The Qui pridie

Lost in Translation #140

To turn unleavened bread into the Flesh of the Son of Man, the duly ordained Roman Catholic priest prays:

Qui pridie quam paterétur, accépit panem in sanctas ac venerábiles manus suas, et elevátis óculis in cælum, ad te Deum Patrem suum omnipotentem, tibi gratias agens, benedixit, fregit, deditque discípulis suis, dicens: Accípite, et manducáte ex hoc omnes.

Hoc est enim Corpus meum.

Which I translate as:

Who, the day before He suffered, took bread into His holy and venerable hands, and with His eyes lifted up towards Heaven unto Thee, God, His almighty Father, giving thanks to Thee, He blessed it, broke it and gave it to His disciples saying: Take and eat ye all of this:

For this is My Body.

The Qui pridie closely mirror the Last Supper accounts given in the synoptic Gospels and in 1 Corinthians 11, 23-25, with five exceptions.

First, the prayer identifies the time as the day before rather than the night before. Indeed, the Roman Canon is the only eucharistic prayer in Christendom that does so. I cannot think of a theological reason why, but it is distinctive.

Second, the Last Supper accounts do not state that Jesus lifted his eyes to Heaven. Our Lord did, however, lift His eyes up at the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. (see Jn. 6, 5) There are two possible explanations: either the authors of the Roman Canon engrafted this gesture onto the Institution narrative or Jesus did indeed lift His eyes up at the Last Supper and the memory of this gesture was preserved by oral rather than written tradition. St. Thomas Aquinas favors the latter explanation:

As is stated in the last chapter of John (verse 25), Our Lord said and did many things which are not written down by the Evangelists; and among them is the uplifting of His eyes to Heaven at the supper; nevertheless the Roman Church had it by tradition from the Apostles. For it seems reasonable that He Who lifted up His eyes to the Father in raising Lazarus to life, as related in John 11, 41, and in the prayer which He made for the disciples (John 17, 1), had more reason to do so in instituting this sacrament, as being of greater import. [1]

Aquinas and his contemporaries also puzzled over the third difference between the Canon and the Gospels, namely, that the Canon uses the verb manducare for eating while the Latin translations of the Bible use comedere. The Angelic Doctor concludes:

That manducate is said instead of comedite makes no difference in the meaning, nor does it matter much what is said, particularly because those words are not part of the form [of the sacrament]. [2]

As to why there is a difference in the first place, Craig Toth speculates that the basic classical Latin verb for eating (edere) fell out of favor in “vulgar” (popular) Latin and that it was replaced with other verbs like manducare and comedere. By the composition of the Canon, manducare was a perfectly respectable synonym for eating, despite its uncouth origins. Manducare originally meant “to chew, to eat with avidity”; And Manducus, “the Chewer,”

was a masked stock character that figured in the popular Atellan farces and in processions (pompae). The grotesque mask was fashioned with huge, widely gaping jaws and clattering teeth. [3]

It would therefore be highly inappropriate, but not technically incorrect, to translate Accipite et manducate ex hoc omnes as “Take and chow down on this, all of you.” One wonders if there is not a hidden providence in this arresting diction. Manduco, manduconis is the Latin word for a glutton or gourmand. Could Our Lord be telling us to be positively eager and avaricious when it comes to receiving Him sacramentally?

Fourth, the Qui pridie describes Christ’s hands as “holy and venerable,” even though the Gospels do not. But how can Our Lord’s hands not be holy and venerable? The prayer betrays a most tender love for Our Lord, marveling over His innocent hands that will soon be, as the narrative of His Passion unfolds, shackled by bonds and pierced by nails. And the description is an implicit reminder that the priest’s hands are also sacred, consecrated at his ordination for this most important service. [4]

Fifth, enim has been added to the Words of Institution. Enim in Latin is a demonstrative corroborative particle usually placed after the first or second word in a sentence. It either corroborates a preceding assertion, like the English “indeed” or “to be sure,” or it proves or shows the grounds of a preceding assertion, like the English “for.” Here, I believe it functions as both, as if to say, “I want you to take and eat this, for this indeed is My Body.” [5] It is a subtle way of confirming the core of our belief in the Eucharist.

The rubrics for this prayer create a perfect isomorphism between word and deed. When the priest says, “He took bread,” he takes the host into his hands; when he says, “with His eyes lifted up towards Heaven,” he lifts his eyes up to the crucifix; when he says, “giving thanks to You,” he bows his head in gratitude; and when he says, “He blessed it,” he blesses the host. The only action he does not imitate is breaking the bread; breaking a hard unleavened host would make it unwieldy. The West Syrians and the Copts, however, are able to crack their leavened host at this point without breaking it in two. [6] Overall, this highpoint of the Mass is a powerful dramatization of the doctrine that the priest celebrating Mass acts in persona Christi.

A page of a Roman Missal printed in 1521, with the words of consecration in larger type.

As for the moment of consecration, the rubrics stipulate that Hoc est enim Corpus meum is to be said attentively, distinctly, continuously, and reverently. And since the priest’s mouth is only inches away from the host when he says the Words of Institution, the moment is redolent of an insufflation, when a spirit or the Spirit breathes on or is breathed onto something, e.g., the Holy Spirit moving over the face of the waters, (Gen. 1,2) the Lord God breathing a soul into the first man, (Gen. 2,7) and the risen Christ breathing the Holy Spirit onto the disciples. (John 20, 22) This pneumatological dimension of the Consecration is reinforced by the word choice. The “H” in “Hoc” is an aspirated consonant, which requires a strong burst of breath to pronounce. And so, for the priest to say the words correctly, he has to begin by breathing heavily onto the host. And the same is true for the consecration of the wine, which begins with “Hic.” This Spirit moment is further reinforced by the priest’s leaning over, hovering over the host and the chalice as he pronounces the Words of Institution, much like the overshadowing of the Holy Spirit during the Annunciation. (Luke 1, 35)

Notes

[1] Summa Theologiae III.83.4.ad 2.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Craig Toth and Louis Tofari, The Roman Canon: An Interlinear Translation (Romanitas Press, 2023), 57, n. 41.

[4] See Peter Kwasniewski, The Once and Future Roman Rite, 237-39.

[5] “Enim, conj.,” I and II.A, Lewis and Short Latin Dictionary.

[6] Jungmann, vol. 2, 202.

Why the Omission of “Mysterium Fidei” Does Not Invalidate the Consecration of the Wine

I have argued (especially in my book The Once and Future Roman Rite) that the Novus Ordo is a striking and scandalous departure from our liturgical tradition, and deserves finally to be retired and replaced with the Roman Rite—the only Roman Rite there is. Such a thesis is hardly unfamiliar to readers of this blog.

However, critics of the Novus Ordo sometimes make mistaken critiques, insufficiently grounded in a correct grasp of the principles of theology. For example, in the free market of unregulated traditionalist literature, one will sometimes find people claiming that the removal of the words “mysterium fidei” from the formula of the consecration of the wine invalidates the form. While the removal of this phrase is certainly objectionable, it does not in any way invalidate the form.

The reason is specified by St. Thomas Aquinas in Summa theologiae III, question 60, article 8:

Since in the sacraments, the words produce an effect according to the sense which they convey … we must see whether the change of words destroys the essential sense of the words: because then the sacrament is clearly rendered invalid. Now it is clear, if any substantial part of the sacramental form be suppressed, that the essential sense of the words is destroyed; and consequently the sacrament is invalid. Wherefore Didymus says (De Spir. Sanct. ii): “If anyone attempt to baptize in such a way as to omit one of the aforesaid names,” i.e. of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, “his baptism will be invalid.” But if that which is omitted be not a substantial part of the form, such an omission does not destroy the essential sense of the words, nor consequently the validity of the sacrament. Thus in the form of the Eucharist—“For this is My Body,” the omission of the word “for” does not destroy the essential sense of the words, nor consequently cause the sacrament to be invalid; although perhaps he who makes the omission may sin from negligence or contempt.

In the case of the chalice, the words that are necessary for accomplishing transubstantiation are: “This is the chalice of my Blood.” If these words are said by a validly ordained priest with the intention of doing what the Church does, then consecration will happen, since there is nothing ambiguous about the formula whatsoever—there is no doubt as to what is being said, namely, that the chalice is filled with the Blood of Our Lord. But if a minister left it at that and did not continue with the rest of the words according to the rite established by the church, he would then sin against the virtue of religion by failing to offer due worship. Such an incomplete statement, as it is contrary to the given rite, would be illicit; but it would not lead to invalidity, for the reasons given by the Angelic Doctor.

The fact that many authors refer to the entire traditional formula as the form of the sacrament cannot be taken as proof against the foregoing argument, since even Aquinas makes a distinction between the correct form and an incorrect, but not invalid form. If we do not take this (frankly common-sense) view, we will quickly run into trouble when trying to explain how the Eastern rites accomplish transubstantiation, since not a single one of those rites has “mysterium fidei” in the formula for the chalice. (Incidentally, this is also the reason it is doubtful that that phrase originated with the Lord, although it is possible that it originated with one of the Apostles, e.g., St. Peter in Rome, which would explain why it is found only in the Roman rite and the uses that stem from it or belong to its sphere of influence.)

On an ecclesiological and canonical level, we must also say that the supreme authority in the Church has the right to specify/clarify what is and is not the form, or, at least, what is adequate for accomplishing a given sacrament. Canon law has always granted this point, and there is not a single theologian who disputes it. Although we can and should lament the harm done to the Order of Mass by Paul VI, we cannot accuse him of promulgating an invalid sacrament or sacramental form.

In conclusion, I agree there is a mutilation in the repurposing of the phrase mysterium fidei, as I have argued at length. Here, I am simply saying that it does not undermine the efficacy of the statement found in the new missal, because this statement contains the essence of the form—namely, that this [1] is the blood of Christ. That, all by itself, is sufficient, all the other usual conditions being met (correct matter, minister, and intention). As Pius XII teaches in his encyclical Mediator Dei, the sacrifice consists in the separate consecration of bread and wine; and again, St. Thomas is clear that, however illicit it is to omit part of the form, nevertheless as long as the notion of a conversion of bread/wine to body/blood is signified, the words will be efficacious.

For more reflections along these lines, see my article “The Four Qualities of Liturgy: Validity, Licitness, Fittingness, and Authenticity.”

Visit Dr. Kwasniewski's Substack "Tradition & Sanity."

[Note 1] (Added subsequent to initial publication) St. Thomas takes up a particular objection to the words of Our Lord at the Last Supper (Commentary on Matthew, Chapter 26, verse 26). He is trying to identify the exact sense of the pronoun "this" in the phrases "this is my Body" and "this is my Blood". He points out the various ways one might interpret the significance of "this" and he positively rules out that the "this" means "this bread" or "this wine," because, if that is what is signified, it would result in a contradiction: "This [bread] is my Body," or "This [wine] is my Blood." So, after some grammatical analysis, St. Thomas concludes that the pronoun "this" signifies "whatever stands under these accidents." The statement "This is my body" is therefore not false, since its meaning is: "that which stands under these accidents is my Body."

Consecrated Buildings and Their Officially Sponsored Profanation

The back of the monastery chapel in Norcia

The Rule of St. Benedict has as one of its many virtues the ability to capture an entire vision of things in one lapidary phrase. There is not a single wasted word; what Benedict means to say, he says with vigor, brevity, and clarity. A splendid example is chapter 52, “Of the Oratory of the Monastery,” where the Patriarch writes:

Let the oratory be what its name implies, and let nothing else be done or kept there. When the Work of God is finished, let all go out in deep silence, and let reverence for God be observed, so that any brother who may wish to pray privately be not hindered by another’s misbehavior. And at other times also, if anyone wish to pray secretly, let him just go in and pray: not in a loud voice, but with tears and fervor of heart. He, therefore, who does not behave so, shall not be permitted to remain in the oratory when the Work of God is ended, lest he should, as we have said, be a hindrance to another. [1]

I have often wished that this text would be carved into wood or stone and mounted at the door of every Catholic church throughout the world, printed in every bulletin, and preached from every pulpit, with such unfailing regularity that the pervasive anteliturgical and postliturgical chitchat by which the reverent silence of the temple of God is globally snatched away Sunday after Sunday might begin to be suppressed and reduced to naught. I don’t know if it would work, but I’ve often wondered why so few pastors ever make the attempt to restore “deep silence” to our churches. It may have to do with a sinking feeling that the good habits of preconciliar days are gone forever and will not return among the cellphone barbarians in the pews; it may have to do with a simple loss of belief in the church as a sacred place. Considering that many suburban churches fall somewhere along the spectrum between a Jet Propulson Laboratory and a beige-carpeted athletics facility, it may not be surprising that the sense of sacrality is absent, even eradicated.

Earlier in the Rule, in chapter 19, “On the Discipline of Psalmody,” St. Benedict bears witness to the dignity of the church and of the opus Dei that takes place in it, deducing thence what our inner and outer attitudes should be:

We believe that God is present everywhere and that the eyes of the Lord in every place behold the good and the evil (Prov. 15, 3); but let us especially believe this without any doubting when we are performing the Divine Office. Therefore, let us ever remember the words of the prophet: Serve ye the Lord in fear (Ps. 2, 11); and again, Sing ye wisely (Ps. 46, 8); and, In the sight of the angels will I sing to thee (Ps. 137, 2). Let us then consider how we ought to behave ourselves in the presence of God and his angels, and so sing the psalms that mind and voice may be in harmony. [2] 

This text helps us to grasp two lessons: the sacred liturgy is the time when, by God’s own design and good pleasure, we are most of all held to be standing in His divine Presence, yielding up our minds and hearts to Him; and the oratory or church in which we are doing this “Work of God” is a place like no other, a place consecrated for the sole purpose of worshiping God. In a well-known passage, Augustus Welby Pugin conveys this point with Victorian lavishness:

[The church] is, indeed, a sacred place; the modulated light, the gleaming tapers, the tombs of the faithful, the various altars, the venerable images of the just, — all conspire to fill the mind with veneration, and to impress it with the sublimity of Christian worship. And when the deep intonations of the bells from the lofty campaniles, which summon the people to the house of prayer, have ceased, and the solemn chant of the choir swells through the vast edifice — cold, indeed, must be the heart of that man who does not cry out with the Psalmist, Domine, dilexi decorem domus tuae, et locum habitationis gloriae tuae. [3]

Drawing on the insights of Benedict and Pugin, we might state this principle: The church building is the most sacred space we have; as a result, it is there that we will learn — or not learn — the meaning of the very distinction between sacred and profane. If there is not a strong sense, upon entering a church, of passing from one domain to another, of leaving the world (to some extent) and entering a different realm, of going from an earth-bound atmosphere in which we are at ease to a celestial temple that calls forth reverential fear, I am afraid there will usually be nothing else that offers an equally powerful communication of the distinction. There are, to be sure, other ways to evoke the distinction, such as the sound of Gregorian chant even in a Mass celebrated outdoors or in a humble tent; but the sacred space, the “oratory,” is normally the most obvious, impressive, durable, stable, all-encompassing sign of the sacred that we have. It either says to you: “This is God’s house, where you will meet Him in a special way — tread quietly, watch and pray”; or it says “This is just a building, where you can amble around, talk, text, take selfies, joke, sleep, or eat a snack.”

Selfie in a church

Eminent liturgical theologian Msgr. Nicola Bux writes in his book No Trifling Matter: Taking the Sacraments Seriously Again (a book I highly recommend):

Jacob understood, once awakened from sleep: “Indeed, the Lord is in this place.” He became conscious of the fact, he was afraid, and said: “How awe-inspiring is this place! This is none other than the house of God, this is the gate of heaven.” [4] The divine presence pushes the patriarch to fashion the stone, on which he had slept and received the dream, into a stele, the primitive altar, and to anoint it on top. We would say: to consecrate it. God, in fact, had established his abode, his house; for this reason he changed the name and called that place Bethel, in Hebrew, house of God. That stone founded the house of God.
          Consecration renders the Lord always present in a place made by human hands, and increases reverent fear and devotion for the abode and house of God. Consecration changes the designated use of the place: it cannot be used for profane purposes.
          But unfortunately today things are not always like that! And so God leaves us, is not with us, does not protect and accompany us in the journey of life, does not feed us, does not make us return safe and sound to our home. [5]

Later on, Bux speaks at greater length of the grave significance of the consecration of a church — something that changes it objectively and permanently. His words are worth quoting in full:

Though much emphasized as regards the effects and the changes it calls forth in the place that has been chosen for the purpose, the dedication of a building to Christian worship is very quickly forgotten these days: in fact, one is frequently present at the profanation of everything that was offered to the Lord with such a rite. …
          In the Ordinary Form of 1977, the Mass of dedication underlines the will of the ecclesial community to dedicate the new building to divine worship, in an exclusive and perpetual way. In particular, the presence of the sacrament and the altar do not permit any other use; in fact they are there to recall to us that the church is the sign of the heavenly sanctuary where Jesus Christ has penetrated, in order to appear before the sight of God on our behalf (Heb. 9, 24).
          Liturgists would say that for the sake of the truth of the sign, a church cannot be employed for purposes other than worship, on pain of gravely offending the Lord to whom it has been offered. Besides, its dedication is rightly commemorated every year on the anniversary day, especially within the church that was consecrated. It is therefore a grave error that, in practice, the consecration we have just described is emptied of meaning in our day by the actions of priests themselves, with the holding of events incompatible with the sacred place: concerts, performances, ballets, meetings of every type, which at one time were done outside or “in front of the temple,” as the Latin word pro-fanum recalls; the phenomenon of using churches for concerts of not only sacred but also profane music seems unstoppable. Acts that are not sacred, and normally done elsewhere, bring with them a profanation of the church. …
          Welcome cannot be given to profane actions of this type, or to any others, in the place where the divine mysteries are celebrated. How is it possible that bishops and priests have forgotten that such a place as that, so often built with sacrifice by the faithful, has been “dedicated” — a word that recalls the act with which something very personal is offered to someone who is loved. To dedicate something means that it is no longer mine, but his. If I were to take it back, that would be a betrayal. It is a grave matter, because we take from God that which is his, what we ourselves had sworn we would give him. The rite itself of dedication shows that it is a kind of oath or vow, that is, a sacred act. What need is there for such solemnity, if afterwards the sacred place is employed for profane uses?
          Liturgists exalt the rite of dedication, but in contradiction with that, they go silent and speak not a word in the face of the transformation of churches into multi-purpose halls. This is worse than what was done by totalitarian atheist regimes, which had transformed these places into theaters, gymnasiums, and stores. It is a very serious phenomenon, because it means, first, that the sense of the church as a place offered to God, for the worship owed him, has been lost; we have consecrated something, and then we take it back in order to do purely human things there. In the second place, we favor in this way the eclipse of the divine presence, because in the church we practice activities proper to a theater or an auditorium, such as speaking, eating, applauding, and other attitudes typical of places of entertainment. When a church becomes a theater where people laugh, applaud, and shout, it then becomes difficult to demand, for the same place, the proper attitudes for worship: listening, recollection, silence, adoration, because the conviction that one is standing in a versatile locale has taken root. That conviction leads to obscuring the principal and characteristic function of a church, which is adoration, and to prohibiting kneeling for prayer, either when the liturgy is being celebrated in the church, or outside the liturgy. But in reality, the church remains a place of presence and prayer, and of silence, even when there is no liturgy being celebrated. [6]

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