triumphs. Once you grasp the essential problem of the optionitis of the new rite, you can then see clearly why the challenge of agreement on what to sing and when arises in such acute form. Very few clergy are well-trained nowadays in sacred music, and they often have a hard time understanding why (to take one notorious example) one would wish to use a Gradual instead of a responsorial psalm. They are just used to what they’re used to, and other things seem odd. This is the power of custom at work, and even bad custom, unfortunately, feels like, and is treated like, law.

You asked me how I ever got to the point of being able to sing so much chant at the place where I used to direct music. It was rather remarkable how things worked out. When I was first hired, I was in a position to convince the pastor—then a conservative who was open to Ratzingerian ideas—that Mass should be as “reverent” and “traditional” as possible. We wrote up a guide that we followed almost without deviation. There was also always a desire for a strong choir; and once people heard what the choir was capable of, they simply wanted that beauty to continue. Both my friends and my enemies would probably say that I kept a stranglehold on the program and fought hard against innovation or change, except when it was change in a more traditional direction.

In the end, as you know, I was too traditional for the place, especially under the dominance of new and more “progressive” (in reality, regressive: “Back to the ’70s!”) leadership, and so my tenure came to an end—but not before eleven good years had passed.

The use of Propers at daily Mass is certainly very exceptional in the Novus Ordo Missae [NOM] world. The place you pointed to as a model happens to be one of the few places on the planet where the Graduale Romanum is more commonly used than a hymnal.

Moreover, one must grasp—this is crucial—that the mentality of Catholics about daily Mass is very much a “low Mass” one. They want to get in and get out in a half-hour or so if possible. To my mind, this worked well enough when you had the real low Mass—a quiet, peaceful, contemplative Mass said by the priest and servers, with no music. But with the NOM’s near constant flow of words, a daily Mass can be a painfully didactic and unedifying experience; the chant, I found, helps a lot to dissipate that feeling and to elevate the worship, and it is possible to sing the Ordinary and Propers without Mass taking longer than about 40 minutes, provided the preaching does not carry on. Still, you have to understand that you are working from a baseline assumption of no music for weekdays, so every piece you add, no matter how beautiful or fitting, is already a step beyond that, and likely to be experienced, at least by some, as an unwelcome imposition.

The various Gregorian antiphons are, in keeping with the NOM’s character, optional. That is why no one can ever say “they must be sung,” even on Sundays or Holy Days. One can try to make a “hermeneutic of continuity” argument that they should be sung, that it’s better to do so, more fitting, but at the end of the day, they are as optional as the day is long. And options often facilitate the attitude: do what’s quickest, or even skip it altogether.

In the music program I used to direct, we did the Propers because, at the time, I was firmly convinced of the need for (and the possibility of) liturgical harmony between the old and new forms of the Mass, and others there were willing to accept my view because they liked the results. In the old Mass, in contrast, degrees of solemnity, and thus, required items of music, are hard-wired into the liturgy: you cannot do a High Mass or Solemn Mass without singing everything that must be sung. In the new Mass, solemnity is a subjective concept that is made up of a lot of accidental elements, which, again, can make navigating the waters quite a challenge.

Arguments for singing the antiphons at daily Mass are not difficult to come by (read this, this, and this), but you have to be prepared for pushback. One of the most disappointing aspect of fallen human nature is that a convincing argument, even an unanswerable argument, may still not be enough to shift someone to your position. That’s because people work by prejudice, sentiment, habit, instinct, laziness, fear, and a hundred other factors.

You asked me for recommended reading on the history and theology of the liturgy in our times, since your own education in Catholic institutions was deficient in this area. Don’t feel too badly; there is almost nowhere in the world where liturgy is studied from a traditional point of view, or even much at all, outside of traditionalist seminaries. Most degree programs are thoroughly in the grip of the “spirit of Vatican II” paradigm, and even when they are not, any serious or systematic critique of the liturgical revolution is verboten. Having and studying the following texts will constitute a profitable introductory course:

Ratzinger. A masterpiece—and the fact that it was globally attacked by progressives shows that he was very much on target.

Reid. A bit of heavy lifting but nothing is better on the concept of what development is and looks like and doesn’t look like.

Chiron. The perfect biography of a figure one must know about. Also lots of twentieth-century liturgical history.

Fiedrowicz. This book is essential reading on the history and theology of the liturgy. Just magnificent. And don’t skip the footnotes.

Shaw. Eminently practical and thorough, with copious sources of documentation. Indispensable for background of all kinds.

Mosebach. The masterpiece on the question of liturgy as art-form and the necessary aesthetic requirements of it.

Lastly, my “trilogy” (1, 2, and 3).

That should be plenty to keep you busy. Be patient, do your best, and make time for the Byzantine liturgy you have in your neighborhood. It will teach you much.

God Bless,

Dr. Kwasniewski

Formal Vesture for Men and Women in a Parish Choir: A Solution

In honor of St. Cecilia

Guercino, St. Cecilia (looking somewhat as if she’s wearing an alb, cincture, and cope)

Those who have been involved in high-level parish music programs have often wondered how to solve a particular problem that arises when one tries to take seriously the truth that singers are making a formal, if not ministerial, contribution to the liturgy — in other words, that they occupy a special designated place in the unfolding of the action that deserves to be distinguished in a way that is not necessary or fitting for the laity in the pews. The problem is simply: How to clothe the musicians?

I see three main reasons for using a uniform choir garb:

(1) It recognizes, with appropriate symbolism, the choir’s liturgical role of furnishing sacred music and leading the congregation. This kind of symbolism is the reason we have all the vestments we have, such as the priest’s and the server’s. (In fact, there even exists a “Ritual for Choir Investiture” that could be utilized at the start of an academic year.) The Second Vatican Council seems to support this point when it says:

Servers, lectors commentators, and members of the choir also exercise a genuine liturgical function. They ought, therefore, to discharge their office with the sincere piety and decorum demanded by so exalted a ministry and rightly expected of them by God’s people. Consequently they must all be deeply imbued with the spirit of the liturgy, each in his own measure, and they must be trained to perform their functions in a correct and orderly manner.  (Sacrosanctum Concilium 29)

As one commentator notes:

The choir is a constituent member in the liturgical action, whether in stalls in a chancel, or a loft above the nave. Like the lay servers at the Altar, they are liturgical ministers, though not sacred ministers. Accordingly, they should be vested as lay liturgical servers.

(2) It gives the choir a greater external beauty of appearance, which is appropriate both for the choir’s procession at Communion time and for when the choir travels, if that is part of its program.

(3) It helps the choir members themselves be more focused and serious about their role in the liturgy, and thus gives them a more tangible sense of purpose and service. This is a widely known phenomenon that explains why choirs generally perform better when in uniform (something analogous can be seen in business, academic, and military settings as well).

Now, if one is talking about a men’s schola that can be situated in the choir area of the transept or near the sanctuary, the question is easy to answer: they should wear the classic cassock and surplice.

But if one is talking about a mixed choir of men and women (a practice I have defended elsewhere) located elsewhere in the church, usually in a choir loft, the solution is not so obvious. For if the men in the ensemble wear cassock and surplice, it looks odd for the women to wear diverse lay clothing; and if they all dress in black or some other agreed-upon color, there is still perhaps an aesthetic mismatch.

Various solutions have been proposed. One of them is to dress the entire ensemble in cassocks without surplices, usually red or blue:

 

Another and better solution, in my opinion, can be seen in the St. John the Baptist Schola Cantorum from Allentown, New Jersey, which I had the privilege of singing with last year. The photos have been shared with me by the estimable director Peter Carter. The current format is for boy and girl choristers to alternate every week in singing with the Schola Cantorum (mixed adult choir). Also, the women and girls’ vestments are still a work in progress, as there will be a matching veil for the women and girls. The robes for the men and women are technically cassocks, but Carter refers to them as “robes,” with the men wearing surplices and the women mantles. The “cassocks” are double-breasted and do not have the clerical collar which, with the color, differentiates them in style from the cassocks of the clergy and servers. 

First, the mixed ensemble:

The men and boys:

The women and girls:

 

The mantles were crafted by a seamstress at my parish from surplices and are modeled after the historic mantle of St. Clare of Assisi:

The cassocks and surplices were purchased at Watts and Co.

While Carter likes the solution he came up with (and I agree that it is elegant and suitable for the purpose, without violating any liturgical conventions), it’s not terribly easy to replicate at the moment, because the robes and surplices from Watts and Co. are expensive, their fulfillment of orders is slow, and the surplices have to be reworked into mantles by a seamstress at St. John’s. Perhaps this post will inspire an American vestment maker to make a similar solution more easily available! 

(Here's the photo of when I visited the Schola. What a great group to sing with!)

Advice to Singers: Drink Some Water After Receiving Holy Communion

In talking to Catholics over the years, I’ve sometimes encountered odd ideas about what’s reverent or not. To be fair, the biggest problem is the lack of any conception of reverence whatsoever, but that’s not my focus in the present article. Here, I am thinking of devout Catholics who may think that a certain practice is irreverent when it’s simply not. A classic example is when Catholic schoolchildren of yore were taught that it would be wrong to masticate the host; it had to be allowed to dissolve. One can appreciate that religious sisters were in the business of teaching much-needed manners to children (especially boys) and did not want to see them “munching” on their way back from communion, but the way I’ve heard it told, it sounds like they might have gone overboard in the emphasis given on this or similar points of decorum.

So, too, it seems that some choir members are uncomfortable with drinking water from a water bottle immediately after communion, as if somehow this were not appropriate. But I would make the case that not only is there nothing wrong with it, but on the contrary, it can be a very good idea. I think what might be happening psychologically is a kind of assumption that because it is fitting to fast before communion, we should also fast (as it were) after communion.

It is indeed a big deal to fast before Holy Communion, and the reduction of the fast from all night to three hours to one hour is a poster child example of the colossal prudential error frequently made by churchmen in modern times, namely, that if we relax our disciplines we will somehow retain or attract more believers. This is demonstrably false; the ancient discipline was eminently wise. In his commentary on the Sentences, St. Thomas writes as follows:

This sacrament should only be received by those who are fasting, unless out of necessity because of imminent death, lest it happen that someone should have to exit this life without viaticum. Fasting must be established in reverence for such a sacrament, for three reasons in particular. First, because of the very sanctity of the sacrament; so that the mouth of a Christian, by which it is to be consumed, would not be first drenched with other food, but would be reserved for its reception as something new and pure. Second, because of the devotion that is required on the part of the one receiving, and the attention that could be distracted by having taken food, with gases rising from the stomach to the head. Third, because of the danger of vomiting, and other things like that. (In IV Sent. d. 8, q. 1, a. 4, qa. 1)

On the other hand, even if it is highly fitting for worshipers to remain after Mass for a time of thanksgiving rather than immediately leaving the church building and tucking into regular food and drink, doing so would not carry the same gravity, since a time of thanksgiving is (at least theoretically) built into the Mass itself. Again St. Thomas:

According to the custom of the Church, out of reverence for so great a sacrament, after having received it, a man should remain in thanksgiving; and the prayer of thanksgiving after Communion in the Mass is also said, and the priests after celebrating Mass have special prayers for thanksgiving. And so it is fitting that there should be a certain interval between consuming the Eucharist and other foods. But since a great interval is not required, and what lacks something small seems to lack nothing, as it says in Physics 2, for this reason we might concede that in this sense a person can take other food immediately after receiving the Eucharist.

After all, the priest himself, in receiving the unconsecrated wine and water during the ablutions, is already consuming non-consecrated elements, at times only moments after having received Holy Communion. Obviously the vessels have to be cleansed, and there is no more efficient way to do it; but we should also not overlook the practical benefit to the priest in being able to clear his mouth of any fragments of the host that might have remained there. A sign that this concern is real may be gleaned from the Holy Rule of St. Benedict. In chapter 38, the legislator prescribes concerning the weekly reader during the meals: “Let the brother who is reader for the week take a little bread and wine before he begin to read, on account of the Holy Communion, and lest it be hard for him to fast so long. Afterwards let him take his meal with the weekly cooks and other servers.” On this passage, a commentator writes:

Saint Benedict prescribes “a little bread and wine before he begin to read, on account of the Holy Communion.” This is not only because the reader, if he waits until after the meal, risks a headache and weakness from too prolonged a fast; it is also out of reverence for the Most Holy Sacrament. The “little bread and wine” serve as an ablution of the mouth, lest in reading or chanting, the reader inadvertently expectorate particles of the Sacred Host in his saliva. The custom of an ablution of the mouth after receiving Holy Communion is very ancient; traces of the custom have perdured, not only among certain Orthodox faithful, but even in some places in the West. I remember very well that my paternal grandmother, who received her First Holy Communion in County Leitrim in about 1909, was taught to cleanse her mouth with water immediately upon returning home from Holy Mass and before eating or drinking anything. I can still see her coming in from the early morning Mass. She would, without removing her hat and coat, light the burner under the kettle for tea and, then, go straight to her pantry for the traditional post-Holy Communion glass of water. It is interesting that such a custom was still practiced in early 20th century rural Ireland.

Like readers, singers are aware of the “inadvertent expectoration” mentioned above, however rare it might be that it would contain a crumb of the divine manna. It only took one such experience to convince me of the benefit of taking a drink of water in the choir loft upon returning from communion and before beginning to sing the communion antiphon or motets. Later on, when I read the passage in the Holy Rule, and connected it with the ablutions, I realized that this awareness has long been present in the mind of the Church, if in an understated way.

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The monastic reader in the refectory