St. Basil the Great Offers Guidance to Priests

Today is the traditional feast of St. Basil the Great. During this time of year when many men are ordained to major orders, it may be beneficial to recall some wisdom from the past—from the Greek Anthologhion printed by Grottaferrata. It is striking how focused St. Basil is on the centrality of the priest's offering of the holy oblation with attentiveness, with the right dispositions of heart, and with care for the canons, including that which prohibits communicating public sinners. St. Basil and Archbishop Cordileone would find conversation easy on this topic. The translation is by a monk of Norcia. 

ΠΑΡΑΓΓΕΛΜΑ ΤΟΥ ΜΕΓΑΛΟΥ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΟΥ ΠΡΟΣ ΙΕΡΕΑ

Take care, O priest, to present yourself as a laborer without cause for shame who correctly transmits the Word of Truth.

Never prepare to offer Mass while being at enmity with someone, lest you drive away the Paraclete.

On the day you offer Mass, do not judge or quarrel, but remain in the church praying and reading until the time appointed for you to perform the divine mysteries; and stand before the altar with compunction and purity of heart, not glancing here and there, but with fear and trembling stand in the presence of the heavenly King.

Do not rush through your prayers or shorten them in order to please men, and be not an acceptor of persons, but be solely concerned with the King who is present, and the Heavenly Powers who encircle you.

Make yourself worthy of the holy canons. Do not offer worship with those who go astray. Look to him before whom you stand, look to how you perform your priestly duty, and with whom you communicate.

Do not forget the commandment of the Lord and of the holy Apostles. For he says, “Do not give holy things to dogs, or throw pearls before swine.” See that you do not betray the Son of God into the hands of the unworthy. Fear not in that hour the glorious ones of the earth, nor he who wears the diadem. Give freely to those who are worthy of communion, as you have freely received. But do not give communion to those impeded from receiving it by the holy canons.

See that no mouse or vile thing touches the holy mysteries, nor that they not get soaked, or be fouled by smoke, or polluted by profane or unworthy substances.

Observing these and similar things you will save yourself and those who obey you.

A Tale of Three Holy Cards

One of the most hackneyed of all clichés is that “a picture is worth a thousand words.” But there’s a reason certain familiar sayings arise in the first place, and that’s because they express a truth beyond gainsaying.

Some time ago, as I was visiting with a dear Benedictine friend of mine, I happened to notice two holy cards in his monastic breviary. The first was a card with nutty looking geometric shapes and a font that screamed 1970s. The other was a card that could have been from the 19th century.

I told the monk I’m a collector of vintage holy cards (sometime I’ll have to put pictures of some of them up on NLM), and that I’d enjoy giving these two a closer look. My guess of the 1970s was off just a little. The card featuring geometric shapes and the saying “The Creator has made the world…Come and see it” from the Pima Indians was an ordination holy card from May 30, 1965.

Ordination Holy Card (1965)

The other card, once I held it, felt surprisingly new. It turned out to be an ordination holy card from May 24, 2014. The text on the back of this card (not shown here) was not taken from the Pima Indians but from Hebrews 5, in the Knox translation no less:

The purpose for which any high priest is chosen from among his fellow men, and made a representative of men in their dealings with God, is to offer gifts and sacrifices in expiation of their sins. He is qualified for this by being able to feel for them when they are ignorant and make mistakes, since he, too, is all beset with humiliations, and, for that reason, must needs present sin-offerings for himself, just as he does for the people. His vocation comes from God, as Aaron’s did; nobody can take on himself such a privilege as this. … Thou art a priest for ever, in the line of Melchisedech.

Ordination Holy Card (2014)

I went to my holy card collection and pulled out a holy card from 1909, printed in Csákova, Romania, for the first Mass of a German priest. This card is smaller and narrower, as is often the case with older cards, and says at the bottom: “Das Himmelsbrod will ich empfangen und anrufen den Namen des Herrn. – I will receive the bread of heaven and call upon the Name of the Lord.” On the back, it says: “Heiliges Herz Jesu, ich vertaue auf dich! – Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee!”

First Mass Holy Card (1909)

What do we notice when we look at this progression—1909, 1965, 2014?

The 1909 card, with sensitive rendering, evokes the natural order elevated to the supernatural through the liturgy, with the wheat and grapes yielding themselves into the chalice surrounded by light, mounted on an altar book that is wrapped in a stole embroidered with crosses, the whole graced by a Eucharistic text. Two world wars and fifty-six years later, the 1965 card lacks any Christian symbols or texts, any indication that it has anything to do with the priesthood, or even any representational art to speak of. Forty-nine years later, the 2014 card shows a priest bowing humbly before the altar, where, in mystic vision, the High Priest blesses him as he mediates for the people, in the midst of a great church. Light—the light of grace and truth—cascades from Jesus, the Head of the Mystical Body, to the priest and people, in that hierarchical order. The 2014 card, with different imagery, is saying the same thing as the 1909 card: here is the source of light and life; here is the elevation of nature by grace; here is the special work of the ordained minister.

When we look with pained embarrassment at the 1965 card, we cannot help feeling that the 1960s are, with rare exceptions, thoroughly dead—and never was a death so welcome. Like the priests of centuries past, today’s youthful clergy have surrendered themselves to a genuine priestly vocation, with a spirit of awe, reverence, and veneration for the sacred mysteries. They are (just as the Letter to the Hebrews teaches) chosen mediators who offer gifts and sacrifices. The luminous liturgical theology of Pope Benedict XVI and the joyful rediscovery of the ancient Roman Rite of Mass have had much to do with this renewal. May they continue to bring in a harvest of vocations, men who wish to serve in union with, and in imitation of, the Heart of Jesus.

Is the Laity’s Offering of the Mass a Post-Conciliar Re-Discovery?

Archbishop Roche — like everyone trained by modern liturgists — keeps saying that the new rite finally recognizes that the faithful are also part of the offering of the Mass, instead of it just being the priest's work:

In the former [rite], he says, it was the priest who “represented the intentions of the people” and took that to God in the liturgy. Vatican II changed that. “With the understanding of the priesthood of all the baptised it’s not simply the priest alone who celebrates the Eucharist, but all the baptised who celebrate with him. That surely has to be the most profound understanding of what ‘participation’ means.” (Interview with Christopher Lamb in The Tablet, February 24, 2022)

This view is so common that one can stumble upon it as upon a cat or a pair of shoes in whatever direction one walks. Let me give some examples “in the wild.” From the Swinging Sixties:

To understand this religious program and to enjoy its hoped-for results we must all change our settled way of thinking regarding sacred ceremonies and religious practices as calling for no more than a passive, distracted assistance. (Paul VI, General Audience, January 13, 1965)
       The Council has taken the fundamental position that the faithful have to understand what the priest is saying and to share in the liturgy; to be not just passive spectators at Mass but souls alive. (Paul VI, Homily, March 27, 1966)

And a more recent sighting: 

Without going into much detail here, suffice it to say that one of the great scandals of the Roman Rite over the centuries has been its progressive disconnect from the people. Slowly over time, partly from a desire to preserve Latin as the language of worship, partly due to increased complexity and dramatic elements introduced by Frankish liturgists, and partly due to historical factors I will not rehearse here, the Mass became a purely clerical affair. The priests and other ministers would be gathered around the altar saying the Mass, and the people would be observing, almost like they were attending a play…. Why do you think the last 57 years have been liturgically so chaotic? Because the Church is suddenly trying to focus on something that she has not deeply considered for more than a millennium. The Church is trying to answer the question of how to include the people in the liturgical action of the Mass. (Fr. Jeffrey Moore, “Liturgical Participation,” February 2, 2020)

The trouble is, the view recycled by Archbishop Roche, Fr. Moore, and so many others, like its analogues in Pope Paul VI, corresponds to nothing that was ever taught to Catholics, nor does it correspond in the main to the experience of the laity who assist at the Latin Mass. Let’s have a look at two splendid examples from the tradition.

The first is from Fr. Martin von Cochem (1630–1712), who wrote the following in his extremely popular book Die Heilige Messe für die Weltleute [Holy Mass for the Laity], published in 1704:

Ponder well, O Christian, what the holy Catholic Church, infallible in matters of faith, declares to us.... She expressly states, and imposes on our belief, that no other work can be performed by the faithful so holy and divine as the tremendous mystery of the Mass. This does not only refer to priests, but to the faithful in general.
       Priests can indeed do nothing more holy and divine than celebrate Mass; the laity can do nothing more holy and divine than hear Mass, serve Mass, join in offering Mass, have Mass said for their intentions, follow the prayers and unite in spirit with the celebrant. Since to do this is of all works the most holy and divine, it stands to reason that it should also be the most profitable and meritorious....  (238, Benziger edition; TAN Books also has an edition, with different pagination)

And again: 

One of the greatest graces which are granted to the children of the Church is that the privilege of offering to the Divine Majesty the sacred and sublime sacrifice of the Mass is not the prerogative of priests alone, but belongs to the laity as well, to men, women, and children. This favor was not shown to the Jews; no one but the priest was permitted to offer the holocaust, or to kindle the incense in the temple....
       In the New Testament the case is very different; under this dispensation it is graciously permitted to ordinary people to offer, not incense only, but the precious blood of Christ in the holy Mass.... The faithful of either sex are members of a spiritual priesthood, and have received from God the power to offer spiritual sacrifices. But when they offer the Mass by the hands of the priest they do more, they offer what is better than a spiritual oblation, namely, a visible one, even the self-same victim Whom the priest holds in his hands.
       Happy indeed are the laity in being thus privileged, through the divine bounty, to purchase the inestimable treasure of the body and blood of Christ, and with a few words to offer it to God for their own immeasurable profit ! Make frequent use, O pious Christian, of this thy glorious prerogative; it is the easiest way of acquiring eternal riches. This sacrificial act is the chief, the most important, part of hearing Mass, for without it thou wilt neither gain much profit to thyself nor give pleasure to God. “Hearing Mass,” says a spiritual writer, “does not merely consist in being present in person when it is celebrated, but in offering it to God conjointly with the priest.”
       All this is undeniably true. It is not enough to be present at Mass in order to share in the fruits of the Mass: we must make a definite offering of it to God in union with the officiating priest. The Mass is a sacrifice, and it appertains to the nature of a sacrifice that it should be offered to the Deity. Therefore those persons who fail to do this, either with their lips or in their heart, do not derive half the benefit from the Mass that others do, although they fulfil the precept of the Church, whilst piously reciting other prayers that have nothing of the character of an offering. (298ff., Benziger ed.; TAN ed., 320–22)

And yet again: 

Ponder well the immense favor Christ bestows on thee in making thee a mystical priest, and empowering thee to offer the holy sacrifice of the Mass, not for thyself alone, but also for others. Bishop Fornerus tells us: ‘It is not the priest alone who offers the Mass for himself and for others: every Christian who is present may do the same, for his own needs and those of his friends.’ This is expressed in the prayer following after the Sanctus: “Be mindful, O Lord, of thy servants N. and N.; and of all present, whose faith and devotion are known, for whom we offer, or who offer, up to Thee this sacrifice for themselves, their families and friends…” The meaning of these words is too obvious to be mistaken.
       Moreover, when the priest says the Orate fratres, he turns towards the people and invites them to help him  in offering the holy sacrifice: ‘Brethren, pray that my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable to God the Father Almighty.’ As if he would say: I am about to perform a work of great importance, to offer an oblation which in my own strength I cannot do; I ask you to pray for me and assist me with your cooperation, for it concerns you nearly, the sacrifice is yours as well as  mine, and for this reason you are bound to help me. (Benziger, 301–2)

A near-contemporary, Saint Leonard of Port Maurice (1676–1751), another popular preacher of his day, addressed the same topic in his book The Hidden Treasure (also still in print from TAN Books). First, he establishes that it is Our Lord Jesus Christ who is the principal celebrant, which I assume no one would criticize as clericalism:

At every hour, then, in various parts of the world, this most perfectly holy Priest offers to the Father His Blood, His Soul, and His whole self for us: and all this He does as many times as there are Masses celebrated in the whole world. O boundless treasure! O mine of inestimable stores thus possessed by us in the Church of God! O happy we if we could but assist at all these Masses! What a store of reward would be thus acquired! What a heaping up of graces in this life, what a fund of glory in the other, would be the fruit of so loving an attendance!

Then he talks about how the faithful also offer the holy sacrifice:

But what is implied in this word “attendance”? Those who hear Mass not only perform the office of attendants, but likewise of offerers, having themselves a right to the title of priests. ‘Fecisti nos Deo nostro regnum et sacerdotes’ (Apoc. v. 10). The celebrating priest is, as it were, the public minister of the Church in general; he is the intermediary between all the faithful, particularly those who assist at Mass, and the invisible Priest, Who is Christ; and, together with Christ, he offers to the Eternal Father, both in behalf of all the rest and of himself, the great price of human redemption.
       But he is not alone in this so holy function, since all those who assist at Mass concur with him in offering the sacrifice; and, therefore, the priest turns round to the people and says, “Orate fratres ut meum ac vestrum sacrificium acceptabile fiat - Pray, brethren, that mine and your sacrifice may be acceptable to God”, in order that the faithful may understand that, while he indeed acts the part of principal minister, all those who are present make the great offering together with him. So that when you assist at Holy Mass, you perform, after a certain manner, the office of priest.
       What say you, then? Will you ever dare, from this time forward, to be at Mass sitting, prating, looking here and there, perhaps even sleeping, or content yourselves with reciting some vocal prayers, without at all taking to heart the tremendous office of priest which you are exercising? Ah me! I cannot restrain myself from exclaiming, O dull and incapable world, that understandest nothing of mysteries so sublime! How is it possible that anyone should remain before the altar with a mind distracted and a heart dissipated at a time when the holy Angels stand there trembling and astonished at the contemplation of a work so stupendous? (pp. 5-6)

Now, these two authors, Martin von Cochem and St. Leonard of Port-Maurice, were not obscure figures writing esoteric tomes for religious scholasticates. They were, as already mentioned, popular preachers and writers and highly typical figures of Counter-Reformation Catholicism. The traditional doctrine they preached was being spread all over the place as part of the Church’s response to Protestant errors and as a means for encouraging the laity to live a a devout liturgical life.

One might object: Would they need to have insisted so much on these truths if the laity had not forgotten them and if the liturgy they were accustomed to did not foster the contrary attitude?

My response: the truth about the identity of the baptized as co-offerers of the Sacrifice of Christ is always in danger of being forgotten because it is a matter of faith, not something patently obvious to the senses. It will always need to be taught, regardless of the form the liturgy takes. But we can go a step further and say that the form the Mass takes will have a lot to do with how much the laity can perceive it to be the mystical offering of the sublime sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, and how much opportunity and incentive it gives them for entering profoundly into that sacrifice.

Ultimately, the problem is not that the old Mass encourages passivity or laziness. Laity can be uninvolved in any liturgy. (I don’t know when’s the last time Arthur Roche has observed teenagers at the Novus Ordo, texting and surfing on their phones — and not just teenagers, I’m afraid.) The real problem is that the modern liturgists tend to have a Protestant understanding of what active participation means: they think it must look just like what the priest is doing, so if the priest is speaking, the laity must speak; if he sings, the laity must sing; if he stands at the altar, at least some of the laity have to go stand at the altar with him; if he is distributing communion, some of the laity should as well. It is only a barely lingering sense of decency that has prevented (in most cases) laity from lifting up the consecrated host and chalice along with the priest at the elevations.

In short: the Novus Ordo theoreticians tiptoe as close as they possible can to the heresy that the laity are priests in the same way as the priest is a priest, and so it bothers them a great deal if there is a liturgical rite in which there is a clear and sharp distinction externally between how the priest offers Mass and how the laity offer it with him and by his hands. Their complaint, in other words, appears to be directed at the “sacerdotalism” of the Catholic Mass. They would like to overcome it as much as possible, while (at least sometimes) not technically running afoul of the canons and decrees of Trent.

The great irony, then, becomes this: for over half a century, Catholics have been habituated by the Novus Ordo into thinking that if they show up for Mass, sing, speak, sit, and stand, and especially if they “volunteer to minister,” they have actively participated: they can, as it were, punch the ticket. What it all means for my inner prayer life is, sadly, quite untouched; people are too busy and too distracted to get to that level. Yet the Magisterium of the Church, together with the pars sanior of the Liturgical Movement, have always said that the interior spiritual dimension is the more fundamental and the more important dimension of participatio actuosa, and that the external activity is worthwhile inasmuch as it supports the internal engagement in the Mystery of Faith.

With the emphasis on doing and the paucity of intense personal prayer, the current regime strikingly calls to mind the warning of Our Lord: “Woe to you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; because you tithe mint, and anise, and cumin, and have left the weightier things of the law; judgment, and mercy, and faith. These things you ought to have done, and not to leave those undone” (Matt. 23:23). That is, translated into this conversation, you should do the little active things with your body when and as appropriate, but don’t forget the weightier things of the spiritual order.

Fr. Hunwicke recently cited a most relevant passage from Dom Gregory Dix:

If the word had not come to have as offensive a sound for many as “clericalism” itself, the old term “sacerdotalism” might well be used to describe the reconciling principle of the primitive church, so dear to S Paul, “that there are diversities of ministries, many members, yet but one Body,” in which they find their hierarchic unity; and that all are necessary to the perfection of the Church, the Body of Christ. Clericalism, I take it, means in itself simply undue exaltation of the person and importance of the minister, whether he claims priestly character and special sacramental power, or not. “Sacerdotalism,” on the other hand, means simply the belief that certain men are given by God certain priestly powers on behalf of their fellows, which their fellows have not got. These are not the same thing ... the pre-Nicene Church was certainly not “clericalist,” but it was profoundly “sacerdotalist.”

The “sacerdotalism” of the old rites, in which the clergy — bishops, priests, deacons, subdeacons, those in minor orders or their substitutes — are manifestly the primary agents executing the services, and the congregation attends, or to use an old-fashioned term, “assists” in a mostly quiet and apparently passive way, is uniformly deplored by modern liturgists as a form of clericalism and a separation or exclusion of the people from the liturgical action. Yet they fail to grasp the paradox of the spiritual involvement, attraction, and even fascination provoked by the hieratic “distance” of the clergy in the sanctuary, the architectural boundaries and barriers that turn spaces into symbols, and the entrustment of rites to men who exemplify the worship of God in their ceremonial vesture, scripted words, and carefully-controlled motions.

In other words, something that is routinely assumed to be anti-participational and anti-corporate is nothing of the kind. The development that took place in history accentuated features already clearly present in the old covenant and continued in the new covenant in the Cross of Christ — a covenant pre-interpreted in an Upper Room cut off from the marketplace, consummated on a mount cut off from the city, achieved in the torturous separation of Body and Blood, echoed in the Nolite me tangere (“Do not touch me,” John 20:17) of the risen Lord who must ascend beyond us that we may follow him: Trahe me, post te curremus (“Draw me, we will run after thee,” Song 1:3). A certain kind of hierarchic and bodily differentiation and separation is part of the essence of the Christian religion as lived in this in-between time, between the Fall and the Second Coming; when lived rightly, it serves charity and spiritual union.

As our two Counter-Reformation preachers remind us, the message of the laity’s real participation in offering the Mass has always been a part of Catholic catechesis. We should not be too quick to trust the examples of corruption furnished by the class of professional liturgists as pretexts for their radical makeover of the Roman Rite.

Should a Priest Introduce the Usus Antiquior to a Congregation That Doesn’t Request It?

Let’s begin with the most obvious point, which nevertheless still needs to be said. As per Summorum Pontificum, if the faithful themselves request the traditional Latin Mass, the pastor must provide it for them, or at least make arrangements for another priest to provide it. He is not allowed simply to say no. He might say “yes, but first I have to learn it” (and then the laity, already prepared, will tell him that they will cover all his expenses); or “yes, but at this difficult juncture — with the new elementary school, the prison ministry, the nursing home, and the recent death of the vicar — I won’t be able to learn it, so I will ask around and try to get a Mass started for you next month.” And of course, the pastor will always make such responses with a smile and gratitude for the devotion of his faithful to the rich traditions of the Catholic Church.

But what about a situation where the people are basically content with what they’ve got? They are accustomed to the “Ordinary Form” and know nothing else; they are not asking for anything else. Let’s even say, for the sake of argument, that the parish is on the upper end of the Ratzingerian scale and is already putting into practice the ideals of the “ROTR,” such as ad orientem, use of Latin and Gregorian chant, fine sacred music, beautiful vestments, kneeling for holy communion, and the like. Is there anything “wanting” to such a community? Is there any reason for the pastor himself to introduce the usus antiquior?

Yes. There are two basic reasons to do so.

First, for the priest’s own benefit. In an article published in Catholic World Report, “Finding What Should Never Have Been Lost: Priests and the Extraordinary Form” (one of many such articles now online), we find testimonies from priests about the effect that celebrating the usus antiquior has had on them, and why they find it so moving. One priest says: “It has a mystical, contemplative, and mysterious quality, with its use of Latin, the gestures, the position of the altar, and the prayers, which are more ornate than we have today.” Another priest remarks: “I was a lifelong Catholic, and I’d never experienced the Mass in that way. I didn’t imagine such a Mass existed. I was enthralled by it. When I celebrate the Mass, it has less to do with me, the priest, and is more about God.” A third priest states: “The Tridentine Mass has changed me. I like its reverence, and it’s helped me see the Mass as a sacrifice, not just a memorial.”

Every priest I know who offers the traditional Latin Mass — and I have spoken with hundreds over the years — experiences in a powerful, almost visceral way the awesomeness of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and of the mystery of the priesthood on account of many elements in the liturgy that were unfortunately removed in the reforms of the 1960s: the humble approach to the altar at the beginning, which is saturated with the humility and piety that befits “being about the Father’s business”; the many times the priest must bow or genuflect, the many kissings of the altar and signs of blessing; the exquisite attention to meaningful detail in one’s posture, attitude, and disposition; the profound prayers of the Offertory; the immersion into silence at the Canon, so piercingly focused on the mystery by which the immolation of Christ is renewed in our midst; the care that surrounds every aspect of the handling of the Body and Blood of the Lord, from canonical digits to thoroughgoing ablutions; the Placeat tibi and Last Gospel, which bring home the magnitude of what has taken place: nothing less than the redemptive Incarnation continuing in our midst. How could this not hugely benefit a priest in his interior life, and lead him further along the path of his vocation and his sanctification?

The second reason for a priest to make the usus antiquior available even when his congregation has not requested it is for their spiritual benefit. One of the priests interviewed in the aforementioned article points out: “Ninety percent of Catholics today have had no experience of the Church before Vatican II. They don’t know about its traditional art, architecture, or liturgy.” As Joseph Ratzinger lamented more than once, there was a rupture if not in theory, then certainly in fact. Catholics were separated from the traditions of the Church; indeed, adhering to traditions came to be seen as a sort of infidelity to Vatican II and to the new spirit it ushered in, which was supposed to newly engage modernity and bear the harvest of a new evangelization. This does not seem to have happened, or not with the fullness that had been desired and promised. If anything, it tended to encourage skepticism towards anything preconciliar and a promethean temptation to refashion the Church according to the latest fads and theories.

Although the worst of the “silly season” may be over (at least in most places), the People of God still suffer from the effects of this widespread deracination. What better way to root them again in the two millennia of Catholicism than by enriching them with the form of worship that nurtured the great saints of the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, the Baroque, and the entire Tridentine period that stretched over four and a half centuries? In the memorable words of Pope Benedict XVI’s letter to bishops, Con grande fiducia: “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.”

This can only be a “win” for the faithful in the parish, stretching them in good ways. It will develop new habits of meditative and contemplative prayer; it will strongly confirm the dogma that the Mass is a true and proper sacrifice; it will intensify their adoration of the Most Holy Eucharist and their veneration of the ministerial priesthood (which is not a species of clericalism); it will open their minds to a wider world of Catholic culture and theology; and last but not least, it will support the effort to celebrate the Novus Ordo in a more traditional manner by showing where the ROTR paradigm came from in the first place — in other words, why we do certain things this way rather than that way.

We may conclude this part of our exposition with the striking words of the late Darío Cardinal Castrillón Hoyos during his tenure as the president of the Pontifical Commission Ecclesia Dei:

Let me say this plainly: the Holy Father wants the ancient use of the Mass to become a normal occurrence in the liturgical life of the Church so that all of Christ’s faithful – young and old – can become familiar with the older rites and draw from their tangible beauty and transcendence. The Holy Father wants this for pastoral reasons as well as for theological ones. (London, 14 June 2008)

When asked at a press conference on the same day “Would the Pope like to see many ordinary parishes making provision for the Gregorian Rite?,” His Eminence replied:

All the parishes. Not many — all the parishes, because this is a gift of God. He offers these riches, and it is very important for new generations to know the past of the Church. This kind of worship is so noble, so beautiful — the deepest theologians’ way to express our faith. The worship, the music, the architecture, the painting, makes a whole that is a treasure. The Holy Father is willing to offer to all people this possibility, not only for the few groups who demand it, but so that everybody knows this way of celebrating the Eucharist in the Catholic Church.

A great good for all of the faithful

Practical Considerations

One question I am often asked by laity and clergy is: “How should the Extraordinary Form be introduced where it has not yet existed?” I think what they mean is largely practical: when, how often, and with what preparation or accompaniments.

My advice has always been to do it gradually: to start quietly (I mean, without fanfare) by scheduling a monthly Mass; then, once this Mass is known to be celebrated and there is some congregation for it, to offer catechesis to the rest of the parish in homilies, and a kindly invitation. After this has gone over well and has become an accepted fact, the frequency can be increased to once a fortnight or once a week. At this point, the priest reaches a crossroads: if he judges that the community will respond favorably and his head will not be handed to him on a platter at the chancery, he could celebrate the usus antiquior several times a week. I have seen regular parish schedules where it is offered as the daily Mass on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, or where there is a Sunday Mass and a weekday Mass.

To get even more particular, it has often worked well to introduce a traditional Latin Mass on Saturday morning, because this is a “low traffic” time of the week, and least likely to ruffle feathers. In some parishes there isn’t even a normal Saturday morning Mass, so nothing has to be swapped out. Another possibility is First Fridays and/or First Saturdays, because these are well-loved but traditional devotions, and the Latin Mass can be viewed as their natural complement: it sounds like a special thing being done for a special devotion. Another pastor I know introduced a monthly evening Mass just for men and boys, as part of a program of adoration, rosary, Mass, and fellowship; he will soon introduce a monthly evening Mass just for women and girls.

Introducing the usus antiquior on Sundays or Holy Days is at once the most important step and the most difficult. It is important to do so eventually, because only in this way can the treasure of the old liturgy reach the largest number of faithful. It is obviously difficult because of the need (in some places) for many Masses offered by a single priest, as well as by the challenge of an already-existing schedule that parishioners are loath to see modified. Still, even here there can be a way forward. For example, if there is already a quiet early morning Mass, one might convert this into a quiet Low Mass, being careful to repeat the readings from the pulpit in the vernacular before the homily. If there is a “contemporary youth Mass,” why not try the wild and crazy New Evangelization experiment of substituting a Gregorian Missa cantata for it instead? A lot of young Catholics are bored or turned off by the pseudo-pop music and the implicit dumbing-down that liturgical planners assume to be necessary for the smartphone generation. As always, some youths might stop coming, but others would find in it a radically new experience that appeals to them in mysterious ways. New people would come — and bring more people. It could end up being quite successful.

In all of this, I am painfully aware of the reality on the ground. There are many priests who feel that their hands are tied on account of the hostility, on the part of the bishop, the chancery, the presbytery, or the parish, towards anything traditional. This is a deplorable aspect of our decadent situation, but it is not a dead end. In such cases, a priest still profits from learning the usus antiquior, as he can offer it privately once a week on his day off. This will be to his own spiritual benefit for all the reasons already given, and, by connecting him to a wealth of tradition, influence for the better his understanding of what liturgy is and how it should be celebrated in any rite or form.

Visit www.peterkwasniewski.com for information, articles, sacred music, and Os Justi Press.

“Preach the Gospel to Every Creature”: The Benedicite

Detail from Edward Arthur Fellowes, Benedicite Domino

“And he said to them: Go ye into the whole world, and preach the gospel to every creature” (Mark 16, 15). How do we preach the gospel to every creature — including stones, trees, brute animals?

We cause them to participate in the Gospel by elevating, as much as possible, each rank of being, through our cognition of them and our appreciation of their beauty, their intricacy, their strength, their usefulness [1]; through domestication of them if they are susceptible to human reason in this manner; and through the sacred liturgy, when it takes up each order of being and harnesses it for the worship of God: a church built of stone, vessels made of metal, vestments woven of silk and linen, windows crafted from glass, flowers on the altar, the blessing of fields, livestock, gardens, and wine. We preach the Gospel to them by preaching it through them, thus making them partakers of the mission of the Word and of the Church.

The famous hymn of the Benedicite, taken from chapter 3 of the book of Daniel and incorporated into the Latin Divine Office, strongly underlines this truth. My attention was first drawn to this hymn by a reflection of Thomas Storck’s entitled “All Ye Works of the Lord, Bless the Lord: A Rural Meditation from Daniel 3,” published in the singularly charming but long-defunct journal Caelum et Terra. [2] In the intervening years, I have grown familiar with this hymn from Sunday and festal Lauds, and have noticed, if I pray it slowly enough and think about what I’m doing — addressing imperatives to all of creation! — that something in it always stirs some faint memory, fosters a present gratitude, and incites a longing for a new heavens and a new earth where righteousness will be at home.

More recently, I came across this exquisite passage in a book on the spirituality of Mother Catherine-Mectilde de Bar, foundress of the Benedictines of Perpetual Adoration:

Man finds himself to be as the heart of creation. In our body, the heart is, in effect, only a small organ, and nevertheless it vivifies all the whole. In the same way, man, although tiny in the place he occupies on the earth, animates it in its totality. When the heart loves, it is the whole man that loves. And in the same way, when man adores his God, it is the whole universe that, in him, adores and glorifies its Creator. … Man is the priest of the universe: through his nature, at once bodily and spiritual, he is the intermediary between the visible world and the invisible world, between ponderous matter and the God who is Spirit. He alone is capable of offering that “worship in spirit and in truth” which the Father seeks and which Christ demands of the Samaritaness for quenching the thirst of His Heart. [3] 

“Man is the priest of the universe … the intermediary between the visible and the invisible…” Our Lord Jesus Christ, whose coming in the flesh and whose Second Coming in glory we linger over each Advent season, is the Last Adam, the perfect Man, the divine Man, the Eternal High Priest — the one Mediator between God and man, visible and invisible. In the Son, “ponderous matter and the God who is Spirit” are united indivisibly, inseparably, unconfusedly. In the Heart of Jesus is the perfect glorification of God by material creation. His human knowledge of worldly things elevates them as no other man’s knowledge can do; His love and use of them bestows upon them a dignity they could never have by themselves. In Christ the world encounters its Maker, returns to its origin, attains its end.

When Our Lord prayed the Benedicite, as He surely must have done, He was uttering to each kind of thing the echo of the creative word that called forth its realizations ex nihilo, the vivifying word that sustains them in essendi, the commanding word that harnesses them for salvation, the fearsome word that dooms them to finitude and fire at the end of time. In the Benedicite uttered by His holy lips, the creature heard itself called as if by name, called to bend before the Name above all other names. In particular, the things taken up by Christ as the matter of the sacraments acquired special status: they became, as it were, the aristocracy of material beings, a rank they will occupy until the world is no more. They have become quasi-natural signs of their Mediator.

*          *          *

At the end of the Benedicite, this hymn of creation to its Creator, we are given a fireworks finale of seven categories of humans, signifying the totality of the human race. If we add beasts of burden, which are the only animals that participate in human life through their cooperative labor, we can count eight categories:

Benedicite, omnes bestiae et pecora, Domino,
     benedicite, filii hominum, Domino.
Benedic, Israel, Domino,
     laudate et superexaltate eum in saecula.
Benedicite, sacerdotes Domini, Domino,
     benedicite, servi Domini, Domino.
Benedicite, spiritus et animae iustorum, Domino,
     benedicite, sancti et humiles corde, Domino.
Benedicite, Anania, Azaria, Misael, Domino,
     laudate et superexaltate eum in saecula.

8) Bestiae et pecora. Beasts and cattle are owned by another and profitable to their owners. They are elevated by their participation in human life and labors; we elevate them by imposing on them the rule of reason. Some higher animals even imitate the works of reason as from a distance, as can be seen with sheep dogs, guard dogs, guide dogs, or police dogs, which do some of what a rational animal would do, because they are capable of learning.

7) Filii hominum. “Children of men” emphasizes generation — namely, that we are “from another”: we receive our humanity, establishing the basic anthropological pattern that “you are not your own” (1 Cor. 6, 19) and “what have you, that you have not received?” (1 Cor. 4, 7). So, even as the higher beasts receive their guidance, their training, from their human master and thereby come to participate in his reason, so man receives guidance and training in virtue from God. No man is self-sufficient or autonomous.

6) Israel is brought into being by the Word of the Lord, by His promise, covenant, and mighty deeds. It is the Lord who chooses, who loves, who bestows value on the creature, on the nation, on the people He calls His own. He loves us not because we are already beautiful, but in order to make us beautiful and worthy of His love. “Not because you surpass all nations in number is the Lord joined unto you, and hath chosen you, for you are the fewest of any people; but because the Lord hath loved you” (Deut. 7, 7). “Because thou wast forsaken, and hated, and there was none that passed through thee, I will make thee to be an everlasting glory, a joy unto generation and generation” (Isa. 60, 15); “You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you; and have appointed you, that you should go and bring forth fruit.” (John 15, 16)

5) Sacerdotes Domini. Building on the foregoing, the phrase “priests of the Lord” reminds us that the priest is one who is chosen, called, ordained. “Neither doth any man take the honour to himself, but he that is called by God, as Aaron was.” (Hebr. 5, 4) Just as a Christian cannot baptize or confirm himself, a priest cannot ordain himself but must always be ordained by another. All spiritual generation in Christianity, like all paternal biological generation, has its source in the divine Fatherhood, source of the godhead of the Son and Holy Spirit, source of the whole of creation and all of its differentiated powers.

Here, I cannot refrain from quoting Cardinal Ratzinger’s perceptive remarks about the problem of women’s ordination, as seen through the lens of a prominent feminist theologian:

Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza … took a vehement part in the struggle for women’s ordination, but now she says that that was a wrong goal. The experience with female priests in the Anglican Church has, she says, led to the realization that “ordination is not a solution; it isn’t what we wanted.” She also explains why. She says, “ordination is subordination, and that’s exactly what we don’t want.” And on this point her diagnosis is completely correct.
          To enter into an ordo always also means to enter into a relationship of subordination. But in our liberation movement, says Schussler-Fiorenza, we don’t want to enter into an ordo, into a subordo, a “subordination,” but to overcome the very phenomenon itself. Our struggle, she says, therefore mustn’t aim at women’s ordination; that is precisely the wrong thing to do. Rather, it must aim at the cessation of ordination altogether and at making the Church a society of equals in which there is only a “shifting leadership.”
          Given the motivations behind the struggle for women’s ordination, which does in fact aim at powersharing and liberation from subordination, she has seen that correctly. But then one must really say there is a whole question behind this: What is the priesthood actually? [4]

This final question rings out again and again, piercing through the din of controversy and the darkness of abuse, with a resounding answer in the bimillennial witness of faithful Catholic priests, imitators of and participants in the very priesthood of Jesus Christ, of whom they are living icons. No, true Christianity is not “a society of equals” with a “shifting leadership”; it is a hierarchical society, much like the cosmic order depicted in the Benedicite, reflected in the descending alignment of priest, deacon, subdeacon, and servers in a solemn Mass.

4) Servi Domini. What are we, fundamentally? The Benedicite answers: “servants of the Lord” — servants who do their Master’s bidding. “Behold as the eyes of the servants are on the hands of their masters, as the eyes of the handmaid are on the hands of her mistress: so are our eyes unto the Lord our God, until he have mercy on us.” (Ps. 122, 2) The Aristotelian category usually translated as “relation” is, in Aristotle’s Greek, pros ti, or in Latin, ad aliquid — a much more concrete way of speaking: to be in relation is to be “towards something.” The servant is something of the master’s; he exists towards the master. His eyes are riveted on the Master’s hands, awaiting the signal for work or for rest. The servant depends on the master; without him, he is nothing.

Does this not help us also to see the place of man in the material universe? It is entrusted to man as its master; the world and all that is in it is meant to be his servant. Even as the catalogue of creatures in the Benedicite looks to man for its ultimate explanation and elevation, so man looks to God, and in a special way to Christ, as his Dominus and Magister.

3) Spiritus et animae justorum. “Ye spirits and souls of the just, bless the Lord!” How tightly linked are the verses of this hymn! As we just saw, a servant is, by definition, something of his master. Here, the virtue by which we single out the holy ones in heaven is justice — the virtue that is inherently relational. Aristotle and Aquinas teach us that temperance, fortitude, prudence, and all the other moral and intellectual virtues are about a perfection of oneself in oneself, but justice is the perfection of oneself towards another. The classic definition of justice is “that by which we render to another what is his own.” We cannot have justice towards ourselves, strictly speaking, but only towards another in whose debt we stand.

On the supernatural plane, we have our justice, our righteousness, not from ourselves but from Christ, by whom and in whom we are justified. Our justice, moreover, consists not in the flesh but in the rightly-ordered soul, where the lower is subordinated to the higher, and the highest in us is submitted to the Highest in Himself. “Spirits and souls of the just,” all ye angels and saints, bless the Lord for His mercy in saving you from perdition!

2) Sancti et humiles corde. The “holy and humble of heart” are, we hope and we pray, the rest of us who are not yet saved. Why does the Benedicite use these two words, sancti and humiles corde?

With the creative etymologies of St Isidore of Seville in mind, St Thomas traces the word sanctus to sanguine tinctus, sprinkled with blood, the blood of the sacrificial victim (Summa theologiae II-II, q. 81, a. 8) — as were the Hebrews at Mt Sinai, and as are Christians in their baptism into the death and resurrection of Christ the unspotted Lamb. The only ones who are holy are the ones purified by contact with the blood pleasing to God, because in this way they are themselves claimed for Him and surrendered to Him in their totality.

Humiles corde reminds us of the famous saying of St Teresa of Jesus: “humility is truth.” Truth, for St Thomas, is the adequatio rei et intellectus, the correspondence between thing and intellect, or rather, the intellect’s very identity with the knowable nature of the object. Christ came into the world to bear witness to the truth; the primary aim of the Christian must be to correspond to that truth. In this way we circle back to all the earlier verses: the generation of likeness; the priesthood as icon; servanthood; justice. Everything in the Benedicite strikes a note of “noble humility” or “humble nobility.”

Aquinas reminds us that, while things are the cause of our knowledge, with God it is the other way around: His knowledge is the very cause of things. We can see a parallel in liturgy: tradition is the formal cause of liturgy, not liturgy the cause of tradition. That is, simply making a liturgy, however “correct,” does not establish it as tradition, for tradition is something received, not produced. Once there is a liturgy in existence, it is handed down and received. To make a new liturgy is to violate humility. According to Aquinas, our faculty of understanding is active, but acts upon a world given to us through our senses, so that we are beholden to things in their prior existence, independent of us. Even if material being is elevated in our souls, knowing is being humbled by what is. For Kant, on the other hand, our faculty of understanding can be said to produce reality and synthesize it. No Kantian could recite the Benedicite, and only a Kantian would construct a new liturgy.

1) Anania, Azaria, Misael. At last, we come to the last and most surprising apostrophe in the hymn, prior to its doxology. I say surprising, not in terms of its context in Daniel 3, but for a detached liturgical hymn recited as part of Lauds: why are we addressing these three Hebrew children? A great deal has been and could be said about this, but here I will simply look at the very meaning of their names to see what they may reveal.

• Hananiah (חֲנַנְיָה‎), “Yah (i.e., Yahweh) is gracious”
• Azariah (עֲזַרְיָה‎), “Yah has helped”
• Mishael (מִישָׁאֵל‎), “Who is like God?” (compare “Michael”)

Note the progression in these names.

• The first name denotes God’s basic stance towards creation: He is gracious, He gives and gives freely, to those to whom nothing is owed. As St Thomas teaches, mercy — understood as bestowing good things on those who are in need — is the very root of all of God’s acts, because He creates from nothing, bestowing on the creature its primordial nature (see Summa theologiae I, q. 21, a. 4).
• The second name denotes God’s active intervention in history: He is not only gracious as a settled disposition, but ready to help, to intervene in one’s life, to save those who call on Him. He is not only benevolent but beneficent.
• The third name emphasizes the transcendence of God. However much He involves Himself in the course of the world and in the government of His rational creatures, God is still and always God: He is above and beyond all things and must be adored as such — as existing in and of and for Himself, and the end to which everything else is directed. Not even an infinity of universes of sinless creatures could pay Him adequate homage. Only in the Trinitarian perichoresis or circumincession is the knowledge and love of God sufficient unto Himself.

The Benedicite thus fittingly ends on the cusp of its doxology with the name of the child who reminds us that God is “beyond all praising,” and yet, that our feeble praises please Him, as the three children in the fiery furnace pleased Him when they uttered their inspired words, immortalized in the Church’s liturgy.

The Three Children in the Fiery Furnace, from the Catacombs of Priscilla in Rome.

NOTES

[1] As Aquinas argues, a stone has a nobler mode of existence as an idea in the human soul, where it is alive with rational life, than it has in itself, being a lifeless lump of matter. At the same time, ideas in the soul are accidents, while the stone is a substance, and in terms of this comparison, the stone subsists or has esse simpliciter, while the idea of a stone exists only in another, having esse per accidens.
[2] The essay may be found here, at the Storck archives.
[3] Priez sans cesse, 10–11.
[4] Salt of the Earth: The Church at the End of the Millennium (Ignatius Press, 1997).

Visit www.peterkwasniewski.com for information, articles, sacred music, and Os Justi Press.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux on the Sacristans of Her Convent

Many readers will be familiar with this wonderful photograph of St. Thérèse, shown posing in her work of filling the ciborium with hosts (among other typical functions of a sacristan) for the daily conventual Mass:

This, of course, is much in keeping with the usual customs of women’s monasteries, where the sisters perform many of the tasks that would otherwise be assigned to clerics, such as leading the entire Divine Office and chanting its readings and prayers; making the responses at low Mass from outside the sanctuary in situations where no servers are available; and, in some rare cases, chanting the epistle at Mass (see Shawn Tribe’s “Carthusian Nuns and the Use of the Maniple and Stole”).

A photo that is much less known, and which I myself saw only for the first time recently, shows Thérèse with, if I may so say, her liturgical assistants in November 1896. Three of them are her blood sisters Marie, Pauline, and Céline (Sr. Marie of the Sacred Heart, Mother Agnes of Jesus, and St. Geneviève of the Holy Face) and one is her aunt Marie Guérin (Sr. Marie of the Eucharist). Sr. Marie of the Eucharist, Sr. Marie of the Angels (not in the photo), and St. Thérèse were the sacristans, while her three blood sisters were altar bread bakers[1]:

St. Thérèse was a gifted amateur poet and playwright who composed a surprising amount of literary work in her spare moments during her nine years as a Carmelite nun. Some of her work was intended for public occasions such as recreations, birthdays, and feastdays, while other pieces were more private, sent to one or a few of her religious sisters.

In the same month of November 1896, she wrote a poem called “The Sacristans of Carmel,” in rhyming octosyllabic verse, which I wish to share with readers in honor of the Little Flower’s feast (whether you are celebrating it today on the new calendar or two days from now on the old calendar).

The poem was written for Sr. Marie Philomena, who had asked Thérèse for something she could sing while baking; but it was first read by her aunt. Later, all of the sacristans and altar bread bakers got to know the poem, and apparently sang it regularly in their work, to whatever familiar tune they chose that would match the meter. In this we see a splendid example of the genre of a “work song” that has nearly disappeared from the world of mass-marketed and passively consumed entertainment. One may hope such work songs still survive in the Carmels.

The religious and theological content of the song are quite worth of attention. Here is the ICS translation, slightly modified to make it more literal[2]:

1. Here below our sweet office
Is to prepare for the altar
The bread and wine of the Sacrifice
Which brings to earth—“Heaven”!

2. Heaven, O supreme mystery!,
Hides itself under humble bread,
For Heaven, it is Jesus Himself,
Coming to us each morning.

3. There are no queens on earth
Who are happier than we.
Our office is a prayer
Which unites us to our Spouse.

4. This greatest honors of this world
Cannot compare
To the peace, profound and heavenly,
Which Jesus lets us savor.

5. We bring a holy envy
For the work of our hands,
For the little white host
Which is to veil our divine Lamb.

6. But his love has chosen us.
He is our Spouse, our Friend.
We are also hosts
Which Jesus wants to change into Himself.

7. Sublime mission of the Priest,
You become our mission here below.
Transformed by the Divine Master,
It is He who guides our steps.

8. We must help the apostles
By our prayers, our love.
Their battlefields are ours.
For them we fight each day.

9. The hidden God of the tabernacle
Who also hides in our hearts,
O what a miracle! at our voice
Deigns to pardon sinners!

10. Our happiness and our glory
Is to work for Jesus.
His beautiful Heaven is the ciborium
We want to fill with souls!...

The original draft

I heartily agree with the Carmelite commentators who find this poem both charming and insightful:

The sacristans are the untiring agents of this mysterious exchange [between heaven and earth]. In this poem, they readily call to mind something like Jacob’s ladder. These stanzas are full of “gentleness.” There is the discreet gentleness of the “housewife,” if we dare call it that: of the spouse “happier than a queen” whose heart remains attentive to her Husband, while her hands are diligently working for Him. There is also the discreet gentleness of the Carmelite nun, who is associated with the apostle at the altar in the role that is hers, that of the hidden companion. In both cases, the assistant becomes like the one she assists. …
       Here she [Thérèse] sings of her concrete way of sharing immediately in the “sublime mission of the Priest.” “Transformed” into Jesus by the Eucharist, “changed” into Him, does she not then also become an “alter Christus”…? She cannot leave her cloister to “preach the Gospel,” but Jesus, the first Missionary, walks in her and through her. He “guides her steps,” as He does those of the apostles she prays for, loves, and struggles for.
       She cannot absolve from sins. But Jesus present in her through the Eucharist gives her a share in his ministry of reconciling sinners.
       She will never fill the ciborium with consecrated hosts. But she is spending her life “filling Heaven with souls”—living hosts in which Christ lives alone from then on. …
       So Thérèse has no inferiority complex toward “men” or priests. She has no presumption either. For her, it is Jesus who acts in collaboration with men—and women. Even in 1892, she wrote to Céline: “I find that our share is really beautiful; what have we to envy in priests?”[3]

In fact, if we may use the awkward expression “holy envy,” it will always be the case that each Christian vocation has reason to admire the goods of every other, since these goods are not, simply speaking, compatible with one another. The priest may well “envy” the female religious her total and silent dedication to prayer, which he will almost never attain in his active ministry; the married man or woman may “envy” the consecrated soul its undivided attentiveness or availability for the things of the Lord (cf. 1 Cor 7); the consecrated man or woman may “envy” the married their sacramental realization of the faithful, fruitful union of Christ and the Church, which brings new immortal souls into the world, to complete the number of the elect. In the Mother of God alone do we find united that which nature cannot unite, combining and exceeding all Christian states of life: she is the wife unwed, the child-bearing virgin, mother inviolate, mediatrix of all grace as the inseparable minister of the High Priest. In her all vocations are at one, like white light before it splinters into a spectrum of colors. For the rest of us, the individual colors are distinct, complementary, and beautiful, as they are intended to be, for our individual benefit and for the common good of the Church.

St. Thérèse’s poem serves as a profitable meditation on several intertwined mysteries: the unique, exalted, and irreplaceable nature of the ministerial priesthood; the lofty participation in Christ the High Priest enjoyed by all who are baptized into His sacerdotal and royal dignity; the special position of consecrated religious, who follow the priestly and sacrificial Lamb whithersoever He goeth; and the value in God’s sight of the quiet, humble work done by sacristans whenever they reverently prepare the materials and environs required for worthily offering the sacrifice of praise.

NOTES

[1] For this and other details, I am indebted to the excellent commentary in The Poetry of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, trans. Donald Kinney, OCD (Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1996), 169–70.

[2] The translation is found in Kinney, Poetry, 170–71, as well as at this website. The French is contained in Kinney, pp. 301–302.

[3] Kinney, Poetry, 169–70.

The fair copy

Traditional Liturgy Attracts Vocations, Nourishes Contemplative Life, and Sustains the Priesthood

Monks at Clear Creek: no lack of vocations here!

In my post “Divergent Political Models in the Two ‘Forms’ of the Roman Rite,” I argued that people who bring a well-developed life of faith to the Novus Ordo are equipped to derive spiritual benefit from it, while those who attend the traditional Latin Mass are confronted by a strong and definite spirituality that drives them deeper into the mysteries of faith and the exercise of theological virtues. The new form is a loosely-demarcated playing field for liturgical intramurals, whereas the old form is an ascetical-mystical bootcamp through which soldiers of the Lord are driven. The former presupposes virtue; the latter produces it.

Can we find any external confirmation that this analysis is correct?

I would say yes. A sign of its truth is how often one encounters young people who either converted to the Faith or discovered a religious vocation precisely through the traditional liturgy. It was the liturgy itself that powerfully drew them in. Conversion and vocation stories in the Novus Ordo sphere seem to have a lot more to do with “I met this wonderful person” or “I was reading the Bible” or “I found this great book from Ignatius Press” or “I got to know the sisters in my high school” or “their devotion to the poor was so moving.”

All these motives are truly good, and the Lord wants to use them all. But it is still noteworthy that the Novus Ordo is rarely the powerful magnet that draws them in; it is a thing that people who are already drawn in for other reasons will go ahead and do as a regular prayer service. It’s the difference between relying on a neighbor for help and falling in love. Young people today rely for help on the Novus Ordo; they fall in love with the traditional liturgy. Or it is like the difference between acting from duty and acting from delight. We dutifully attend the Novus Ordo because it’s seen as “good for us,” like oatmeal; we get excited when the Latin Mass is available, because it’s delicious to the spiritual palate.

Perhaps readers may object that I am exaggerating the contrast. It may be that I am. But I can only speak from my own experience, as well as from conversations I’ve had as a teacher, choirmaster, or pilgrim with hundreds of young people over the past twenty years. There seems to me to be a vast difference in the perception of the attractiveness or desirability of the old liturgy versus that of the new — so much so that if a Catholic college or university wished to increase daily Mass attendance, all they would have to do is to provide the old Mass, or to provide it more frequently, and the number of communicants would significantly increase. It might seem utterly counterintuitive, and yet it is borne out again and again at chaplaincies across the world.

A psychologist or a sociologist would say that this can have many causes, but what concerns me at the moment is that there is a real theological explanation. One can see, in liturgical terms, why the old form of Mass (and Office and sacraments and blessings, etc.) would be powerfully attractive to today’s youth who discover them. These age-old, pre-industrial, pre-democratic forms are so much richer and denser, more symbolic, involved, and mysterious, pointing both more obviously and more obscurely to the supernatural, the divine, the transcendent, the gratuitous, the unexpected. They are seductive, as only God can be seductive. Seduxisti me, Domine, et seductus sum: fortior me fuisti, et invaluisti (Jer 20:7). This, after all, is what Pope Benedict XVI had in mind when he wrote to all the bishops of the world: “It has clearly been demonstrated that young persons, too, have discovered this liturgical form, felt its attraction, and found in it a form of encounter with the Mystery of the Most Holy Eucharist particularly suited to them.”

The reformed liturgy in its Genevan simplicity has never won any awards for seductiveness. It can barely be looked at head on before people feel embarrassed about its nakedness and try to clothe it with every accoutrement they can find or invent. We have to bring to it a devotion or a seriousness of purpose that we ourselves possess, if we are going to be in a position to benefit from the divine sacrament it spartanly houses. Without love of the Lord presupposed, this would be a wearisome, unrewarding business, rather like having to convince an indifferent person to be friends with you. It’s an uphill battle from the start. Why should young people be interested in something that is so boringly lecture-like, so logical and efficient, or so much in need of artificial sweeteners, like sacro-pop music? Most of them would rather be anywhere else.

A nun of the traditional Benedictines of Mary

In attempting to understand how liturgy helps or hinders priestly and religious vocations, we should also take into account the demands of active life and contemplative life. Religious communities nowadays tend strongly in the direction of the active life, with apostolates in the world. As Dom Chautard and others have pointed out, modern people are strongly tempted to fall for the “heresy of activism,” whereby we believe that by our hard work we will bring about the kingdom of God on earth. Liberation Theology is an extreme example of the same tendency, but it has been at work since at least the heresy of Americanism diagnosed by Leo XIII in Testem Benevolentiae, according to which the so-called “active virtues” of work in the world have surpassed in worth and relevance the so-called “passive virtues” of religious and contemplative life.

Since the Novus Ordo valorizes the active and denigrates the passive, it seems to fit well with the activist or Americanist mentality. Thus it seems that active religious orders could find it somehow amenable, as long as they could keep bringing to it an interior life cultivated largely through other means. But the priesthood, which must be rooted in the mysteries of the altar in order to remain strong and fruitful, and the contemplative religious life, which focuses on offering up the sacrifice of praise and not on an external apostolate, cannot flourish on a subsistence diet. What may seem “good enough” for the laborer in the vineyard is perilously inadequate for the priest and the contemplative, who need a truly sacerdotal and contemplative liturgy if they are fully to realize their great callings.

This is why we see everywhere across the world that serious priests and contemplatives will either “traditionalize” the Novus Ordo as much as they can, or adopt the traditional Mass and Office, or both. Examples of this variety of tradition-friendly approaches may be found in communities such as the Abbey of St. Joseph de Clairval, the Canons Regular of St. John Cantius, the Community of St. Martin, and the monks of Norcia, Fontgombault, Clear Creek, and Heiligenkreuz.

Am I saying, then, that the (relatively few) healthy religious communities that use the Novus Ordo would be even better off with the Vetus Ordo? Yes, absolutely. The good they have would be multiplied, their power of attraction and intercession greatly intensified. Unfortunately, however, even those who have come to recognize the superiority of tradition will be discouraged by the hostile climate introduced under this pontificate from returning to the Church's authentic lex orandi, lest they suffer the fate of the Franciscan Friars of the Immaculate or the Trappists of Mariawald. In this official opposition to the desperately-needed restoration of Catholic tradition we can see the telltale signs of the Devil's implacable hatred for the celibate priesthood and the contemplative religious life.

But neither human nor angelic opposition should prevent any community from quietly and judiciously incorporating the traditional liturgy into its daily life. “Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saints” (Rev 13:10). The ancient Latin liturgical rites and uses have nourished the saints of the Western Church for over 1,600 years. They have an imperishable power to do the same for all the saints Our Lord desires to raise up today. Traditional liturgy never failed to attract vocations of every kind or to support the Christian life of the laity; it continues to exercise the same fascination and fortification among us. The new-fangled liturgical rite of yesterday, like the Americanist world in which it was inculturated, is failing. A healthier Church, a healthier spiritual polity, is in the making.

Seminarians of the FSSP in Germany

Time for the Soul to Absorb the Mysteries — Part 3: The Communion

(Links to Part 1 and Part 2)

Continuing our exploration of how the ancient Roman Rite has, built into it, sufficient time or leisure for the appropriation of its sacred content, today I would like to focus on the segment of the liturgy usually referred to as the Communion rite, which, in a well-celebrated usus antiquior, is a veritable oasis of tranquility.

“Deep calleth on deep, at the noise of thy flood-gates. All thy heights and thy billows have passed over me” (Ps 41:8). After the long silence of the Roman Canon, the uttering or chanting of the Lord’s Prayer emerges like the cry of a swimmer raising his head above the water. Soon, though, he is submerged again in the Libera nos, followed shortly after by the rich prayers of preparation for Holy Communion, the threefold Domine, non sum dignus, the poignant psalm verses.

I’ll admit that I used to feel a little impatient right around this time. We’ve had our oasis of silent worship during the Canon, and just as the sung or recited prayers are cranking up again, we find ourselves confronted once more with several sizeable pauses: the gap between the Lord’s Prayer and the per omnia saecula saeculorum preceding the Pax Domini, and then the gap between the Agnus Dei and the Confiteor/Ecce Agnus Dei. Why are we standing or kneeling and waiting for stuff to happen? Can’t we move on?

One could answer this question with a disquisition on the development of this part of the liturgy and the importance of the various prayers and gestures that the priest is busy with at that moment. But here we are considering the moral and spiritual benefit that accrues to the people from the way the liturgy developed. This benefit is summed up in the famous words of Milton: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Certain virtues or spiritual dispositions are formed precisely in these gaps or pauses, these stretches of profound and expectant silence. We know what is coming, and yet it still has to come, in its own way and at its own time. We may not, must not, rush it in our desire to be “in charge.” It is like having to wait nine months for a child to be born. How hard it is to go for so many months without seeing the child, or even, in many cases, knowing whether it is a boy or a girl!

Waiting for the priest at the altar, waiting for the liturgy to do its work at its own pace, is a model of our stance vis-à-vis life and death. Think of the Blessed Virgin Mary, who had to wait for her Son to suffer his agony, die upon the cross, and be taken down. The Mass reflects this trustful stance of waiting for God to act and readying oneself to meet Him, to be acted upon — that is, to suffer, and thus, to partake of His victory, when and as He wishes to share it. Thinking of it this way, I have learned not only to accept but to welcome and appreciate these pauses in the post-Canon portion of the Mass.

Let us return to the rich prayers of the liturgy at this juncture, most of which are said silently by the priest. Laity with daily missals often make these prayers their own, but just as often they may pray in their own words or thoughts or desires or emptiness as they await their invitation to the banquet of immortality. The priest’s separate communion brings two immense goods: first, it strongly accentuates the de fide teaching that the priesthood of the priest and the priesthood of the faithful are essentially different and that, as a result, only the priest’s communion is required for the completion of the holy sacrifice; secondly, it allows the faithful an ample moment of proximate preparation, in which we can take a big spiritual breath (so to speak) before we approach the altar ourselves. I was recently reminded of the importance of this moment when reading about a medieval nun, St. Mechtilde of Hackeborn (c. 1240–1298), who had the pious custom of reciting five Hail Marys before receiving Holy Communion:

At the first Hail Mary, she reminded our Lady of the solemn hour when she conceived a Son in her virginal womb, at the word of the Angel, and drew Him to her from heaven by her profound humility. She asked her to obtain for her a pure conscience and profound humility.
         At the second Hail Mary, she reminded her of the happy moment when she took Jesus for the first time into her arms and first saw Him in His Sacred Humanity. She prayed Mary to obtain for her a true knowledge of herself.
         At the third Hail Mary, she begged our Lady to remember that she had always been prepared to receive grace and had never placed any obstacle to its operation. She begged Mary to obtain for her a heart always ready to receive divine grace.
         At the fourth Hail Mary, she reminded our Lady with what devotion and gratitude she received on earth the body of her well-beloved Son, knowing better than anyone the salvation to be found there by mankind. Mechtilde begged her to obtain that her heart might be filled with worthy feelings of gratitude. If men knew the blessings which flow for them from the body of Jesus Christ, they would faint with joy.
         At the fifth Hail Mary, she reminded our Lady of the reception given to her by her divine Son when He invited her to take her place near Him in heaven in the midst of transports of joy.[1]

Everyone who attends the usus antiquior can understand why St. Mectilde was able to do this as her own “pious custom.” Quite simply: she had the time, the space, the silence, to recite five Hail Marys before going to communion. Alas, such a thing is well-nigh unimaginable in the Novus Ordo, when one is scarcely allowed an opportunity to collect one’s thoughts, let alone enjoy the presence of mind to pray five Hail Marys for these noble intentions! A mystic like St. Mectilde would have fared rather badly any time after about 1964, since the liturgy would no longer have been able to nourish her interior life as it had done before.

If the saints have warned us to guard against lapsing into a routine of thoughtless, unprepared communions — even in the best of circumstances, when the liturgy itself, with earnest prayer and pools of silence, furnished every opportunity to rise above this fault! — what would they say about our situation today, when the casual, routine, indiscriminate and undiscerning reception of the Holy Eucharist is the norm throughout the Catholic Church, rather than the exception?

A different Mectilde, Mother Catherine Mectilde de Bar (1614–1698), foundress of the Benedictines of Perpetual Adoration, describes what happens when a person receives communion. Her description helps us to appreciate why St. Thomas Aquinas says that two things are required for a fruitful communion: being in a state of grace, and being in a state of actual devotion.[2] A certain devout recollection is required from the communicant in order to follow Our Lord whither He goes, for He hides Himself in the depths of the soul:

Jesus Christ, being thus in the soul, whither does He withdraw? As I said, to the sancta sanctorum of the soul, which is its most intimate depth and which serves as a sanctuary for this High Priest and as a temple where He celebrates His divine and terrible sacrifice of all that He is to His Father. This sacrifice He wants to renew in the depth of each soul as in a holy temple, for which it was consecrated on the day of baptism. O inconceivable marvel! Jesus Christ descends into our hearts in order to sacrifice Himself and to celebrate there His solemn Mass in profound silence. All is quiet in this temple, the angels and saints admire and adore the way the Lord humbles Himself there, and the Eternal Father is well pleased.[3]

I might add in passing that the theoretically optional but in practice mandatory “sign of peace” only contributes to the superficiality and spirit of distraction. The Novus Ordo seemingly does not want you to drift away from the surface of things: since it supposed to build up the community, the People of God, you must be forcibly reminded of that at every turn. This, I think, might explain why so many pastors seem content to allow the faithful to chit-chat before and after Mass rather than catechizing them about the sacred silence that befits the temple of God. This chit-chat is, in a way, the conversation one would expect at the family dinner table, which is what the Mass has been reduced to in progressive circles. How strange it would be for guests at a meal to keep silent, close their eyes, and speak only in whispers!

But we are not at a mere meal; we are at a sacrificial banquet, whose host is the crucified and risen Lord. Our behavior should be utterly different. It should never remain on the surface but respond to the still, small voice that calls us to the heights and depths of Our Lord’s infernal sorrow and celestial joy: “Deep calleth on deep…”

In the fourth installment of this series, I will consider the ablutions to the last Gospel, and find, once more, that the usus antiquior as it has developed under the care of Divine Providence displays a subtle grasp of human psychology and divine largesse in pacing the conclusion of the liturgy.


NOTES

[1] From The Love of the Sacred Heart, Illustrated by St. Mechtilde, with a Foreword by the Lord Bishop of Salford (London: Burns, Oates, and Washbourne, 1922), 164.

[2] See, for example, Scriptum super Sententiarum, Lib. IV, d. 9, q. 1, a. 4, qa. 2, sol.

[3] Mother Mectilde, The True Spirit of the Perpetual Adorers of the Most Holy Sacrament of the Altar, ch. 6; unpublished translation.