Traddy Subversion

It is often noted that traddy types are more observant than regular Catholics, but some time ago I heard an anecdote about an exception. (Since the context is the individual's funeral, I delayed posting it for a few years.)

The gentleman was no longer interested in going to church after all of the changes in the latter part of the last century, and this was distressing for his wife. An account of how this tension was resolved was presented at the funeral.

One of [the] granddaughters made a beautiful eulogy, at one point explaining that her grandpa didn't like to go to church, but her grandma wanted him to. So when grandma took grandpa to church, he translated all readings and hymns into Latin on the spot and read/sang them loudly that way, which caused grandma not to make him go to church anymore.

Being traddy in order to get out of going to church. That's a new one!

Resting Like A Bundle of Myrrh

Back on the feast of All Franciscan Saints, long-time internet friend and sometime fellow American in Rome Fr. Daren J. Zehnle tweeted this lovely image of some of said saints from St. Francis of Assisi church in Teutopolis, Illinois:

(It looks like a nice parish by the way. See their website here.)

That's St. Bonaventure, of course, to Our Lady's left. You can tell because of his red cardinal's hat, which he has rightly doffed in such heavenly company and deposited on his little cloud. So right away I wanted to know what his book says. You couldn't quite make it out in the photo, though you can tell that it says something. So I asked Fr. Daren to find out, and now he has come back with a closer photo, in which you can see that it says crucifixus.

Now I was intrigued. Certainly St. Bonaventure speaks often enough of the crucified, but usually--at least in my memory--in a declined form. I couldn't remember any instance of it in the nominative, as in the book in the picture.

But sure enough a little searching surfaced what must be the page of the book Bonaventure is holding open. It's from chapter nine of the Major Legend of St. Francis, on Francis's "ardor of charity and desire for martyrdom."

Christus Iesus crucifixus intra suae mentis ubera ut myrrhae fasciculus iugiter morabatur in quem optabat per excessivi amoris incendium totaliter transformari.

"Jesus Christ crucified always rested like a bundle of myrrh in the bosom of [St. Francis's] soul, into Whom he longed to be totally transformed through an enkindling of ecstatic love."

(FA:ED II: 597, cf. Song of Songs 1:13)

Quid Pro Quo

On a Saturday morning one of the General Councilors of the Order was mopping his room. As I passed in the hallway, he remarked that in the olden days the General Definitors (as they were until recently called) would bring along to Rome a brother famulus to assist them with such things.

As I thought upon this as I started to clean my own room--it is a duty explicitly defined by the Statutes of the General Curia and customarily fulfilled on a Saturday--I began to wonder if it wasn't because the Church has largely abandoned the Roman Canon (e.g. Eucharistic Prayer I), and so no longer prays pro famulis, that the brothers were no longer found ready to be famuli.

One gives himself to obedience for the sake of some spiritual benefit, of course. And if the spiritual benefit disappears, what use is the obedience?

Latin Doubts Changing World Ramble

There are those who like to think that liturgical Latin has been making comeback. Not that it needs to of course; as goes the oft quoted section 36 of the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy of Vatican II, Linguae latinae usus, salvo particulari iure, in Ritibus latinis servetur. "Particular law remaining in force, the use of the Latin language is to be preserved in the Latin rites."

Recent experience has made me doubt, however.

Activism and Sobriety in Rome

Next month I will mark three years in Rome. That's half of my assignment, at least as it stands right now on paper. And after these almost three years, I think I may have arrived at my first fully-formed criticism of 'Rome.'

This past week I spent a couple of days interpreting between Italian and English for a small international meeting. The brothers were about preparing a working document for a larger international meeting on the way. Of course the document is written in Italian, and will then have to be translated into the other languages of the participants.

There was a little tension in the meeting regarding the translation of the document from Italian to English. For example, it was said, probably rightly, that the Italian terms attivismo and sobrietà cannot be correctly rendered into English by their obvious cognates, activism and sobriety, respectively, but rather other words that approximate the Italian meanings must be chosen. Approximate. Every translation is a betrayal, of course. Omnis traductor traditor and all that.

All of which got me thinking. If every translation is a betrayal to one degree or another, as indeed they are, and it is just such misunderstandings and failures in communication that lead people to reject documents that come from 'Rome,' why would a Roman institution (like the General Curia of the Friars Minor Capuchin, for example) insist on using as its base language a language that is very small in terms of general international use and increasingly small in the international use of the Church, namely Italian, and thereby multiply such opportunities for misunderstanding and miscommunication in translation? In other words, according to Wikipedia for example, Italian is the twenty-fifth most spoken language in the world. Is it thus the best choice for the base language of documents for an international organization?

In this I see what must have been the powerful utility of Latin. Why not make Latin the base, working language again? Why shouldn't the international working language be a challenge that unites instead of a small property that insists upon the pitfalls of translation? Yes, translation would still have to be made back at home. But at least the document in the 'typical edition' would be in a language that was nobody's property in particular.

I remember one eminent friar saying that back when international meetings themselves were conducted in Latin, they took much less time, because friars only said what they really needed to say. Everyone likes shorter meetings. And they're cheaper too.

And if Latin is too radical a proposition, sending religious and priests as it does into anaphylaxis, why not make English the base, working language, as many other international organizations have done? At least then the 'typical edition' of documents would be in the single largest language group with regard to the constituency.

All of this is why, when I'm General Minister (may God forbid it!), the working language of the General Curia will be English and the liturgical language will be Latin, which is after all the ordinary language of the liturgy anyway (Sacrosanctum Concilium, 36.1) That way, respectively, the inevitable misunderstandings in communication are minimized, and the language of the liturgy becomes nobody's property, but a challenge that can be shared by all.

Some Unfinished Thoughts on Vulgarity

It's been interesting, after all the anticipation surrounding the appearance of the new translation of the Mass in English, and after the larger part of a liturgical year praying it myself, moving to Italy and encountering the Mass in Italian.

I say it's been interesting because in some of the places where the changes to the English provoked the most praise and condemnation, the Italian Mass is more like the English used to be. The most glaring example is the pro multis. Some praised the new for many in English while others condemned it. But after all those discussions, presentations, bulletin inserts, etc., explaining and defending the change, it's curious that here in Rome, offering Mass in the diocese of Rome herself, the chalice is still versato per voi e per tutti, 'poured out for you and for all/everybody.'

The prayer before Holy Communion is another example that strikes me. In English we used to say simply that we weren't worthy to receive the Lord, but now the biblical text has been restored, in which we proclaim our unworthiness to have the Lord come under our roof. I appreciated this change very much; to me it speaks to the body as a dwelling, in the Pauline sense of the tent. I proclaim my absolute unworthiness for this act of hospitality. Others didn't like it. They can move here because in Italian the roof and the hospitality are as missing as they used to be in English: O Signore, non sono degno di partecipare alla tua mensa..., 'O Lord, I am not worthy to share at your table...'

More and more I realize that the whole idea of liturgy in a local language means something a little different here in Italy, and especially here in Latium, i.e. Lazio. Perhaps, the use of the modern, local language, in the sense of carrying within itself a set of theological and ecclesiological assertions, carries even more force here at the historical and administrative center of Latin Christianity. In other words, in a certain sense, it means something stronger, theologically and ecclesiologically, to offer Mass in Italian in Rome than it does to offer Mass in English in New York. Exactly how to describe what this sense is I haven't quite figured out yet.

I have also begun to think that maybe the new translation in English is a bigger deal than I even realized. I say this because living here has made me understand better the powerful place of English in the world. It's amazing to see, as I often do, two young people from very different parts of the world communicate with the little bit of English they have in common. It makes me realize the power English has gained as a common language. What this means for the significance of the liturgy in English is something I'm also not sure about, but I'm convinced it means something.

Pretiosa in conspectu Domini

A couple of months before I made the big move over here to Italy, one of my wisdom figures among the friars paid me a visit and gave me a talking-to. One of his advices to me was to avoid the difficulties of transition altogether by just treating the transfer as if it were a vacation, for the first year or so, he said.

As constitutionally incapable as I am of taking up such advice, I thought of it today on the first altogether free day I've had since coming to Rome. For the occasion, I decided I would treat myself to something distinctively Roman. So I joined the crowds on the march from the Metro to St. Peter's Square and visited the lovely little bookstore of the Libreria Editrice Vaticana. There you can see all kinds of lovely things, and would that you might need them, like 'eucharistic prayers for concelebration' booklets in Latin, for instance.

There I found something that I've been thinking about picking up for a while, a copy of the 2004 Martyrologium Romanum.

Today for Mass we celebrated blessed Maria Teresa Kowalska, a Capuchin Poor Clare among the 108 martyrs of the Nazi persecution beatified by John Paul II. And here she is, with a couple days difference, as the latest entry for July 25.

Pray for us. Amen.

Epitaphs and Frijoles

I was quizzed today, with mixed results. I was read this (apparently) famous epitaph, and asked if I knew whose it was:

Petrus eram
quem petra tegit
dictusque Comestor
nunc comedor.

Of course I guessed without too much trouble that this was the epitaph of the great Petrus Comestor. When the quiz then continued to his dates, my luck ran out.

"I was Peter, whom this stone covers, called the 'Eater,' now I am eaten.

"Comedor," in Latin, as a present passive indicative, makes the sense of 'I am eaten.' "Comedor" in the sorts of Spanish with which I'm familiar, usually means a dining room or a casual restaurant.

So now when I go out in the neighborhood here to eat Dominican food, I'll have to be reminded of the dissolution of old Peter's mortal remains.

It is said that they called him Peter the Eater because of his ability to devour books and knowledge, which he certainly did. But knowing how nicknames work among the clergy, I have strong suspicions that there may have been other senses.

New Translation: Victimhood

In accord with my practice for the minimum use of Eucharistic Prayer I, I've been praying the Roman Canon through this whole week of the Christmas Octave. This has given me further opportunity to pray through and reflect upon the new translation.

One thing that strikes me with some intensity is the restoration of the triad at the end of the Unde et memores: offered to God is the hostiam puram, hostiam, sanctam, hostiam immaculatam.

The new translation renders this as it is in the Latin: this pure victim, this holy victim, this spotless victim.

The old translation did away with the structure of the triad, replacing it with this holy and perfect sacrifice.

On the one hand, I like the restoration of the normative structure of the prayer. Now I just have to let go of the interior urge to make the signs of the cross that accompany this moment in the Extraordinary Form! On the other hand, I see the translation problem. In our time and place, victimhood and victimization have such a connotation of meaninglessness injustice. Jesus' victimhood was certainly an injustice, but one that was, in the paradox of the cross, superabundant in meaning. Can we hear this over and above our common connotations of 'victim'?

Even though hostia and victima may have been somewhat interchangeable in late antiquity when the Roman Canon came together, the meaning-history of hostia, with its general sense of sacrificial victim and technical use as such in ancient religion would seem to be lost to the average pray-er speaking it as 'victim' in twenty-first century English.

So it goes to some basic questions regarding liturgical translation. For example, what is the value of trying to bring out the sense of terms in our best guesses as to their original connotation and intent? On other hand, one of the values embedded in the new translation, and to which I consent easily, is that sacral language, such as that of the liturgy, is not supposed to be the same as or beholden to common speech.

So what do you think? Is it an o.k., good, or not-so-good thing to translate the hostia in hostiam puram, hostiam sanctam, hostiam immaculatam as 'victim'?

Learn some Latin

From Fr. Finigan's blog I learn today of a conference for the fiftieth anniversary of John XXIII's apostolic constitution Veterum sapientia, which urged the study of Latin as a requirement for priestly formation. The same requirement is echoed by the decree on priestly training of Vatican II, Optatam totius. My experience, however, at least where I studied for priesthood and where our men continue to do so, is that no Latin is required. So much for the spirit of Vatican II.

I had to get myself a little Latin because I took an extra year in studies for priesthood and completed an STL, and I have to say that it was one of the best things I ever did for myself as a Catholic Christian. Even a little bit of Latin opens up tremendous vistas in one's awareness of the traditions of western Christianity.

It's too bad that Latin gets so wound up with our factions and disagreements, as if the only reason a seminarian might learn Latin would be so that he could put on a maniple or black vestments or do some other, equally horrifying thing. Latin is a matter of our tradition, not of so-called traditionalism.

When I was at Weston Jesuit it was joked that, in the theological vision of the school, nothing of note had happened in Christianity between the death of St. Paul and the birth of Karl Rahner. Perhaps that wasn't quite fair, but the jab did get at something. But you have to say that without any Latin, those who would be Catholic priests and theologians do cut themselves off from their ancestors in a certain way.

And when it comes to the ministry of sacred orders and the practice of theology, ancestors aren't just ancestors, but the communion of saints. They are worth conversing with in their own words. So learn some Latin.

New Translation: My First Stumble

Today being the feast of St. Andrew, according to my Plan for the Minimum Use of Eucharistic Prayer I, it was my first time praying the Roman Canon in the new translation. It was the occasion of my first real stumble over what some folks are calling the awkwardness of the English.

It was right in the middle of the memento for the living:

Remember, Lord, your servants N. and N.
and all gathered here,
whose faith and devotion are known to you.
For them, we offer you this sacrifice of praise
or they offer it for themselves
and all who are dear to them.

I stumbled right on the "or" and lost the thread, as my dad would say.

Here's the Latin:

Memento, Domine, famulorum famularumque tuarum N. et N.
et omnium circumstantium,
quorum tibi fides cognita est et nota devotio,
pro quibus tibi offerimus:
vel qui tibi offerunt hoc sacrificium laudis,
pro suisque omnibus.

I'm no liturgist or liturgical historian, but my sense of the prayer has always been that everyone present is gathered into the Eucharistic Prayer as well as those named or recalled. It is for them that the sacrifice is offered, as they also are offer to God their sacrifice of praise. That's my sense of the vel; it joins the sacrifice of praise offered by those named and those present to the sacrifice the priest offers to God. In that sense I don't get the "or" in the translation. I think it should say 'and.'

Also, the punctuation of the typical edition would have suggested a helpful colon after "praise."

Not that I'm making excuses for my stumbling and failure to study hard enough before offering the prayer.

New Translation: First 24 Hours

Well, the big day has come and gone. In the past twenty-four hours, I've celebrated three Masses with the new translation. What I notice the most is that I don't feel like I have that much to say. In some ways it felt like when I was first ordained priest; I didn't feel like I was praying that deeply because I was just trying to do and say everything properly.

Certain little things I appreciated. For the two Sunday Masses yesterday I used Eucharistic Prayer III. I loved praying from the rising of the sun to its setting, so much closer as it is to the image from the scriptures, and removing as it does the temptation of those who added a 'north to south' to the old 'east to west' in their missing of the metaphor.

I certainly notice how I hear the Latin behind the English (is that the right metaphor?) I hear the mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa in the new English Confiteor, the double dicens before the words of consecration in the way we now say 'saying' instead of 'said.' And of course I hear the calix sanguinis mei and the pro multis. Does this mean anything that I should hear the Latin under the English? I guess that goes to some of the hard questions at hand. What does Latin mean for western Christianity? Is it a historical accident? Or does God mean for it be that way? I think most folks I know would subscribe to the former theological assumption. For a sort of sed contra on a similar question on the history of human language and revelation, go read the Pope's infamous Regensburg speech, not the part that caused all the trouble, but the part about the Septuagint.

And also with you. It sure is stuck in the voice. The seminarian who served the Mass that was my first with the new translation said it straight away at the greeting, and right into my microphone. Despite looking forward to the change for so long, I said it myself to the deacon before he proclaimed the gospel at the next Mass. Just to be funny, at the Sign of Peace, when the deacon said to me, peace be with you, I said, and also with you.

Tomorrow there will be a new trouble as a fresh liturgical dubium arises for us English-speaking Franciscans. Tomorrow, you see, is the feast of All Franciscan Saints. The proper prayers for this Mass are in our proper sacramentary, which is, of course, embedded in the translation that is now suppressed. We don't have a new one according to the 3rd edition Roman Missal. So what to do? My best guess is that we take the proper prayers from the old book and the rest of the Mass from the new.

Latin, Language, and Revelation

Over the last six years the presence of Latin in my life has been accelerating. Before the summer of 2005, there was almost none. Now there's a lot. Knowing that I needed to pass the dreaded Latin exam of the famously cantankerous Iraqi Jesuit Fr. Stanley Marrow in order to complete the STL degree I started working on in the fall of 2005, I spent a good amount of that preceding summer trying to learn. I still remember the examination: two hours to translate Gaudium et spes 29-30. I didn't finish, and was sure that I had failed. I was genuinely surprised to find out that I had passed.

That same fall I saved up some of my "day off money" and ordered the typical edition Liturgia Horarum, thinking that it would be a good way to get some regular practice. In our communities we usually only pray Morning and Evening Prayer in common, so as I approached my diaconate ordination in the fall of 2006 I was working on making sure I was praying the rest of the hours each day on my own.

Then, in 2007, just two months before I was ordained priest, Summorum pontificum appeared. When I read it, I understood that the faithful were given the right to ask for the Extraodinary Form, so I thought I had better familiarize myself with it. So I started to attend a Latin Mass, when I could, on Sunday afternoons.

Now, having been transferred out of full-time ministry back into studies, I'm spending the best hours of my days reading theology in Latin. When I can on Sundays I sing with a local chant schola.

In these ways Latin has become a big part of my life, stemming mostly from the community's decision to bless my idea of pushing myself to get the STL, and ordering those breviaries.

This phenomenon of Latin in my life leads me into some theological reflection sometimes. I make no apology for praying in Latin; Vatican II is clear that Latin is the ordinary language for divine worship in the Roman rite. Nevertheless, there are some deeper theological questions that arise for me.

First of all, I think that one has to say that all human language as we know it is relative. Language as we have it now, especially in its diversity and perhaps also in its ambiguity, is only as old as the confusion at Babel. I imagine that we all still know the original language that was spoken before this, but we don't know that we know, or we have forgotten it. A language, like Latin for example, might be venerable or sacral or whatever, but it's still relative and exists only because of the fall of humanity from original blessing.

Nevertheless, there seems to me to be another theological question that moderates this first point. It has to do with the relationship of revelation to culture. We Catholics like to talk about the 'inculturation' of the liturgy or even the teaching of the faith, but sometimes I feel like there are assumptions made here regarding the relative arbitrariness of the cultures from which we have received divine revelation. God called Abraham, but is it accidental or constitutive for revelation that he lived in the frameworks and assumptions of the culture from which he came? Did the Holy Spirit lead Peter and Paul to Rome on purpose because it was in God's plan that western Christianity should be assisted by some the culture, polity, and liturgical culture of the Roman Empire? Is the conversion of Constantine a historical accident or a purposeful work of divine Providence? I have come to think that some of our conversations about inculturation presume the thinner theological opinion about these matters, namely that such things are accidents of history rather than constitutive of revelation in some way. But I wonder if such an idea that human culture is an entirely fungible medium into which the faith can be superimposed really takes the incarnation seriously. To get back to the original point, all these years after the passion and death of the Lord, is it an accident of history that the Mass as we have today in the 2002 Missale Romanum is in Latin, or is it how God meant it to be? I think we usually presume the former answer, but anyone who says that should go back and read Benedict XVI's infamous speech in Regensburg, in which he makes the deep claim that the translation of the Old Testament in Greek in the inter-testamental period was continuous with the work of divine revelation. Again, as I say, I also wonder if the thin claims about the relationship between culture and revelation take the incarnation seriously. That the Son was incarnate at a particular time and place, within a particular culture, speaking a particular language or languages, cannot be an accident, and nor are these things easily separable from the revelation of God which He is.

Hominem Tres Personas Esse Concedamus

I had a humbling laugh at myself today. It shows that despite whatever I say, I have been properly trained in so-called "inclusive language" and have internalized its demands.

I spent the morning banging my head against the section of Peter Abelard's Theologia 'Summi Boni' I was assigned for attempted translation for the Trinity seminar this week. It was all about the senses of 'person' in grammar and how they do or don't correspond to the Persons of the Blessed Trinity.

Rolling right along, I came to a sentence in which Abelard makes some kind of point about the ways in which a human being is called a person. Without thinking about it, as if I were adjusting the lectionary on the fly (as is expected in some settings) I translated "homo" not as "man" but as "person." As I went on, this led me into great confusion, as is easy to imagine. I couldn't figure out what Abelard was trying to say about the grammatical or metaphysical sense of 'person,' because he wasn't talking about this at all, but about the simple case of a man.

Now I'll still walk out of church if I hear "Son of Man" commuted into "Person of God" (No really. And I did walk out) but let it never be said I have not internalized the commitment to inclusive language.

On Lacks of Utility

For those who (1) have ever suffered through pointless or fruitless theological wrangling and (2) can read a little Latin, there is a very funny post over at The Smithy.

Amice, Ascende Superius

Yesterday, at a completely unexpected moment and in a somewhat irregular fashion, I had my first public ministry in the Extraordinary Form of the Roman rite.

I had the early Spanish Mass here at the parish where we live, which left me free later in the morning to grab my Liber usualis, head down to the lower church at the cathedral, and sing along with the schola at the EF Mass. I enjoy the chance to sing. Also, I have become convinced that I will never learn how to read the chant notation by studying it in a book; for me at least, it seems like a 'learn by doing' kind of thing.

So there I was, sitting in the pew minding my own business and paging up the proper chants for the sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, trying to decide if I had enough time to offer the midday hour of prayer before Mass began, when one of the coordinators of the little community appeared and asked for my help. The priest who was to offer the Mass was older and not so steady on his feet, she explained, so my help would be appreciated when it came time for the communion of the faithful. I wasn't so comfortable with the request, not being sure of everything that might be involved, but I couldn't say no. So they gave me a stole to put on when the moment arrived. They offered me a chance to sit in choro in the sanctuary, which I probably should have accepted on the liturgical level, but since what I really wanted to do was sing and study my chants, I declined.

Once Mass began I was happy for my willingness to help. Father was indeed unsteady on his feet; it took the support of two servers and his shillelagh to get him up to the altar. (The latter leaned imposingly against the altar through the Mass.) Nevertheless, Father managed to preach on the stark and dire spiritual condition of our time in a tender and encouraging way, and for this and his willingness to suffer any embarrassment that might come from his missteps I came to respect him very much during the Mass.

As the servers began their Confiteor I made my way into the sanctuary. Father gave the Misereatur vestri... and the one of the servers motioned for me to come up to the center of the altar. I took the ciborium, turned around, and all of a sudden I was a priest in the EF as I said to the people, Ecce Agnus Dei qui tollit peccata mundi. (I forgot the second ecce, but I didn't feel too bad because I was just happy that I didn't say Esto es el cordero de Dios que quita el pecado del mundo. Dichosos los invitados a la cena del Señor, which was the first utterance that came to mind. I gave Holy Communion to the servers, and then to the people at the rail, remembering to start on the epistle side and not going back from the gospel side boustrophedonically, as it were.

After all the communicants were taken care of, I returned the ciborium to the tabernacle, purified my fingers, and replaced the center altar card. Then Father finished the Mass.

I'm not sure I have a completed reflection on what this development means for me in my ongoing project of trying to find a way to make sense of my own obedience to the Holy Father's call for a "mutual enrichment" of the two forms of the Roman rite called for in the cover letter to Summorum pontificum, but I'll keep thinking and praying on it. I will say this: it is quite a different thing to give Holy Communion with the "cool media," simple, and somewhat multivalent proclamation "The Body of Christ" than to do so with the much more directed prayer,Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen.

Lux Lucens Nova

In his cover letter to Summorum pontificum, Benedict XVI calls for a "mutual enrichment" of the older and newer forms of the Roman rite. Thanks for Fr. Z for pointing out this tremendous contribution to that end:

Firmiter Propono

Late last night a visitor arrived at this blog via searching for "how to say the act of contrition in latin." It's a rather curious question; acts of contrition are not liturgical prayers, properly speaking, and are not even necessary in the celebration of the sacrament of Penance. A confessor must ascertain that a penitent is contrite before giving absolution, and asking for an act of contrition is a simple way of doing this. At the same time, the prayer allows the penitent to be reminded of his contrition and to exercise it on the occasion of absolution.

Nevertheless, it's an interesting question. I don't think there is any need or real purpose to praying one's acts of contrition in Latin. Doing so would probably come as a great shock to many priests, and not a few would surely find it very annoying. (Perhaps, however, in some cases, these might not be bad things.)

But if anyone feels called to pray an act of contrition in Latin, navigate over to one of the great Catholic treasures of the web, the Thesaurus Precum Latinarum, where you can find all of your preces latinae, and an Act of Contrition in particular.

Last Rites

Well, tonight I have had my first experience of Extreme Unction.

After supper I thought I would go to the church and empty the poor boxes and the vigil light donations, so as not to disturb the folks who come to pray the rosary a little later on. Before I went, however, I checked the pastoral emergency voice mail. There was a message from one of the local nursing homes: someone was dying, could a priest please come right away. So I called the front desk at the nursing home, but there was no answer. Off I went.

As I approached the room, I heard something unusual: Latin. As I walked in I saw a younger priest that I had seen before at this or that event, but never met. He has praying out of the older Ritual. I walked in just in time to deliver the response et clamor meus ad te veniat. We finished the prayers together, and then he gave the apostolic pardon to the woman for whom we were there. Her family members were clearly pleased with themselves, having produced not one but two priests for her!

May she rest in peace.

Seeing, Not Contemplating

Without deserving it entirely, it seems to me, I have managed to earn for myself the reputation of having traditionalist tendencies. Therefore I am presumed to be the sort of Catholic who looks forward to the forthcoming English translation of the third edition Roman Missal, would like to sing the actual parts of Mass instead of replacing them with hymns and songs, etc.

Thus, it seems good to me to point out a moment when I feel like the 'dynamic equivalence' of the soon-to-be-replaced American English Sacramentary, frequently attacked by such types as I am presumed to be, actually succeeds as a translation.

Consider the prayer after communion for today, the feast of Ss. Philip and James, apostles:

Purifica, quaesumus, Domine, mentes nostras
per haec sancta quae sumpsimus,
ut, cum apostolis Philippo et Iacobo
te in Filio contemplantes,
vitam habere mereamur aeternam.
per Christum.

And the English version heard today:

Father,
by the holy gifts we have received
free our minds and hearts from sin.
With the apostles Philip and James
may we see you in your Son
and be found worthy to have eternal life.
We ask this through Christ our Lord.


To me the interesting translation question is the contemplantes, which the English gives as "see." Someone who wanted to keep a certain model of strict translation would certainly be tempted to say, 'may we contemplate you in your Son.' Now contemplor certainly has the sense of seeing, but "contemplate" and "contemplation" are so loaded in our spiritual parlance as to lose the simple sense of John 14:9 in the prayer, which it is obviously meant to bring out: "Whoever has seen me has seen the Father."

The 'dynamic equivalence' of "see" for contemplantes is the right decision, and I hope it's still that way in the new translation. See, I'm not so conservative.