Why the Traditional Mass Should Remain In Latin

In spite of attempts to suppress it, the traditional Latin Mass is here to stay. It may not be as widespread as it was in the halcyon days of Summorum Pontificum, but neither is it exactly hidden under a bushel, as the early Christians were during the Roman persecutions. In many cites, gigantic parishes run by former Ecclesia Dei institutes are packed with faithful every Sunday. No, this is not going away; and the sooner a future pope comes to terms with the reality on the ground, the better off we’ll all be.

Unfortunately, due to the way the internet encourages the spontaneous expression of feelings and ideas (or some mixture of the two), a lot of premature and undercooked opinions tend to be expressed. One of the most frequent proposals I see being floated is this one: “Wouldn’t it be just grand if we could have the TLM in the vernacular? This would kill two birds with one stone: We get the traditional liturgy, but without the language barrier! Everyone would flock to it and the breach between old and new could be healed at last!” Even prominent figures among the Oratorians are not hesitate about expressing this opinion.

An NLM reader once wrote to me:

I have read certain articles of yours in which you treat of the question of introducing the vernacular into the traditional rites in a limited fashion and come out decidedly against it. I myself prefer an entirely Latin liturgy in all respects, lessons included—indeed my daughter’s (old rite) baptism was entirely in Latin, including the godparents’ responses. The only vernacular was the Pater and Credo in the procession to the sanctuary (per custom). I think that there is a certain dissonance in “mixing” languages liturgically, with the obvious exceptions of the Greek Kyrie and various Hebrew words, especially if I am saying “and with your spirit” at one point and “et cum spiritu tuo” at another point. There is an imbalance there that I can’t precisely explain.
       Yet, I was reading Dobszay’s treatment of the issue in which he argues that the introduction of certain vernacular elements alongside, not in place of, the Latin would be highly beneficial for the simple reason that the entirely Latin liturgy is, truly, a stumbling block for many who are otherwise friendly to the tradition. Yes, I understand that man is to be formed into the image of the liturgy, and not vice versa—St. Benedict, after all, urges ut mens concordet voci—that the mind harmonize with the voice—which, in addition to sounding “quaint,” actually is quite radical when compared to the modern emphasis on “authenticity” (wrongly identified with virtual formlessness). And, with the necessary reservations, viz. the Orations, Canon, and silent prayers remaining in Latin, Dobszay nevertheless suggests the possibility of not only the lessons, but also at times the proper chants and Mass ordinary being authorized in a hieratic vernacular. (And for this purpose, let us assume that the principal parish Mass would be required to be fully in Latin, so the totally-Latin liturgy would still play a truly primary role in the Church’s liturgical life.)
       Don’t misunderstand me: I am not saying that the introduction of the vernacular is “necessary” from a liturgical standpoint. But I am haunted by Dobszay’s point that a moderate introduction of the occasional hieratic vernacular would serve to de-ghettoize the classical Roman liturgy and thereby increase its appeal. In this way, the ancient heritage would enter the ecclesial mainstream instead of remaining on the relative margins.
       To put it bluntly: is an unbending adherence to the exclusive use of Latin semper et ubique in the liturgy ultimately wise, if the price to pay is that the authentic tradition (form and content) remains a marginalized minority? Would not a moderate use of a hieratic vernacular be a small price to pay for the greater expansion of the Roman heritage? Is this not a legitimate instance of the perfect being the enemy of the good? Moderate vernacular usage for the lessons seems to be one of those things that, for better or worse, we are stuck with permanently, and I worry that we might lose too many lives battling on this hill while losing the mountain.

I remain unconvinced. Just as Marshall McLuhan maintained that bringing microphones into churches would undermine the numinous character of the liturgy (and how right he was), I am equally convinced that de-Latinization would spell the end of the Roman rite in its distinctive character, as much as abolishing icons would do to the Byzantine liturgy. Here I would like to offer some reasons why I think this.

A Fundamental Argument

Among the Eastern Christian churches, we find considerable linguistic diversity, which has led in some cases to the development of sacral languages and in others to almost total vernacularization. In the Western church, however, we find an impressive and almost monolithic unity: Latin is the language par excellence for all Western rites and uses.

Now, this monumental linguistic unity is either the work of Divine Providence and of the Holy Spirit, or a huge error, deviation, and problem to be overcome. I maintain that the only acceptable Roman Catholic mentality is the former; the latter leads necessarily to the overthrowing of all liturgical standards: if not even Latin is safe, then neither is ad orientem, communion under one kind, plainchant and polyphony, a proleptic Offertory, etc.

And, in point of fact, this is exactly what we saw in the liturgical reform, whose proponents and implementers tended to reject all of those so-called “medieval” features (even though many are properly ancient).

An Aesthetic Argument

Martin Mosebach maintains that the use of Latin is primarily responsible for the creation of a sacral atmosphere from start to finish in the traditional Mass. The moment it begins, one knows one is in a different “place,” one is moving on a different level; the workaday world has been left behind, and one is entering the divine domain. The vernacular, no matter how well translated, or how archaic in sound, does not have this requisite otherness. As Michael Fiedrowicz says, the Latin reminds us that we are seeking something else in worship than what we find everywhere else.

As for alternating between Latin and vernacular, it is no more coherent than a man with a tuxedo jacket on top and blue jeans on the bottom.

A Pastoral Argument

There is already an insidious tendency for Catholics to splinter into factions the moment someone decides to move the flowers above the altar one inch to the left or the right. We are all rather high-strung at this point, and, in addition to the need to relax a bit, we also need to supply as few incentives for division as possible. Changing the language that has been part and parcel of the liturgy for over 1,600 years would be a nuclear bomb in that regard: instantly, there would be all-Latin communities and mixed-language communities. Indeed, we already have that, because of the “two forms”; the last thing we need is further balkanization.

Moreover, use of the vernacular, so far from uniting people who speak a common language, instantly segregates the faithful into categories. Some would prefer an archaic translation such as the Douay-Rheims; others would agitate for the Revised Standard Version or (God forbid) the New American Bible. And if the Vatican or the USCCB got involved, it would all go south in five minutes. With Latin, no one can complain: we are using the language that all the saints before us prayed with. Each person can then pick up whatever hand missal suits him best.

One difficulty with modern languages is that they do not possess sufficient “alterity” and “elevation” to serve as liturgical languages. The traditional Anglicans and the Ordinariates use Elizabethan English, which I’m sure sounded normal back in Shakespeare’s day but now sounds formal, elevated, and a little strange. To have liturgy in the vernacular requires a sacral register, which, it seems, today’s Church is incapable of producing. Moreover, the Byzantine Divine Liturgy is not a good example because it achieves its effects in a totally different way, through waves and waves of poetic speech and singing. The Roman liturgy is austere and slender; much of its affective power depends on Latin, silence, and chant—the three elements of the sonic iconostasis.

Additional Theological Arguments

In general, we overestimate the primacy of verbal comprehension. It is often non-verbal signs and behaviors that affect us more deeply. I think this is above all true for acquiring the spirit of reverence and prayer at liturgy.

As people know from experience, there are many ways to participate in a Latin liturgy. It takes many years to grasp it—which is appropriate for the greatest mystery on earth. One starts with simple steps, like a “child’s missal,” and eventually works up to an adult’s missal with all the translations—and finally, one knows it so well that one can put aside the missal and simply yield oneself to the liturgy. This can happen more easily with the Tridentine rite because it has fewer options and fewer texts that become familiar over time. It takes a long time to enter fully into it, and it ought to be this way.

One learns to swim by starting in the shallow end and eventually venturing into the deep end. The traditional liturgy in its richness of symbolism, its pageantry of ceremony, its beautiful musical patrimony, offers many “handles” to grab on to. I remember my son being fascinating with the coordinated movements of the servers in their sacred choreography. Another little boy I know loves watching the thurifer handle the thurible, with the hot coals and clouds of smoke. One does not have to be a genius to appreciate the Latin Mass; one simply has to use the eyes in one’s head, the ears, the nostrils; one watches, listens, ponders, and prays. The best thing we can do at Mass is to pray earnestly; this is worth more than any amount of rational understanding.

The sacral language of the Mass, its totally untranslatable poetry, deserves to be left intact. We laity have many ways of accessing its meaning, including: learning Latin; following in a missal (where the translation doesn’t have to bear the weight of being the actual rite that is offered); or just watching and absorbing and praying in our own words inspired by the liturgy.

The key is letting the rich ceremonies of the Mass themselves be the first message it conveys. The text is not absolute and exclusive, nor is it primary from the point of view of lay participation. It is something one grows into over time. We are so impatient nowadays: we want an “instant fix.” Well, it took God several thousand years to prepare humanity for the Incarnation, and it took him 1,500 years to bring the Roman rite to perfection among us. He’s apparently not in a huge rush to get things over and done with, and neither should we be. Certainly, our lives are short, but not usually so short that we cannot acquire the habit proper to the rite.

C. du Plessis d’Argentré writes:

It is perfectly clear that the benefit of the liturgical prayer consists not only in the understanding of the words; it is a dangerous error to think that vocal prayer serves only to educate the intellect. On the contrary, such prayer mainly contributes to inflame the affections, so that the worshipper, rising up to God with a pious and devout heart, will be edified, and, obtaining his wishes, he will not be frustrated in his intentions; and in addition, the intellect acquires illumination together with other useful or necessary things, all of which benefits are far more abundant than the understanding of the words alone, which does not achieve much advantage without the arousal of the affection for God. (Collectio iudiciorum de novis erroribus II [Paris: Cailleau, 1728], 62, quoted in Guéranger, Institutions liturgiques III, 164)

Musical Inheritance

With all due respect to the great Prof. Dobszay, vernacular plainchant is an ugly duckling compared to its Latin paradigm. It can be done decently, but it remains rather awkward. No two languages function the same, and the peculiar sound of each is very different. Latin and chant are like a body-soul composite. Again, Byzantine chant tends to work better, because—and I intend no offense to our Eastern brethren—it is generally quite a bit simpler and plainer than Gregorian chant. It is more in the nature of harmonized psalm tones that can suit any language. Latin chant, on the other hand, is a highly refined musical form that grew up for a thousand years with its Latin text.

Composer Mark Nowakowski observed in an interview:

Latin is a language I keep returning to in my writing not only because it is still the Church’s language, but also because it is a singularly beautiful language. It is inherently sing-able and seems to have the necessary structure and gravitas to bear the full weight of both liturgical solemnity and spiritual contemplation. Let’s be honest: “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world” is just not as beautiful or sing-able as “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi…” – and we have an entire failed post-conciliar repertoire to prove it. And now that composers are in an age where English settings are still the Church standard, they mostly want to compose in Latin! That should speak for itself.

False Centrality

Every time someone proposes translating the Latin Mass, they immediately add: “But of course the principal Mass would remain in Latin,” or “Naturally, for those who love Latin, it would still be available.”

I think this is a false hope.

However much better an usus antiquior in the vernacular would be than an usus recentior in Latin, ultimately I fear that such a move would begin a slow-motion marginalization of Latin and chant, with almost no hope of their recover. Once people are convinced that they “ought” to understand this or that part of the liturgy immediately, good luck trying to have a solemn Mass where that’s not the operative assumption. These treasures would become like animal or plant species that are driven out of their native environment by more aggressive foreign organisms introduced into the ecosystem.

Perhaps the most decisive observation is that the Latin texts have a dense web of intraliturgical and extraliturgical associations that no vernacular, regardless of its refinement, could carry—at least not without having its own arc of 2,000 years of development. I do not wish to sound like I am defending a sort of “magical” property of Latin, but I do think it’s worth pondering why exorcists consistently report more success when they use the old rites in Latin.

Priorities

Finally, can we not say that a religion that took itself seriously would ask its members to study it seriously? Serious Jews ask their boys to learn Hebrew; serious Moslems ask them to learn classical Arabic; the Copts figure out Egyptian; the Russians must get down some Slavonic; and so forth. The Catholic Church will become stronger again when it actually demands more of its people than it currently does (the realm of fasting is perhaps the most obvious place to begin).

There are thousands of Catholic schools that could be teaching Latin. They do not, because it has been deemed of little or no worth. This ignorance, skepticism, or rejection of our tradition is the real problem; this is the attitude that has to change. Otherwise, we are trying to cram a beautiful liturgy into people who could care less whether it is high, low, right, wrong, old, new, Latin, or English.

In short: Latin’s not some outlying hill, remote from the fortress, but part of the foundation rock in the mountain fastness we are defending.

“Messe Dialoguée en Français”: A Glimpse into the Devolution of Liturgy in the 1940s

It is understandable that many would see liturgical disaster as a unique product of the last Council, and particularly of the implementary body headed by Annibale Bugnini, the Consilium ad exsequendam. Others who have read more widely will understand that it is linked to the gradual radicalization of the Liturgical Movement, as it went from the restorationist and educational model of Dom Guéranger to the pastoral utilitarianism of the postwar period. Relatively few, it seems to me, recognize that the roots of this disaster go far back to (in varying ways) the Protestant Revolt, the Enlightenment, and the age of industrialization.

Lately, a number of fine studies have been published that help us to see these more remote pretexts and premises of the liturgical reform of the 1960s, when the program of the Synod of Pistoia finally entered every suburban parish.

Nico Fassino’s recent article in the The Pillar, “The surprising history of the Children’s Mass” tells us:

It is commonly believed that Children’s Masses are a unique development of the modern liturgical reforms, a direct outgrowth of the Second Vatican Council. In reality, however, special Masses for children – including what might now appear to be shocking liturgical innovations – stretch back more than a century before the Second Vatican Council.
     These Masses began as a 19th century attempt to grapple with dramatic social changes and challenges wrought by the modern world. They gained widespread popularity and even gave rise to the creation of vernacular participatory Mass methods for adults years before Vatican II.
     In total, hundreds of editions of these methods for children and adults were published, running to millions of cumulative copies, between 1861 and 1961. They were published with approval, printed for decades, and used with permission around the world.
     This is the story of the surprising origins of “Children’s Masses” in the early 1800s, their widespread popularity around the world, their sudden fall from favor immediately before the Second Vatican Council, and their rebirth during the initial years of the revised Roman Missal of Paul VI.

While Fassino shows us how deeply the rot of bad liturgical ideas had already set in well before the Council, it also happily shows how men of principle strongly resisted this literally juvenile mentality. One does not have to question the good will of these would-be reformers in order to see that such efforts at promoting “participation” are bought at the expense of “dumbing down”—a superficialization that subtly implies that liturgy is a thing for children to grow out of, not a thing to which we are apprenticed in a lifelong process of assimilation.

Similarly, John Paul Sonnen relates the story of “The First Permanent Altar Facing the People in the United States,” which, as it happens, was installed as early as 1938, at a time when it would have been officially forbidden!

Archbishop John Gregory Murray (1877-1956), a native of Connecticut, became the Archbishop of St. Paul (Minnesota) in 1931. During his 24-year tenure he became a frequent visitor to the monks of St. John's Abbey in nearby Collegeville, Minnesota. In those years St. John’s was the largest Benedictine Abbey in the world and they had made a name for themselves as the American epicenter of the Liturgical Movement and what came to be called the liturgical apostolate, coming into fashion after the First World War. 

       In 1938 Archbishop Murray laid the cornerstone of the new English Gothic Revival church of the Nativity, under construction in a beautiful new residential neighborhood in St. Paul’s Groveland neighborhood. The architect of the church was a non-Catholic by the name of James B. Hills. It was during this time that Archbishop Murray approved a plan that was heretofore unheard of: the altar in the basement crypt chapel was to be set permanently facing the people.

       In those days this represented a forbidden stratum of liturgical experimentation that was not yet conceived by most, or sanctioned with approval by the Holy See. An innovation in its day, such a thing had not been tried anywhere in the country. Proponents of the Liturgical Movement in northern Europe had been slowly promoting the idea of Mass facing the people, but it was still a novelty concept in the rest of the world. 

Here is the altar John is talking about, in the only photo that has survived of it (today the room is a recreational space):

We can see this sort of thing in a 1930 photo from the Abbey of Maria Laach in Germany, a hotbed of progressive liturgism. Note that here, there is a more deliberate effort to make the altar look like a meal table:

Returning now to Fassino’s statement that “vernacular participatory Mass methods for adults” were being promoted “years before Vatican II,” I thought readers of NLM would appreciate seeing the photos of a section contained in a Missel-Vespéral Romain edited by the redoubtable Dom Gaspar Lefebvre, OSB, and published in 1946. The reader who kindly shared these photos noted that she also has another edition of the same missal from 1942, which contains the same section.

The photos were sent page by page; I cropped them and combined them for ease of viewing, which explains the mismatches from left to right. (As always, click to enlarge.)

Title page and copyright page

What is most striking about this entire method, which, as Yves Chiron describes, was also practiced by (indeed, pioneered by) Bugnini in Italy, is how much blathering is going on. Throughout the Mass there is “Une Voix,” presumably a layman, who acts as the reader or “commentator” in some cases; and there are many short texts and some long texts that “Toutes” (All) are supposed to say.

The priest, meanwhile, is doing his part at the altar in Latin, so there is a parallel Mass: his in Latin and everyone else’s in French.

A rather heavy-handed attempt is made to bring out the Trinitarian structure of everything: the Kyrie, the Gloria, the Credo... Yes, of course, it’s there and it’s important, but whatever happened to not hitting people over the head with a didactic shovel?

There is a lot of chatter DURING the Roman Canon, as Une Voix laboriously explains to Toutes that now we are praying for the Church militant, now we are offering the Victim, now we are praying for the dead... What strikes me the most is how the pious paraphrase being spoken throughout by the people is so much akin to the “methods of hearing the Mass” that the same Liturgical Movement held in such disdain! It’s as if they simply transferred private devotion into a public mode. This was surely a far cry from Pius X’s “don’t merely pray at Mass, pray the Mass!”

It is actually refreshing to see the act of Spiritual Communion placed right where it is, as a gentle reminder that not everyone should go up to Communion, but only those properly disposed to do so. And thankfully, this act is left... unannounced and unrecited by Toutes. Sadly, even the Last Gospel has to be paraphrased and simplified.

Even the thanksgiving after Mass is corporate and vocal.

It is very difficult to read a method like this and not to wonder, “What in the world were they thinking?” Just because you recite a lot of pious phrases about the Mass all along does not mean you are participating in the holy oblation, the ultimate sacrifice. In fact, you might just miss it altogether by skating on the surface and having no opportunity for recollection, assimilation, and self-offering from the depths of one’s soul.

In his 1975 Apostolic Exhortation Evangelii, Pope Paul VI—who only six years earlier had unleashed on the world a Mass that was patterned after this kind of “Messe Dialoguée en Français”—lamented: “Modern man is sated by talk; he is obviously tired of listening, and what is worse, impervious to words.”

Physician, heal thyself.

Visit Dr. Kwasniewski’s Substack “Tradition & Sanity”; personal site; composer site; publishing house Os Justi Press and YouTube, SoundCloud, and Spotify pages.

“The Reactionary Vernacular”, by Erik von Kuehnelt-Leddhin

Here is a marvelous article written by distinguished political philosopher Erik von Kuehnelt-Leddhin and published in January 1968 in Triumph magazine. To my knowledge, it has never before been available online, so we have transcribed it. While some claims he makes are dated, overall the wisdom of his words has aged well. Here is another witness, ignored of course by the leaders of the day, who saw through the glittering rhetoric to the shallowness of its foundations. - PAK

(source)

The Reactionary Vernacular

By Erik von Kuehnelt-Leddhin
January 1968
Triumph Magazine

The blithe hopes for what the vernacular Mass would do for Catholic worship is a beautiful illustration of de Tocqueville’s une fausse idée claire. For, unfortunately, it was ‘‘a clear but wrong idea’’ that once the Mass was translated into the language of the people it would at long last be really understood: that a genuine and vocal participation would drive hordes of men, women and children to the nearest church. After all, the argument ran, Latin was ‘known to only a few Catholics; the majority were subjected to watching the sacred ritual in a state of bored passivity. And at Vatican II, this argument prevailed.

But ironically enough, the move to the vernacular, like most of the Conciliar innovations, was a revival. Our Latin Mass is the result of an early vernacular movement, when Greek, the language of educated persons, was supplanted by the more popular Latin. (The Kyrie Eleison, as well as a short Good Friday text, are remnants of the Greek liturgy.) After the adoption of Latin, Greek unfortunately fell into total oblivion in the Western Church; even St. Thomas Aquinas was unable to read the Scriptures in the original. It was the Humanists who rediscovered the language of early Christianity—a language that is indispensable to any serious theological study and discussion.

Latin, in time, also died as a vernacular; but it remained the language of the liturgy. This was hardly unusual; after all not only Catholicism, but every great religion has its sacred language—and a large number of them are ‘‘dead.’” Almost all of the Eastern Rites, for example, use a dead language—Old Slavonic, classic Greek, Syriac, etc.; the Hindus use Sanskrit; the Buddhists, Pali; and the Moslems a classic Arabic which is neither spoken nor easily understood by the Arab masses, let alone by the vast majority of non-Arabic Moslems. All of these faiths use dead languages not only because they impart a sense of the sacred and the sublime, but because they imply permanence.

But beyond its attribute (actually an advantage) of being ‘‘dead,’’ Latin was a unifying influence in the Church, a common bond for Catholics on six continents. In Europe alone it has been used by people of Celtic, Romance, Germanic, Slavic, Iberian, Greek, Baltic, Finno-Ugric and Semitic stock—which means that the Mass was celebrated in the same language by nations as different from each other as the Irish and the Flemings, the Poles and the Maltese. Luther himself, in his preface to the ‘‘German Mass,’’ insisted that his translation into the vernacular was only for the young and the uneducated, and that Latin would and should retain its place.

Nevertheless (according to today’s enthusiasts for the vernacular Mass), the Church must accommodate herself to the modern age! The enthusiasts overlook at least one important aspect of the modern age. Yesterday’s nationalism, born of the French Revolution and German Romanticism, though by no means dead, is yielding to an internationalism fostered by technology—the new fast means of transportation and communication. Nationalism is a dividing, internationalism a unifying force; and their mutually opposed action in the world should certainly make us ponder.

The experience of Hungary comes to mind in this connection. The official language of that country until 1844 was Latin. It was then replaced by Magyar, and this proved to be Hungary’s undoing. The Magyars, of course, knew their own idiom, but it was alien to the other ‘‘nationalities’’ in the country—Slovaks, Vallakhs, Serbs, Germans, Carpatho-Ukrainians and Croats—and deeply resented. The result was disunity and, finally, the catastrophic fall of one of Europe’s most ancient realms.

The idea of a unifying sacred language brings up an old and still raging question. Since Latin is the classic language only of Western civilization, why should the Church—being catholic, world-wide and encompassing all cultures—choose this Western tongue as the universal sacred language? Anti-Latinists still bemoan the defeat of the Jesuits on this point in the eighteenth- century quarrel over the Rites of Eastern Asia. Had the Jesuit position then prevailed, they say, that crucial part of the globe might have been won for the Church. It follows that this opportunity, once ruined by a narrow Europeanism, must be attended to right now!

I must confess that before I became a world traveller I thought this a very sensible argument. It is perfectly true that the eighteenth-century Jesuits were right, and it is a real tragedy that Jansenist intrigues ruined their chances. But it is part of the wisdom of the Church that she restrain herself from adopting immediately, unhesitatingly and unthinkingly every passing fad and fashion. Every idea, it is true, has its kairos, its ‘‘right time.’’ The question now is: Is this the time for the Church to accommodate herself to the various, still-existing, independent cultures? There are actually only a few areas left on the globe devoid of a desperate craving for total and utter Westernization. This is deplorable, in a way, but it is nonetheless true. China has adopted the ideas of an unbalanced son of a Prussian lawyer. In Japan the surgical removal of the Mongol lid is now the feminine rage. Even prior to World War II, Japanese Catholics furiously boycotted a church in Nara built in the style of a tera, a Buddhist temple. India, though struggling to preserve its own culture, will be linguistically English in a few generations. And the main African complaint against the European colonial powers is their failure to do a thorough job of Europeanizing them. Western manners, languages, customs, political institutions, technical inventions, philosophies, ideologies and religions are sweeping the world. In the past, the Latin liturgy might have been considered a Western imposition. But no longer. (Significantly, at the Munich Eucharistic World Congress in 1960 it was the white bishops of Africa, not the native bishops, who opted for the vernacular. The latter understood, among other things, that many Christian concepts do not exist in African vocabularies.)

The world is moving toward a common civilization which will inevitably have, in many significant respects, a Western character. (Whether it is the great Christian values or merely the West’s fecal matter which shall prevail is moot.) The world is shrinking. There are millions of expatriates; millions of Europeans work in foreign countries; and millions of tourists swarm all over the Continent. In my own small Tyrolean village, which is not a resort, about one fifth of the Sunday congregation in the summer are foreigners; in the next village they amount to more than one half. Should they all be exposed to a strange tongue, rather than to Latin which, at least, is familiar to them?

And what about dialects and dialectical inflections? Americans should not forget that German, for instance, is an artificial language; German humor is essentially rooted in the local dialects, and literary German is as different from either the Tyrolean, the Rhenish or the Low German idioms as English is from Saxon. The vernacular in southern France is not French, but the langue d’oc; the German-Swiss speak Schwyzerdutsch among themselves, and their accent, carried into literary German, is quite frankly funny to non-Swiss ears. To attend a vernacular Mass with devotion in that region is almost impossible for a non-Swiss. In short, in ancient and diversified nations the vernacular and the mother tongue are by no means the same.

To make matters worse, ethnic and national animosities are still creating havoc, as in the aforementioned case of Hungary. True, a number of countries are fairly uniform insofar as their literary language goes. This was true of Germany before the invasion of foreign workers, and remains true of large parts of Italy, France and the Netherlands. But many other countries, in and out of Europe, are multi-lingual, and quite often the various nationalities do not particularly like each other. Formerly, though sermons were a problem, these mutual antipathies were kept out of the churches, thanks to the Latin liturgy which united the warring factions. This, of course, is no longer the case.

The difficulties are intensified when politics come into play. For instance, in Catalonia the introduction of the vernacular has been called a ‘political time bomb.’ Mass in Spanish? Mass in Catalan? (The tourists understand neither.) What a sorry spectacle it is to see politics dragged to the steps of the altar—not simply ideological politics, but ethnic animosities and rancor, which can be a great deal more bitter.

Outside of Europe the vernacular presents even worse problems. The homesick Spanish worker in the Ruhr Valley who, upon entering a church, hears the same alien tongue which has irritated him all day long, is merely pathetic. In Africa and Asia, the situation can be tragic.

I do not wish to bore my readers needlessly with my own experiences, but my annual travels around the world have given me a global perspective. Surely all the practical problems of the Church should be viewed from this vantage point. For to respond to allegedly Roman provincialism with American, Dutch or New Zealand provincialism is a sorry way to solve the burning questions of a truly universal Faith. On my travels in the past, I could use my Missal as a linguistic passport for the entire world. Whether in Saigon, Nairobi, Poona, Sydney, Punta Arenas, Oslo, Chicago or Antwerp, I always heard Mass in Latin, a language which, I must admit, I never particularly liked, but which I understood, which was familiar to me—the language of the Church. Had I not had a classical education I still would have been able to get along with my bilingual missal. (My sister, who never learned Latin, picked it up by sheer osmosis, and there are many like her who came to understand almost every word in the Latin Mass.)

Nowadays, though I am truly multilingual, I feel stranded. Nor do my extensive travels make me a special case. Though there are not, as yet, a great many world travellers, the signs that there soon will be are apparent; and surely we should anticipate the future. I will be forgiven, I hope, if I consider myself only a prefiguration of the man of tomorrow who will think nothing of hopping over the weekend from Djakarta to Kankakee, or from Kalamazoo to Teheran. All signs point to future peripatetic generations. Will they, should they, have to endure my experiences?

Take, for instance, my travels in Vietnam. On my third visit to Saigon I hurried to the Cathedral one Sunday for the 8:00 Mass. A pleasant young man told me in French that “my Mass’” was at ten. He took me first for a Phat, a Frenchman, then for a My, an American. But I had no choice, a helicopter was waiting to take me inland. The dialogue Mass I had enjoyed in the past became a torture because a monosyllabic language with a specific pitch for each word made it impossible to pray or to meditate. For a Westerner each word is like a pin-prick. After Mass I spoke to an elderly Vietnamese and expressed my regret at the loss of a linguistic bond. To my surprise he was equally dismayed. It seems the priest had been a Tonkinese refugee and his accent grated on southern ears! I wonder what is being done in the back country where the so-called Montagnards speak languages that have no similarity whatsoever with Vietnamese; and I shudder at the complications for the Church if the Viets ever try to ‘‘denationalize’’ these aboriginal tribesmen.

In Kenya, the language of communication for Africans is Kisuaheli, the official language is English, and the most important tribal languages are Kikuyu, Luo and Massai. Most Catholics in Nairobi, however, are immigrated Goans, who speak Portuguese and Konkani. What, then, is the vernacular? The present solution is to say the Mass in English, the language of the former colonial power; but this is hardly ideal. The linguistic picture in Nigeria, and further west in Africa, is equally complex; and in Nigeria fierce tribal hatreds have led to the disruption of the republic. A few years ago I attended Mass in Kano. The Mass itself was in Latin, but the sermon in English, and each paragraph was translated twice—into Ibo and Yoruba. The priest later told me that these two languages were spoken by immigrants from the south, and that if the Haussas should join the Church, a third translation would be added. In Ghana this spring I was informed by the Fathers of the Society of the Divine Word that they are clinging to Latin—the only feasible and conducive way to peace and mutual understanding. Analogous problems exist in the Congo where the tribal rivalries are lethal, and in the Cameroons; they exist in the Fiji Islands, wracked with racial tensions, at the other end of the world; and they exist in Ceylon where Singhalese and Tamils are engaged in a bitter language fight which has resulted in manslaughter and murder.

The English ‘‘solution’’ has been adopted in India where that language is increasingly used; but in no way is it a language that comes from the “heart of the people.’’ Language is a most delicate subject in India where, only a few years ago, thousands of men and women were slaughtered during the frightful language riots in the Bombay region. To introduce such an issue into the Church is the height of folly.

The situation is equally delicate on the eastern islands of Indonesia where the government is pushing Bahasa Indonesia, the somewhat artificial Indonesian language which, however, is not the popular language of the Mollucca Islands.

Who’s a Reactionary?

Reviewing the entire situation, not on a local but on a global basis, one can hardly call the introduction of the vernacular a success. It is not only that the hopes for the innovation have not materialized; numerous drawbacks, even dangers, have cropped up, whose nature and implications have not yet been fully revealed. The vernacular movement might have made sense in the past, but it will become increasingly obsolete as the twenty-first century draws near, as we enter a conformist, anti-pluralistic age. (The notion that our present age, as compared with past centuries, is pluralistic can be maintained only by those ignorant of history and sociology, or who lack intellectual competence.)

All of this is not to say that the old order was perfect; but the strong support for a Latin liturgy that existed until very recently was not baseless. Where the vernacular was introduced by the bishops one is tempted to suspect that they were swayed partly by an urge to democratize and popularize; and partly by strong pressure from intellectual leaders, both lay and clerical. The Constitution on Sacred Liturgy (Article 54) clearly leaves the decision in each case to the bishops, most of whom stood in fear of being labeled ‘‘reactionary.’’ In fact, a truly forward-looking bishop would have been one who sought out the broader, international solution to the language problem of the Church.

Up from Babylon

It would be silly to deny that a problem did exist in the past. Here in Europe we were about to solve it through the widespread use of missals; those who really wanted to follow the Mass always had the means to do so. Moreover, liturgical Latin could and should have been taught to every Catholic. In this connection, the Austrian Una Voce society has established a quick course in Latin which is proving quite popular and effective. Even a German, whose language is not rooted in Latin, can acquire enough Latin in a few lessons to understand the Ordinary of the Mass. How much easier for a Latin, or an Anglo-Saxon!

Nor is Latin an obstacle to reunion; after all, most of the great works of the Reformers were written in that language. Whatever happens to Christianity, it can neither deny nor forget its Mediterranean roots. This is true of Christianity in Northern Europe, in the Western Hemisphere, and no less among the Afro-Americans. Origins are hard facts; and the past can never be unmade. Nor can we deny our Jewish heritage. Yet there are people among us who unconsciously continue the old Nazi warfare against Jerusalem, Athens and Rome. It is the Tower of Babel with all its linguistic confusions which they desperately want to rebuild. Against them we need courageous bishops—bishops who will unify the diverse, who will make order out of chaos.

Since the French Revolution the West has been obsessed by a neurotic fear of not being up to date. The chains of time are a characteristic worry of a godless, geocentric and materialistic outlook. But it is especially amusing today to see how our progressive neurotics, brandishing the banner of liturgical democratization, are pushing for the nationalization of the Mass in an increasingly international world. Our scientific age is in many ways ruled not by cold reason but by emotional fads; ruled, that is, by fausses idées claires.

The Lie That Was Told to Over 2,000 Council Fathers at Vatican II

One of the most debated questions at the Second Vatican Council was the language in which the Mass and other rites would be celebrated for Western (aka Latin) Catholics. Everyone who was at the Council testified that there was a battle royale over this topic; there’s no one who disputes that fact. I have collected abundant testimonials in two articles here at NLM:

• “The Council Fathers in Support of Latin: Correcting a Narrative Bias”
• “What They Requested, What They Expected, and What Happened: Council Fathers on the Latin Roman Canon”

The majority opinion was certainly against total vernacularization; when someone said that Latin was in danger of disappearing, everyone burst out laughing. In all of the drafts of Sacrosanctum Concilium, the normativity of Latin was always stressed: that’s how we ended up with SC 36:

1. Particular law remaining in force, the use of the Latin language is to be preserved in the Latin rites. 2. But since the use of the mother tongue, whether in the Mass, the administration of the sacraments, or other parts of the liturgy, frequently may be of great advantage to the people, the limits of its employment may be extended. This will apply in the first place to the readings and directives, and to some of the prayers and chants, according to the regulations on this matter to be laid down separately in subsequent chapters.

Some Council Fathers were worried about the loopholes. But the relator, that is, the rapporteur tasked with speaking to the assembly on behalf of the committee working on the document, reassured them that total vernacularization was out of the question.

Here is where the research of Fr. Gabriel Díaz-Patri is invaluable. In his essay “Cristina Campo and the Petition of 1966” (chapter 9 in the immensely fascinating book The Latin Mass and the Intellectuals: Petitions to Save the Ancient Mass from 1966 to 2007 edited by Joseph Shaw and published by Arouca Press towards the end of last year), Fr. Díaz-Patri pulls together the relevant passages buried in the gigantic tomes of the acts of Vatican II. [1]
 

Fr. Díaz-Patri writes (pp. 114–18):

« The Council, which, in fact, was still in session [when Inter Oecumenici appeared in 1964], had clearly decided on the preservation of the Latin language for the liturgy of the Latin rites. Indeed, from the very beginning the normative place of Latin in the liturgy was reiterated in no. 24 of the Schema (the official draft of the Constitution), which received the approval of the Council and became article 36 §1 of Sacrosanctum Concilium. The expression is clear: “Linguae latinae usus . . . in Ritibus latinis servetur” (“the use of the Latin language in the Latin rites must be preserved”). The subjunctive “servetur” clearly expresses a command, and not a mere recommendation.

The Acta synodalia Sacrosancti Concilii Oecumenici Vaticani Secundi, where the minutes of all the discussions that took place in the conciliar hall are officially transcribed, records that some of the Council Fathers suggested changes in the wording to weaken the principle, but their proposals were defeated. The clarity of the principle is confirmed both by the later commentary of Fr. Carlo Braga, and by the official rapporteur, Bishop Jesus Enciso Viana of Mallorca, whose task was to clarify for the Council Fathers the meaning of the texts, who stated in a later debate: “To completely exclude the Latin language from the Mass would contradict the principle already established [by the Council] in Article 36.”

Nevertheless, the Constitution then goes on to state that “since it is not unusual for the use of the vernacular language to be very useful to the people,” it may be given an appropriate place.

There are important nuances in this text that are worth considering with the help of the Acta Synodalia. The initial schema stated categorically “amplior locus ipsi in liturgia tribuatur” (“a wider place must be given”) [no. 24 §2] to the vernacular, but, contrary to what happened in the previous case, this time the Council decided to correct the subjunctive of the expression that had originally been proposed by the drafters, replacing it with the more moderate form “amplior locus ipsi tribui valeat” (“a wider place may be given”), which was approved by the Council Fathers as paragraph §2 of art. 36 of the Conciliar Constitution.

A little further on, in a parallel context, the same procedure was followed with the subjunctive of the expression “congruus locus tribuatur” (“a congruent place must be given,” sc. to the vernacular languages), proposed in that case by the drafters of the schema, which was changed by the Council to the weaker “congruus locus tribui possit” (“it may be given an appropriate place”), as we find in §54 of the document officially approved by the Council Fathers.

The incorporation of these modifications into the original schema was explained in the following way by the rapporteur in the Conciliar Hall so that the meaning of the points upon which they had to vote would be clear to participants.

We have wished to express it in such a way that those who wish to celebrate the whole Mass in the Latin language do not impose their opinion on the others; but that, in the same way, those who wish to use the vernacular in some parts of the Mass do not oblige the former to do so. [!] Therefore, according to what had already been established in no. 36, we have granted a suitable place for the vernacular languages; but we do not say “must be given,” but “may be given,” which we had already taken care to do in the aforementioned no. 36.

On the other hand, the above-mentioned term “congruus” used in no. 54 is not accidental either: if the conference of bishops decide to permit the use of the vernacular, the place and mode of application were to be clearly delimited: first, it is clear that the vernacular was to be used only in Masses with the people (“in Missis cum populo celebratis”), and secondly, the use of the vernacular language was to be limited to certain parts of the celebration, and these parts should be specifically enumerated in each case.

These parts could be, in principle (“imprimis”), the readings and admonitions (“in lectionibus, admonitionibus”), the “common prayer” or “prayer of the faithful” which had just been reincorporated into the Roman Mass, as well as some prayers and chants (“in nonnullis orationibus et cantibus”). In addition, when local conditions made it advisable (“pro condicione locorum”), this could also be extended to those parts of the Mass that pertain to the people (“etiam in partibus quae ad populum spectant”). However, the enumeration of various possibilities in no way implied a universal authorization whose application could be decided individually by the celebrant, but it was up to the competent territorial authority (and, if applicable, after having heard the opinion of the bishops of neighboring regions speaking the same language) to establish, first of all, whether the vernacular language would be allowed or not, and if it was allowed, to what degree, after approval and confirmation by the Apostolic See.

On the other hand, the enumeration of the various possibilities for the use of the vernacular in the Instruction does not mean that all must be authorized; rather, it represents the limits within which the competent authority may authorize.

Fr. Braga also explains that, if we follow the Conciliar Constitution, the parts that are sung or said by the celebrant should be only in Latin. However, the same Constitution adds that if, in some place (“sicubi”), after careful and prudent consideration (“sedulo et prudenter”), it seems opportune to allow an even wider use of the vernacular to include also some of the parts (“aliquae ex his partibus”) said by the priest, an indult should be requested from the Holy See according to the norms given in no. 40. However, prayers recited in secret by the priest are always excluded [“semper excluduntur”]: these must be only in Latin.

When the language issue was discussed again, in the Congregatio Generalis XLIII, the rapporteur explained the proposed text:

We are therefore leaving open two doors: the door is not closed to anyone who wishes to celebrate the whole Mass in the Latin language; and the door is not closed to anyone to use the vernacular language in specific parts of the Mass.

In this way, the only door that was completely closed by the Council, according to the text approved and in light of this explanation given by the rapporteur, is that of being able to say the whole Mass in the vernacular. On the other hand, as the rapporteur points out, the only thing that is commanded in this article is to be found in a text added to the original schema by the Council Fathers, namely, that the faithful should be taught to say or sing in Latin the parts of the Mass that correspond to them. »

Print by Mathieu Lauweriks, 1935 (source)

Let us summarize in five points what SC teaches according to the official relator:

1. Latin must be kept in the liturgy; this is not optional.
2. A liturgy in Latin only will always be possible.
3. The vernacular may be used, at the discretion of episcopal conferences and with the Holy See's approval.
4. But the vernacular is to be used for only some portions of the liturgy, not for all.
5. The people must be instructed in Latin Gregorian chant.

Thus, at a busy urban parish in England or the USA one might envision a Sunday schedule something like this (not that I'm recommending it, but merely envisioning what might follow from the foregoing norms):

• two low Masses in Latin, one of them a dialogue Mass;
• one low Mass with the changing parts in the vernacular;
• a high Mass chanted in Latin by the choir trained on Ward Method;
• a high Mass in Latin, with English hymns and readings.

That, I suggest, is the mental picture that most closely resembles what all the bishops and superiors of the Catholic Church voted in favor of. As Fr. Díaz-Patri shows, the Council Fathers were solemnly assured, prior to voting on the text, that its meaning could not be construed as endorsing or even allowing total vernacularization, and that the rights of Latin would be respected to such an extent that some part of the Mass would always remain in Latin, and the whole of it could remain in Latin for those who wished it. And Paul VI promulgated this document as thus presented.

In the meetings of the Central Preparatory Commission prior to the Council, Cardinal Montini gave a speech in which, after appealing to the other members of the CPC to broaden the use of the vernacular for certain parts of Mass, he then stated: “In the rest of the Mass, the Latin language will be kept, except perhaps for the Lord’s Prayer (Our Father), which is, as it were, the summit of public prayer, and is the best preparation of souls for Communion.” At the Council itself, Cardinal Montini stated even more clearly: “Especially when it comes to the language to be used in worship, the use of the ancient language handed down by our forefathers, namely, the Latin language, should for the Latin Church be firm and stable in those parts of the rite which are sacramental and properly and truly priestly.”

All the while, the main advocates of liturgical reform—and their leader, Cardinal Montini, with his new friend Annibale Bugnini, whom he quickly sized up as the right man for the job, as Yves Chiron narrates in his biographies of both figures—had no intention of honoring this stipulation. Msgr. Bugnini was an enemy of Latin liturgy all his life. Famously, in a 1969 response to Hubert Jedin who had lamented the damage to Church unity from the almost total disappearance of Latin, Bugnini showed his cards: “Do you believe there is a deep and heartfelt unity amid lack of understanding, ignorance, and the ‘dark of night’ of a worship that lacks a face and light, at least for those out in the nave?”

It would appear that many who worked with Bugnini to draft Sacrosanctum Concilium and later staffed the Consilium felt the same way. Yet they knew they could not ask for too much, too fast. This is why Bugnini said, in what is among his most notorious utterance (speaking to a small number of fellow SC drafters on November 11, 1961):

It would be most inconvenient for the articles of our Constitution to be rejected by the Central Commission or by the Council itself. That is why we must tread carefully and discreetly. Carefully, so that proposals be made in an acceptable manner (modo acceptabile), or, in my opinion, formulated in such a way that much is said without seeming to say anything: let many things be said in embryo (in nuce) and in this way let the door remain open to legitimate and possible postconciliar deductions and applications: let nothing be said that suggests excessive novelty and might invalidate all the rest, even what is straightforward and harmless (ingenua et innocentia). We must proceed discreetly. Not everything is to be asked or demanded from the Council—but the essentials, the fundamental principles [are].

Part of what he already had in mind here was total vernacularization, which he knew would have been massively voted down by the Council Fathers. So, we mustn't tell them that... we must utter some "fundamental principles"... and, if needed, grease the wheels with a few untruths... it wouldn't be the first time that one had to tell a noble lie for the good of the people...

After the Council, the moves toward this goal were rapid, as Fr. Díaz-Patri well documents in the aforementioned book. There was Inter Oecumenici of 1964; the first Italian Mass by none other than Paul VI in March of 1965; the Missa Normativa of 1967; the infamous papal general audiences of 1965 (March 17) and 1969 (November 19 and November 26), in which Paul VI bare farewell to Latin and Gregorian chant. [3]

If we step back and view this whole elaborate picture, what do we see?

Quite simply this. Montini, Bugnini, and all who belonged to their camp wanted to move away from Latin into the vernacular long before the Council. But they made sure to present to the Council a document sufficiently conservative and sufficiently vague to allow over 2,000 bishops to sign off on it—and, what is more, made sure everyone was given the false assurance that Latin would remain in place, even though their actions immediately after the Council make it abundantly clear they never had any intention of honoring these reassurances. Within a few short years, Latin was nearly entirely gone from the Church’s public worship—or rather, it had been actively excluded, banished.

How then can one attempt to justify this gigantic bait-and-switch?

Well, predictably, it is turned into pious hagiography, an unexpected victory of Divine Providence over minds as yet insufficiently enlightened at the Council. In the words of Cavadini, Healy, and Weinandy:

As we have seen, the Council Fathers desired that the Latin language be preserved, especially in the people’s responses, although they readily acknowledged that the vernacular was frequently advantageous to the people. What they did not anticipate was the enthusiasm with which the vernacular was accepted by clergy and laity alike. Bishops’ conferences around the world voted to expand the use of the vernacular and requested and received permission to do so from Rome….
        The vox populi had spoken and had been affirmed by the Church—vernacular it would be. This ecclesial affirmation undercuts one of the most common arguments against the Novus Ordo: that the wholesale adoption of the vernacular, and the reformed liturgy more broadly, is illegitimate because it went beyond what the Council intended. What this fails to note is that Church’s magisterium, in the persons of Paul VI and John Paul II, confirmed these developments, judging them to be authentic liturgical developments that were in accord with the aims of the Council, even if the Council had not explicitly called for them.

Given all that we have seen, this interpretation is the very height of tendentiousness. Such an approach, where the vox populi plus the papal rubberstamp equals “legitimate development,” is really no different from the move of progressives who say that “the Spirit” outstripped the limited mental faculties and theological categories of the Council Fathers and paved the way for outcomes that far exceeded their wildest dreams (or nightmares, as the case may be). In both cases, the past is left behind, buried beneath the rubble of its own deconstruction, and replaced with a “new Catholicism” that must sound different, look different, be different, than it was for every prior century of its existence. [4]

One cannot learn about a bait-and-switch of this magnitude without souring on the Council-as-event, the governance of Paul VI, the ideology of Bugnini, and the good faith of the entire Consilium. There is no room for a naively optimistic narrative. There was deviancy, plotting, mendacity, and betrayal. That is the milieu out of which the liturgical reform arose. As children bear the traits of their parents, so the reform bears the traits of its treacherous origins, and carries them forward with daily ruptures, like a garment torn inch by inch.

This is why I say in my books that the difficulties in the reform are not cosmetic but genetic: they have to do with the principles of its construction, design, and execution, not the superficially mutable aspects of its instantiation here or there. And this is why restoration, not reform, is the only path to a satisfactory and stable liturgical future for the Catholic Church.

NOTES

[1] In the interests of space, I will leave out the extensive footnotes—a good reason to make sure you pick up a copy of this book, among the best books I read in the whole of 2023.

[2] For both quotations, and their Latin originals, see this article by Matthew Hazell.

[3] For the texts with commentary, see this lecture. These speeches are the reason why it is impossible to claim that "the Novus Ordo was meant to be done in Latin, with chant, but it was hijacked," etc. See this article.

[4] For a thorough refutation of the Cavadini, Healy, and Weinandy series, see the anthology Illusions of Reform.

A History of Vernacular Scripture from the Pulpit: A Research Project by Nico Fassino

Our thanks to Mr Nico Fassino for sharing with us this account of his latest research project; this article is an abridgment and summary of material published on the Epistles & Gospels project website. Mr Fassino is the founder of the Hand Missal History Project, an independent research initiative dedicated to exploring Catholic history through the untold and forgotten experiences of the laity across the centuries. Learn more at HandMissalHistory.com or @HandMissals.

Detail of ‘Worship Service in Trier Cathedral’ by Clarkson Frederick Stanfield, 1838.

The tradition of reading portions of the holy Scriptures during the Christian liturgy goes back to the time of the Apostles. The selections and arrangement of specific Scriptural readings varied between geographic regions and liturgical traditions, but generally included letters and writings of the Apostles as well as selections from the four Gospels and other parts of the New and Old Testaments. In the Roman Rite, a regular and standardized cycle of readings (the “Epistles and Gospels”) for use at Mass was established by the sixth and seventh centuries.

Surviving commentaries, homilies, and manuscript lectionaries demonstrate that this cycle of liturgical Scripture readings remained basically unchanged from the early medieval period until the liturgical reforms in the mid-twentieth century. The texts and arrangement of the Epistles and Gospels of the Roman Rite have been widely recognized and praised –even by non-Catholics– as a masterful summation of the Bible and Christian doctrine: German Protestant theologian Ernst Ranke considered them to be “the greatest perfection of liturgical art,” by which the Catholic Church endeavored “to make the congregation familiar with a very extensive portion of Scripture,” and that “the abundance of texts and the ingenious arrangement cannot be praised too much.” [1]

Conventional Narratives

Despite the beauty of the Epistle and Gospel texts, it is commonly thought that the laity did not regularly hear or understand the liturgical Scripture readings because they were read by the priest in Latin at the altar, and not to the people in their own language. It is a widespread belief in both scholarly and popular historical accounts that, in the decades and centuries before the Second Vatican Council, the laity had “little or no engagement with the Scripture readings” and that “[s]cripture was foreign territory to most pre-Vatican II Catholics—Protestants knew their Bible, Catholics celebrated their Mass.” [2]

There were some notable efforts to improve access to the vernacular Scriptures in the immediate years before the council. In 1936, Bishop Edwin V O’Hara (the pioneering figure behind the creation of the 1954 English Ritual) started the project to create a new, modern translation of the New Testament for the use of Catholics. The work was finally published to national acclaim in 1941 under the auspices of the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine. O’Hara also commissioned a special project alongside the wider translation effort: a book of the Sunday liturgical Scripture readings for use from the pulpit, so that the priest could recite the Epistle and Gospel in English before the homily.

This companion volume, using the new Confraternity translation, was also published in 1941 as The Epistles and Gospels for Sundays and Holydays by William H. Sadlier of New York City. It was initially adopted by 72 American dioceses, and soon spread throughout the United States and Canada. (A similar book, using Ronald Knox’s translation of the Bible, was published in 1945 for pulpit use in England and Wales). The 1941 Confraternity version was quickly incorporated into hand missals for the laity, allowing them to read the same Scripture text in the pew as they heard from the pulpit and studied at home.

From the front matter of a St. Joseph hand missal for the laity, demonstrating how the use of the Confraternity Scriptures from the pulpit was designed to be integrated with the experience of the readings in the hand missal.

Two decades after the publication of the Confraternity version, the practice of reciting the Scriptures from the pulpit began to change in the light of modern developments. In 1958, Pius XII instituted lay “commentators” who could read the vernacular texts of the Epistle and Gospel via a microphone and loudspeaker, in addition to offering running narration and explanation for the ceremonies of the Mass. A few years later, the need to recite the Scriptures in translation was eliminated by the liturgical changes which followed the council. Ultimately, even the ancient cycle of the Epistles and Gospels was replaced by a series of new lectionary books and revisions which remain ongoing even to the present day.

The History of Vernacular Scripture from the Pulpit

But the custom of reading the Sunday Scripture readings in the vernacular from the pulpit did not originate with O’Hara and the 1941 pulpit edition of the Confraternity translation. Rather, this was an ancient tradition which had been practiced throughout English-speaking lands since at least the 900s.

In a new study, titled The Epistles & Gospels in English: A history of vernacular Scripture from the pulpit, I offer the first comprehensive survey of this practice between 971 and 1964. The paper investigates this custom across five distinct historical eras, concluding with the first liturgical changes following the Second Vatican Council. The paper includes a number of valuable translations, and is heavily illustrated with images from twenty manuscripts and rare books, including several that have never before been available to the public.

English Epistles & Gospels in the Medieval Ages

The very earliest surviving manuscript collections of English homilies demonstrate that the custom of reciting the Sunday Gospel in the vernacular was already established and widely practiced by the late 900s. The Blickling Homilies, first published around 971, and Aelfric of Eynsham’s Catholic Homilies, first published around 995, both contain English translations of the entire Sunday Gospel placed at the beginning of the homily for the benefit of the laity.

Details from English homilies containing a vernacular translation of the Gospel reading. At left, the Blickling Homilies (Princeton University Library M 71, folio 6v) for Quinquagesima Sunday; at right, Aelfric’s Catholic Homilies (Bodleian Library MS. Bodl. 343, folio 56v) for the First Sunday of Lent.

There were a large number of English homily collections published in the following centuries which contained English translations and commentary on the Sunday Scripture readings. Examples include the Ormulum (circa 1180), the Northern Homily Cycle (circa 1315), John Mirk’s extraordinarily popular Book of Festivals (produced in manuscript and print from the 1380s to the 1530s), and editions like the “Dominical Gospels and of other certain great feasts” found in manuscripts Harley 2276 and Royal 18 A XVII (circa 1450).

This wasn't merely an English phenomenon. Rather, the English custom was part of a pan-European tradition of reciting the Sunday Epistle and Gospels in the vernacular for the benefit of the faithful. Between the late 1300s and the early 1500s, hundreds of editions of vernacular Epistles and Gospel books were published under a variety of titles, including Epistolae et evangelia, Postilla super epistulas et evangelia, and Postilla seu enarrationes.

These books were used by children at school, laity in the pews, and by priests in the pulpit across Europe. Editions survive in German, Italian, Dutch, French, Croatian, Spanish, Danish, English and more (they were even produced in the indigenous vernaculars in the New World, like the Nahuatl-language Epistolae et Evangelia produced in Mexico in the 1500s). The custom of reciting the Sunday liturgical Scriptures in the vernacular was so widespread that, as attested to be numerous contemporary accounts, many layfolk (even the poor and uneducated) came to memorize much of the Epistle and Gospel cycle and associate the readings with the different parts of the liturgical year.

Examples of European vernacular Epistle & Gospel books, published under the title of ‘Epistolae et evangelia. At left, a 1487 edition in Italian (Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze Magl. C.5.10); at center, a 1486 edition in Dutch (Koninklijke Bibliotheek 168 G 33); at right, a 1495 edition in German (Bridwell Library Special Collections 06285).

Even Martin Luther attested that practice was widespread throughout Catholic Europe before the Reformation. Speaking of how God had preserved certain essential elements in the true church even despite “abomination” of the papacy, Luther said (in passages which to my knowledge have never before been translated into English, emphasis added):

“… in this Church, God remarkably and effectively preserved: [i] Baptism; [ii] next, the text of the Gospel, recited from the pulpit and in sermons in the vernacular of any country [...]

Since, I say, the office of the word is the greatest, the highest worship of God in the Church, Christ even in preserving it against the devil, against every falsehood and hypocrisy, administered it more effectively, no doubt, such that the Papists themselves […] the fiercest enemies of Christ, and most pernicious Pharisees against the doctrine of grace, nevertheless publicly recited the name of Christ and the text of the Gospel from the pulpit, not only in Latin but also in the local vernacular of any people throughout the whole world. ” [3]

English Epistles & Gospels in the Modern Period

With the dawn of the nineteenth century came the renewal of a trend which had been present throughout the medieval ages: bishops and councils urging priests to proclaim the Scriptures in English to their congregations during the celebration of Sunday Mass. In 1791, Bishop John Carroll opened the first synod for the church in the United States at St. Peter’s pro-cathedral in Baltimore. Regulations for Sunday Mass were prescribed in the Synod’s 17th Statute, which directed that the more solemn forms of sung and high Mass should be celebrated whenever possible, that it was desirable for some vernacular hymns and prayers be sung by the congregation, and that a vernacular translation of the Gospel was to be recited before the sermon. [4]

Saint Peter’s Catholic Church, Baltimore, by Thomas Ruckle, 1801 (the site of the 1791 Synod). Image courtesy of the Maryland Center for History and Culture (1981.51)

Similar regulations were issued by the bishops of Great Britain in 1822 and Ireland in 1826, and similar decrees would be regularly renewed throughout the English-speaking world in the subsequent decades. These decrees also inspired an outpouring of new books to assist priests in this task. Many publishers began to print specialized “pulpit use” versions of the Epistles and Gospels. These were popular with the clergy because they were designed for liturgical use, easy to hold and read in the pulpit, utilized the specific translations permitted by the hierarchy, and created a more standard experience across parishes and dioceses for the faithful in the pews.

Frontispiece of Epistles and Gospels for Pulpit Use, published by M.H. Wiltzius Co. of Milwaukee in 1893.

Conclusion

This article has been only a brief summary and overview of the history of the Epistles and Gospels in English. There are many other fascinating details which could not be included here. Examples include how original editions of the Rheims New Testament were used to read the English Epistles and Gospels at Mass during the period of persecution and recusancy in England, how Epistle and Gospel books sustained the faith and worship of the laity on remote American frontiers (even producing the vocation of the Bishop of Raleigh!), and local traditions like that of the Archdiocese of Portland where the vernacular Gospel was read at every daily Mass during Lent.

Detail from the Lenten Regulations for the city of Seattle and the Archdiocese of Portland in Oregon, published in The Catholic Northwest Progress, February 15, 1901, page 8. This was included in the Lenten Regulations annually between at least 1901 and 1929.

This new study demonstrates that, contrary to both popular and scholarly narratives, there was a long-standing and popular tradition of Catholics priests reciting English translations of the Sunday Scripture readings from the pulpit for the benefit of the laity during the Mass. We can now see that significant numbers of the laity –throughout many lands and ages– had regular and meaningful vernacular engagement with the Roman Rite’s ancient cycle of Epistles and Gospel readings, allowing them to memorize large amounts of Scripture and participate deeply in the annual liturgical cycle. All of this offers new insights into the history of pastoral care for the laity and cannot but transform our understanding of the lived experience of Catholic communities throughout the English-speaking world over the past 1,000 years.

NOTES:

[1] Ernst Ranke, Das kirchliche Perikopensystem aus den ältesten Urkunden der Römischen Liturgie dargelegt und erläutert. (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1847), page 400. Translation by Rev. John M. Lenhart, O.M.Cap, “The Bible as the meditation book of Medieval Laity,” The Ecclesiastical Review, Vol. 101, no. 3 (1939), page 195.

[2] John Cavadini, Mary Healy, and Thomas Weinandy, “A Synoptic Look at the Failures and Successes of Post-Vatican II Liturgical Reforms.” Church Life Journal, December 1, 2022.

[3] Martin Luther, De missa privata et unctione sacerdotum libellus (Vitebergae, 1534). The folios of this work are not numbered, but the quoted text appears on pages 71-72 and 96 if counted manually from the first page of text which begins “Toto hoc tempore.”

[4] “Dein Missa cum cantu solemniter celebretur; et solemnioribus diebus, si fieri potest, assistentibus Diacono et Subdiacono... Finito Evangelio legantur preces praescriptae pro omnibus ordinibus et felici statu Reipublicae; Evangelium item proprium illius diei lingua vernacula...Optandum est ut inter officia hymni aliqui aut preces lingua vernacular cantentur.” See Concilia Provincialia Baltimori habita ab anno 1829, usque ad annum 1840 (Baltimore: John Murphy, 1842), pp 15-16.