This afternoon I'm cooking for the brethren. Given that I'm aware that there will be a formal dessert course to mark a special occasion, a certain dilemma arises. It's a small dilemma, but one that illustrates the form of many tensions and decisions in religious life.
My dilemma is this: In setting the table, do I set out the dessert forks in their proper place, knowing that I will be annoyed when the brethren use them for the salad, or do I, armed with this knowledge, reserve the dessert forks and provide them only once the dessert is served?
As in a great many dilemmas in religious life, the choice is between suffering for insisting on what's right, or compromising, 'working within the system' as they say, and thereby attempting to avoid aggravation and awkwardness.
Of course, different moments and situations call for different responses. The prophet Amos wouldn't have gotten much done as a pastor; after all, he was asked to resign after one sermon. On the other hand, it can be a terrible uncharity to be codependent on the voluntary faults of others or to be 'pastoral' in the pejorative sense of being nice and giving everybody what they think they want, as if God treats any of us that way.
Nevertheless, as meaningless as it is in any consideration of ultimate concern, in my dilemma about the dessert forks today I see the form of a multitude of struggles.
February 29, 2012
Between Porch and Altar
Something struck me while I was offering Mass this morning, which, I'm surprised to say, I had never noticed. Like many of the churches and chapels where I say Mass these days, a free-standing altar is set up in front of a tabernacle set centrally in the sanctuary. Thus, in order to offer the Mass versus populum, the priest must place himself in between the altar and the tabernacle. All of a sudden, even though I have offered Mass this way hundreds of times, from the Mass of my priestly ordination on Our Lady's birthday in 2007 down to today, I felt uncomfortable to find myself with my back to the Blessed Sacrament.
It's funny; the common objection to the liturgy celebrated ad orientem liturgicum is that the priest has his 'back to the people.' But isn't it more troubling for the priest to turn his back on the Presence of Christ in the tabernacle?
So now I'm going to throw out an alarming suggestion and see what happens. If you are going to have the tabernacle centrally placed in the sanctuary, and there are any number of reasons and intuitions to support this, then the Mass ought to be offered ad orientem. If instead the Mass is offered versus populum, then our immediate ancestors were right in their decision that the Blessed Sacrament ought to be reserved somewhere else or in Its own chapel.
It's funny; the common objection to the liturgy celebrated ad orientem liturgicum is that the priest has his 'back to the people.' But isn't it more troubling for the priest to turn his back on the Presence of Christ in the tabernacle?
So now I'm going to throw out an alarming suggestion and see what happens. If you are going to have the tabernacle centrally placed in the sanctuary, and there are any number of reasons and intuitions to support this, then the Mass ought to be offered ad orientem. If instead the Mass is offered versus populum, then our immediate ancestors were right in their decision that the Blessed Sacrament ought to be reserved somewhere else or in Its own chapel.
February 27, 2012
At the Bottom of the Chalice
After Mass at the Poor Clare nuns this morning, one of the older sisters came into the sacristy and greeted me. "I like the way you think, and I want to give you something." She then produced an old holy card which had been given to her by another Capuchin, Fr. Venantius Buessing, when he was giving the nuns a series of conferences in 1960. You can see a picture of Fr. Venantius on this page. He's the one with the outstanding beard, como Dios manda.
The holy card depicts the elevation of the sacred Host after the consecration, with Christ crucified mystically present and server and people kneeling before the altar. On the back Fr. Venantius wrote a prayer, which I transcribe as best I can, though I can't make out the whole thing. I don't know if this is his composition or if it's from somewhere else. If anyone knows, speak up.
The holy card depicts the elevation of the sacred Host after the consecration, with Christ crucified mystically present and server and people kneeling before the altar. On the back Fr. Venantius wrote a prayer, which I transcribe as best I can, though I can't make out the whole thing. I don't know if this is his composition or if it's from somewhere else. If anyone knows, speak up.
Rabboni! Master!
When at the words of Consecration
My eyes look through my Savior's Blood,
Lo! in the chalice's shimmering gold
Mirrored my image I behold!
My heart is crushed with consternation
And weeps and sigh: My Lord, My God,
Thy Sacred Blood be my salvation!
Oh! grant that this poor heart of mine
Be henceforth modeled after Thine!
Thy...[?]...in me perfect,
Which my whole being must reflect.
So when at Holy Consecration
My eyes look through they Precious Blood,
There on the bottom's shimmering gold
A Christ-like priest I may behold!
February 25, 2012
The Light
The other day after Mass I got into a conversation with a certain man who had endless questions. He was inspiring in a way, in that grace had put a devout curiosity into his mind and he was running with it.
One of the things that interested him was the idea you hear sometimes about a certain light that is experienced near or at the moment of death. He wanted to know whether I believed in this light, and what I thought it was. I had to say that I hadn't thought about it much, but the conversation came back to me when I was praying through St. Irenaeus in the Office of Readings this morning: "...to follow the light is to enjoy the light. Those who are in the light do not illuminate the light but are themselves enlightened by the light. They add nothing to the light; rather, they are beneficiaries, for they are enlightened by the light."
Maybe it's not that the light comes for us at our death. Maybe the light is here now, but we are insensitive to it, its visibility obscured by our distraction, confusion, and sin.
Perhaps it's not that the light appears at the moment of our death, but that the occasion of our death provides a finality and clarity that allows us to see the light that was always there. Death is the end of personal history, the moment at which our existence ceases to be subject to any revision; we have been who we have been, and there is no longer any changing it. No more choice for good, whether in heroic virtue or in the unglamorous little moments of charity out of which true love is built, and no more surrendering to the law of sin and death, by which we insist on our alienation and misery in so many ways. Perhaps the clarity provided by this finality, this done-ness, clears enough of our distraction away so that we may see the light that was always there.
The good news is that we can follow the light without being able to make it out clearly. We can be enlightened by it even though it still seems invisible. Though this interior illumination remains obscure for us in this life, my suspicion and my hope is that the light revealed at death will be recognized as the same illumination, only more clearly and fully visible.
May the Light from Light, as cloudy as his illumination may seem to me now with all of my distraction, confusion, and sin, not only enlighten my soul but set it aflame with the Love for which I and every creature was first spoken into existence.
One of the things that interested him was the idea you hear sometimes about a certain light that is experienced near or at the moment of death. He wanted to know whether I believed in this light, and what I thought it was. I had to say that I hadn't thought about it much, but the conversation came back to me when I was praying through St. Irenaeus in the Office of Readings this morning: "...to follow the light is to enjoy the light. Those who are in the light do not illuminate the light but are themselves enlightened by the light. They add nothing to the light; rather, they are beneficiaries, for they are enlightened by the light."
Maybe it's not that the light comes for us at our death. Maybe the light is here now, but we are insensitive to it, its visibility obscured by our distraction, confusion, and sin.
Perhaps it's not that the light appears at the moment of our death, but that the occasion of our death provides a finality and clarity that allows us to see the light that was always there. Death is the end of personal history, the moment at which our existence ceases to be subject to any revision; we have been who we have been, and there is no longer any changing it. No more choice for good, whether in heroic virtue or in the unglamorous little moments of charity out of which true love is built, and no more surrendering to the law of sin and death, by which we insist on our alienation and misery in so many ways. Perhaps the clarity provided by this finality, this done-ness, clears enough of our distraction away so that we may see the light that was always there.
The good news is that we can follow the light without being able to make it out clearly. We can be enlightened by it even though it still seems invisible. Though this interior illumination remains obscure for us in this life, my suspicion and my hope is that the light revealed at death will be recognized as the same illumination, only more clearly and fully visible.
May the Light from Light, as cloudy as his illumination may seem to me now with all of my distraction, confusion, and sin, not only enlighten my soul but set it aflame with the Love for which I and every creature was first spoken into existence.
February 24, 2012
Credo
O.k.; this is a little ranty. I apologize in advance.
At one of the places where I celebrate Mass these days, the folks don't like the new translation of the Creed, in particular how one now says 'I believe' where it used to be 'We believe.'
I, on the other hand, am grateful for it, not just because it's a more proper translation, but also because I feel like I've been subjected to so many liturgically abusive first-person plurals over the years. Maybe that's a bad reason, I don't know.
In the most direct case, how many times have I been at Mass, only to begin saying the Creed with 'We believe,' only to hear others around me changing other parts, leaving things out, and adding other things in? In that case I'm grateful that others are now saying 'I believe.' Their version of the Creed--because they know better than constant, conciliar tradition--can be their own, and I don't have to be implicated in it.
In the broader sense, though, so many times have I been at a Mass and had the presider say things 'We gather for...' or 'We break the bread for...' or something like that. Often I felt like speaking up and saying, 'I don't.' If you're going to make up your own Mass and need it to be about you, leave me out of your 'we' thank you very much.
Some of this reflection comes from my thinking in these days on my recently deceased teacher, Fr. Stanley B. Marrow, SJ. He once told me about walking out of a certain Mass. The presider had introduced the Penitential Rite by inviting the assembly to seek pardon for 'faults and imperfections.' Stanley walked out. 'I follow St. Paul and boast of my faults and imperfections. I came here for forgiveness of sins.'
Perhaps it's wrong for me to see the 'I' of the new translation of the Creed as a blessed relief and refuge from the oh-so progressive clericalisms of the liturgical abusers. Nevertheless, I'm grateful for it, and I pray that God will use whatever is in me to make me a more faithful and obedient steward of the sacred mysteries.
At one of the places where I celebrate Mass these days, the folks don't like the new translation of the Creed, in particular how one now says 'I believe' where it used to be 'We believe.'
I, on the other hand, am grateful for it, not just because it's a more proper translation, but also because I feel like I've been subjected to so many liturgically abusive first-person plurals over the years. Maybe that's a bad reason, I don't know.
In the most direct case, how many times have I been at Mass, only to begin saying the Creed with 'We believe,' only to hear others around me changing other parts, leaving things out, and adding other things in? In that case I'm grateful that others are now saying 'I believe.' Their version of the Creed--because they know better than constant, conciliar tradition--can be their own, and I don't have to be implicated in it.
In the broader sense, though, so many times have I been at a Mass and had the presider say things 'We gather for...' or 'We break the bread for...' or something like that. Often I felt like speaking up and saying, 'I don't.' If you're going to make up your own Mass and need it to be about you, leave me out of your 'we' thank you very much.
Some of this reflection comes from my thinking in these days on my recently deceased teacher, Fr. Stanley B. Marrow, SJ. He once told me about walking out of a certain Mass. The presider had introduced the Penitential Rite by inviting the assembly to seek pardon for 'faults and imperfections.' Stanley walked out. 'I follow St. Paul and boast of my faults and imperfections. I came here for forgiveness of sins.'
Perhaps it's wrong for me to see the 'I' of the new translation of the Creed as a blessed relief and refuge from the oh-so progressive clericalisms of the liturgical abusers. Nevertheless, I'm grateful for it, and I pray that God will use whatever is in me to make me a more faithful and obedient steward of the sacred mysteries.
February 23, 2012
No Life I Know To Compare
You certainly hear some far out conversations in religious life. One of the brothers had selected Ducote and Daigle's "Remember Your Love" as the hymn for Evening Prayer, which of course led everybody, with the tune still in their heads, to sing Willy Wonka's "Pure Imagination" while we were doing dishes. I mean, listen to them; they're pretty close.
In the midst of all the fun of trying to remember the words, one of the brothers, the one washing the pots at the sink, was discovered in the dissent of humming "The Girl from Ipanema."
"I know that song! What is it?"
"It's 'The Girl from Ipanema'"
"Oh yeah! Wasn't that sung by somebody in a big hat?"
"Like Dr. Seuss?"
In the midst of all the fun of trying to remember the words, one of the brothers, the one washing the pots at the sink, was discovered in the dissent of humming "The Girl from Ipanema."
"I know that song! What is it?"
"It's 'The Girl from Ipanema'"
"Oh yeah! Wasn't that sung by somebody in a big hat?"
"Like Dr. Seuss?"
Compunctus
There was a lot to strike--and even the pierce--the heart in the new prayers for Ash Wednesday yesterday, but I was grateful most of all for the Prayer over the People:
Pour out a spirit of compunction, O God, on those who bow before your majesty, and by your mercy may they merit the rewards you promise to those who do penance. Through Christ our Lord.
But when...you see that your nature is still twisted and disfigured by selfishness and by the disorder of sin, and that you are cramped and warped by a way of living that turns you incessantly back upon your own pleasure and your own interest, and that you cannot escape this distortion: that you cannot even deserve to escape it, by your own power, what will your sorrow be? This is the root of what the saints called compunction: the grief, the anguish of being helpless to be anything but what you were not meant to be. (Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, 263)
Pour out a spirit of compunction, O God, on those who bow before your majesty, and by your mercy may they merit the rewards you promise to those who do penance. Through Christ our Lord.
But when...you see that your nature is still twisted and disfigured by selfishness and by the disorder of sin, and that you are cramped and warped by a way of living that turns you incessantly back upon your own pleasure and your own interest, and that you cannot escape this distortion: that you cannot even deserve to escape it, by your own power, what will your sorrow be? This is the root of what the saints called compunction: the grief, the anguish of being helpless to be anything but what you were not meant to be. (Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, 263)
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