More on Stoles Under/Over Chasubles

According to the synchronicities of the secret economies of encouragement and bemusement, the other day I had another conversation on the issue of whether the stole goes under or over the chasuble.

Against my assertion that in the Roman rite the stole is worn under the chasuble, my gentle interlocutor informed me that I was quite wrong; the stole was certainly to be worn over the chasuble. As evidence for this position, he adduced "all the pictures" he had ever seen "of priests in the Maryknoll or America magazines."

So I guess it matters what one considers the sources of liturgical catechesis.

All of this begged for me a twofold question. First, in those rare cases in which it seems to me the better part of discretion and/or charity to consent to wear the stole over the chasuble, against the Church which has asked that such things be "eradicated" (Redemptionis Sacramentum 123), ought I also to wear another stole in its proper place under the chasuble? Second, if I were to do that, i.e., wear two stoles, may I take two stipends?

Self-Pity and Comfort

For the feast of St. James today I was thinking about a certain kind of self-pity and resentment which is very debilitating in the spiritual life. It took me a long time to recognize it as the dangerous temptation that it is, and I confess that I still struggle with it.

Here are some examples of how the temptation arises.

I'm on the bus on my way to offer Mass at a parish I've never been to before. I'm struggling against the anxiety that arises because I anticipate the possibility of being made to feel uncomfortable by liturgical abuses I could be asked to consent to. Into the fight with this affliction arises the temptation: 'Why can't I just go somewhere and expect to be able to offer Mass the way the Church asks? I shouldn't have to worry about this! Why should I be made to feel like the bad guy when I'm the one who is faithful?'

If I consent to this thought, the next thing that comes is resentment against the pastor who allowed or promoted the abuses. Ultimately, though, the temptation is to resent God. More on that as we go along.

A similar temptation arises in community life. Why should I have to be scandalized by other brothers, or bored by them, or made anxious by their issues? (Notice how missing from this reflection is any admission that I might be scandalous, boring, or annoying to them.) Why can't we all just quietly live our religious life according to the Rule and Constitutions we have professed? Why can't we all just do what Canon Law says are the ordinary obligations of religious? (Notice again, how conveniently missing is any admission of the ways that I fail to observe these things.)


These temptations are very dangerous. If we consent to them they introduce into our spirits a self-pitying resentment which is itself an occasion of other sins and a great destroyer of devotion and spiritual attention. The temptation works on and gains its power from a false and dangerous belief. The belief is simple but rarely confessed. It is the belief that I deserve and am entitled to comfort.

The flesh of someone who desires a devout life is like the mother of James and John as she tries to intrigue with Jesus for the nice seats in the Kingdom of God. The flesh tells us that we too, who enjoy thinking that we have given up so much to follow Jesus, are entitled to the comfy seats in the Kingdom of God, and deserve to be made much of for how nice and good we are.

Sorry. That's not Christianity. That's the world. Want to be someone in the Kingdom of God, to sit in a high place? The thrones in the Kingdom of God are the Cross. That's what you get. It's the way to freedom and salvation, but it's a searing and terrible business. The vainglorious and comfort-seeking flesh will try to trick you off the path at every turn, telling you that you deserve a comfy seat and to be adored for the (imagined) greatness of your generosity, but when you give in to this temptation you will be left with nothing but anxiety and the rotten luxury of resenting God himself for failing to give you what you think you want.

Thoughts on the Debt Crisis

This is one those risky posts, because I'm not an economist and I have a history of eccentric and crackpot political opinions, for which--I brag--I have occasionally accepted corrective criticism from friends with more sense and expertise.

At our provincial chapter this past spring, when we were discussing how to improve our efforts at fund raising, a friar got up and made a spectacular speech about how the problem with development was artificial contraception. The capital in the world had become less because, spiritually, people no longer believed in a future, and practically, because there weren't as many Catholics walking around as there should have been. I don't know if anybody took the brother seriously, but I thought it was one of the best interventions of the whole week.

With that memory wanting to get into some post or other ever since, I was thinking a little about this whole national debut business.

A system of debt and credit is a standard way to make money. But the system depends on people having faith that there will more wealth in the future. It is hard to have such faith in a culture grown decadent and pointless, and in which the making of more people--on which the production of further cultural capital and wealth depend--is an optional life-possibility for those who happen to 'oriented' in such a way that they can reproduce, rather than a constitutive part of human life to which one ought be open.

How to Step on the Altar

"It is customary that the sacristan, whenever he must step on the mensa of the altar, should do so barefooted, having first covered the mensa with a special cloth. He must never stand in the middle, that is, on the altarstone, for it is there that the sacred host and the chalice rest during the holy sacrifice of the Mass."

(Fr. John of Meerle, Capuchin Spirit and Life, 312)

Guardian

So today it arrives in print, a signed and official letter of obedience--I am going to be guardian of the friary. The guardian, our Constitutions say, is the local superior, that is, of a friary. It's kind of a curious thing. 'Local' is a good Franciscan word; the first friars simply had 'places' where they stayed. But 'superior' is a tough word in the Franciscan imagination. As Francis says in the earlier Rule: "Let no one be called 'prior,' but let everyone in general be called a lesser brother. Let one wash the feet of another."

I'm apprehensive about this new turn in my religious life, but I'm humbled by the trust of the brothers and I'm trying to trust God, who has given me thus far all of the graces I've needed to manage what I have tried to do in a sincere effort at living my vow of obedience.

I've tried to be attentive to my spiritual preparation since this first started to come into focus at the beginning of the summer. I've prayed over the Rule and Constitutions, reviewed some of the constitutional history of the Order, and I re-read Jacques Dalarun's wonderful book, Francis of Assisi and Power.

Sometimes it is said that 'guardian' is a translation of what Francis called a custos or custodian, but this isn't quite the same thing in the history of our governance. Francis talked about guardians, and one of the things I've done for myself in these days is to remind myself of all the times he speaks of this ministry in his own writings:


"And let all the brothers be bound to obey their guardians and to recite the Office according to the Rule." (Testament, 30)


"And I firmly wish to obey the general minister of this fraternity and the other guardian whom it pleases him to give me. And I so wish to be a captive in his hands that I cannot go anywhere or do anything beyond obedience and his will, for he is my master." (Testament, 27)


"I, Brother Francis, a useless man and unworthy creature of the Lord God, speak through the Lord Jesus Christ to Brother H., [i.e. Brother Elias] the General Minister of our entire Order and all the general ministers who will come after him, and to the other custodians and guardians of the brothers, who are and who will be, that they might keep this writing with them, put it into practice and eagerly preserve it." (Letter to the Entire Order, 47)

The letter concerns the devout celebration of Mass in our places, as well as devotion to Mary.


"If any one of the brothers, at the instigation of the enemy, shall have sinned mortally, let him be bound by obedience to have recourse to his guardian." (Letter to a Minister, 14)


"I wish to know in this way if you love the Lord and me, His servant and yours: that there is not any brother in world who has sinned--however much he could have sinned--who, after he has looked into your eyes, would ever depart without your mercy, if he is looking for mercy. And if he were not looking for mercy, you would ask him if he wants mercy. And if he would sin a thousand times before your eyes, love him more than me so that you may draw him to the Lord; and always be merciful with brother such as these. And you may announce this to the guardians, when you can, that, for your part, you are resolved to act in this way." (Letter to a Minister, 9-12)

Translations from Francis of Assisi: Early Documents vol. I: The Saint

Usus Contrarius

In religious life and the priesthood, to call someone 'rigid' is one of the gravest accusations. One can be called rigid when his idea of his privilege to be faithful to what the Church asks and expects is interpreted by someone else as not real faithfulness at all, but rather legalism, pharisaism, obsessive compulsion, mania for control, or the symptom of some other mental pathology.

This post is an example of how I am not rigid, just in case anybody ever thought or said so.

Believe it or not, for Mass at the Poor Clares today, despite the fact that it's not what we do in the Roman rite, messes up the logic of the vesting prayers, and does not make sense in what seems to me to be the theology of sacred vesture, I...wait for it...wore the stole over the chasuble.

As we read in Redemptionis sacramentum 123:

"The vestment proper to the Priest celebrant at Mass, and in other sacred actions directly connected with Mass unless otherwise indicated, is the chasuble, worn over the alb and stole.” (GIRM 337) Likewise the Priest, in putting on the chasuble according to the rubrics, is not to omit the stole. All Ordinaries should be vigilant in order that all usage to the contrary be eradicated.

So why would I do such a thing? Because Sister Sacristan asked me nice, is very much my senior in religion, and because I new she had made the stole herself, complete with a lovely Franciscan coat of arms. So, because I'm not rigid, for the feast of St. Lawrence today, I wore Sister's Franciscan stole over the chasuble.

No doubt this post will be annoying to many readers. Some will be annoyed that I did such a thing, others that I'm bragging about it, and still others that I care about such things at all. But as one of my oldest friends in the Catholic journey used to say, "The devil is in the details, and I suspect God is to be found there too."

Ironing the Tabernacle

Many complaints can be made against religious life, but you can't say you don't get to do a lot of different things. You may recall how last month our vigil lamp decided to end it all. In the course of its demise, it left an unsightly mess of wax on top of the tabernacle. Cleaning it up has been one of many little things I've been wanting to do in these days, and today I finally got to it.

It's well known in sacristy lore that you can get candle wax out of fabric by ironing the wax into a brown paper bag. If it works with vestments, I thought, maybe I can do the same thing with the tabernacle.

So here's the mess:

And here's the procedure:

And here it is all clean:

Be assured that I removed and reposed the Blessed Sacrament elsewhere for the duration of this undignified procedure.