If there is a crisis in Catholicism, that crisis has surely touched the liturgy as deeply as any other aspect of Catholic life. It is a mark of how integral the liturgy is to our religion that we do not talk easily of it and are slow to admit that there may be something awry; yet such issues need to be addressed urgently and regularly. It was therefore encouraging to see three thought-provoking essays in a recent issue of CRISIS addressing matters of liturgy. They make valid and welcome points but also suggest questions that need to be addressed.
First, there are questions of liturgical law. Its status is unique, being for the most part independent of canon law. While provisions of canon law can be dispensed by a local bishop, liturgical law is specifically the domain of the Roman Pontiff, and unless this law so provides, the local bishop cannot dispense from it. Thus the new canon law addresses few liturgical matters. Likewise, though the new canon law abrogated the old code of 1917, the new liturgical books did not replace all previously existing liturgical law.
A case in point is the status of the cross at Mass, as discussed by Michael Pakaluk in “Avoiding the Crucifix” (December). He is right to call for a restoration of the crucifix in the churches. The difference between a crucifix as a concrete representation of an incarnate reality and the cross as an abstract symbol of less precise significance is fundamental to the whole Catholic liturgy, which is vivid and concrete. Pakaluk apologetically allows, however, that canon law requires only a cross, and not necessarily a crucifix, to be present at Mass.
This is not quite correct. First of all, the new canon law does not specify anything concerning the cross; it is rather the liturgical books that mention it. Second, liturgical law seems to refer to a cross with a corpus, that is to say, a crucifix. The initial instruction on the implementation of the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy mentions a cross on the altar, but it is clear that this liturgical mention of a cross implies the crucified. A reply from the Congregation of Sacred Rites of 1966 reiterates the traditional rubric: “On the altar there is to be at the center a sufficiently large cross bearing the image of the crucified,” allowing only the innovation that now it may stand beside the altar. (The requirement of a cross on or near the altar is reiterated by the General Instruction on the new missal of 1969.)
The confusion comes because of a certain difference between English and Latin usage. In common English usage crucifix means a cross with a corpus, while cross generally means one without. Liturgical books, however, regularly use crux (cross) for a cross with a corpus, the term crucifixus referring to the corpus itself. This is confirmed by discussions surrounding the use of the cross, in which careful attention is paid to the direction of the corpus in a Mass facing the people. Thus it would seem that Mr. Pakaluk’s conclusion, “We should put the crucifixes back,” already bears the force of law.
A more general question concerns the tradition of liturgy as a whole, what is still permitted and what has really been abrogated. I am frequently told that it is now forbidden to sing the “Dies Irae” (not true), to wear black vestments at a funeral (not true), to celebrate Mass in Latin (not true; the new rite has been celebrated continuously in Latin), to celebrate Mass “facing God” rather than facing the people (the legislation only requires that the placement of the altar permit celebration facing the people), or to sing the gospel or some other part of the Mass (the norm of the Council as far as I can see is a fully sung Mass). I have learned habitually to ask for chapter and verse in the face of such prohibitions, but rarely is a citation produced.
Jane Greer in “New Mass, Old Truths” (December) appeals for a greater acceptance of the new rite of the Mass as it is presently celebrated. She argues that even though some aspects of it might be objectionable, such things are only a means to an end, only tools; she thinks we should be more concerned with the ends and adapt to the new means. I concur that endless bickering about details of liturgy can be detrimental to one’s spiritual life, yet the issue is not so simple. Surely some tools are better suited to a particular task than others. One would no sooner cultivate a garden with a knife and fork than eat a meal with a shovel. The fact is that the tools she associates with the old liturgy are suited to expressing the sacred, while those commonly heard in the new may well have the appeal they do because they better express the secular.
This is particularly true of some of the new music, which is a mediocre imitation of secular models. Yes, some pieces of the St. Louis Jesuits (composers of the second wave of popular church music in the 1970s) are faint versions of such now outmoded popular styles as that of the Kingston Trio. One of the dangers of the wholesale incorporation of popular secular styles is that the logical inference will be drawn (most likely unconsciously) that the Church no longer asks anything different of the believer from what the world does, or even that it countenances greater mediocrity than does the secular marketplace. No one thinks that the principal value of the traditional tools is that they have some kind of absolute immutability, as Greer implies; rather, their value lies in their being clearly received as set aside, consecrated for use in divine worship, and unambiguous in significance, that is, they are sacred.
It is not true that most of the means Greer attributes to the old rite are now forbidden, that somehow they were banned by the Council. In fact, many of them were not forbidden at all, and some were even prescribed. Latin should have remained the current liturgical language, with the vernacular alongside as a complement. Gregorian chant should have remained the normative music, with indigenous music being used only insofar as it is suitable to the liturgy (what the Council meant by indigenous music was the excellent traditional musics of such cultures as India and China, not the Kingston Trio). The Second Vatican Council did not abrogate the sacredness of the liturgy: witness its frequent use of the word sacred; it is the secularization of the liturgy in recent times that is the aberration. The sooner the Church returns to the roots of the sacred in the ceremonies, the language, and the music which the Council endorsed, the sooner the old truths will be more accessible, for these are the more suitable “tools.”
Unfortunately, many of the Council’s prescriptions which were meant to retain valuable aspects of the living tradition have become nearly dead letters in our country. Eloquent witness to this fact is Lucie Mayeux’s young person’s account of the discovery of the Latin Mass, “Exploring the Family Attic” (December). Her reflections upon the one Latin Mass she attended are so filled with insight and sensitive reception of a sacred tradition that they form an argument against the contention that the Latin Mass is inaccessible. Her observations on the human need for ritual, particularly at the occasion of marriages and funerals, and on the place of beauty in liturgy, are solidly on the mark. They suggest several amplifications which can help make our discussion more precise.
She acknowledges that many of the more objectionable changes of the reform were not mandated by the Council; nevertheless, she seems to have had to attend the celebration of a Mass according to the Tridentine rite in order to hear a Mass in Latin. This is one of the most unfortunate aspects of the reform, that the sung Mass in the new rite has been celebrated so little, since a sung Mass in Gregor¬ian chant, even according to the new rite, naturally preserves the elements of formality and beauty that are so missed by those who seek the Tridentine rite. Upon its promulgation in 1969, the liturgical books for the new rite were made available in Latin; they continue to be available and can be used.
The new rite does not prescribe a style of informality; in fact, the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy provided a certain hedge against it. It states that the regulation of the Sacred Liturgy belongs to the Holy See, and in some matters to the local bishop; “no other person, not even if he is a priest, may on his own add, remove, or change anything in the liturgy.” The new rite does not prescribe popular music; the Council gave “pride of place” to Gregorian chant. In 1974 the Abbey of Solesmes published the Graduale Roman um, the book of Gregorian chant for the Mass, arranged for use in the new rite. A new Gregorian Missal (1990) is now available with all the texts and chants for Sunday Mass accompanied by translations. It is all there to be done. It is, in fact, done in not a few places in this country; the Latin Liturgy Association publishes a list of the regular celebration of the Mass in Latin.
The value of the sung Mass is more than just the formality and beauty of the music—it is that the music itself most clearly establishes the sacred character of the liturgy. Since the early history of music in Christian worship, the sacred chant has been received as something absolutely distinct from the secular music of the time. When, in the course of history, other music was introduced which was derived from secular practices, it was still added to a basic framework constituted by the chant. The tradition is that everything said aloud in the solemn liturgy has its own melody; these melodies distinguish the various parts and functions within the service, but the singing also contributes a sacred character to the whole. The melodies for singing the collect or the epistle or the preface are like no other music in our experience; their relative simplicity means that they are suited to delivering their respective texts, and their differences suit the differences between these texts. The fact that everything is sung means that the sacred chant provides an overall continuity; the fact that they are like no other music means that their associations for us are unambiguous—we immediately recognize these melodies as having a particular function, as having been set aside for use in divine worship; we recognize that they are sacred.
The most crucial point about liturgical music, then, is that the traditional function of music is as the medium of the liturgy. The use of a sung tone in communicating a text establishes the sacred character of that text and raises it above the idiosyncrasies of individual speakers. For example, singing the words of the consecration avoids the phenomenon so often heard, that even these sacred words are subject to histrionic delivery, with inexplicable differences of emphasis from person to person, “This is my Body,” “This is my Body,” “This is my Body,” “This is my Body,” calling attention to differences between celebrants and distracting from the substance of the texts.
It is not surprising that the spoken liturgy, said facing the people, should be subject to powerful secularizing influences, for the model of the secular media is very pervasive in our society, particularly that of the television news commentator. How many priests, with the laudable intention of making their speech more communicative, have adopted a tone of voice in celebrating the Mass which they regularly hear from television personalities? The danger of this medium’s message is that the words of the gospel so delivered will be received as if they had the same weight and value as the vaunted opinions of Dan Rather. Now, more than any other time, the liturgy needs protection from the pervasive influence of such secular models. Otherwise, those in the pew will not escape the obvious conclusion: what the Church is trying to communicate does not differ essentially from what is heard from the secular media.
Recent reforms have sometimes been made with the intention of giving the liturgy a more human face, but in the process the collective human wisdom embodied in the traditional rites has been ignored. This is particularly true for funerals; Lucie Mayeux contrasts the old funeral rite with the new and finds the new awkward and difficult for the participants. The old fixed ritual, set as it was, freed the mourners from the need to be original on such occasions and provided a recognizable framework at a time when originality is farthest from the mind; the rite already provided the appropriate things to be done and said.
This suggests a further reflection on the purpose of a funeral. The new rite gives fairly wide latitude to the choice of text; it even allows vestments to be white, purple, or black. It is frequently conducted as a happy occasion to celebrate the life of the departed. White vestments are worn, alleluias are sung, and all too frequently the celebrant assures all present that the departed is now happily in heaven. This manner of conducting a funeral not only presumes upon God’s judgment but also cheats both those present as well as the departed. Even people of great faith have a need for grief upon the death of a member of the family or friend—Our Lord Himself wept for Lazarus. In the face of bereavement one often asks, did I do enough for him when he was living; is there nothing to be done now?
The Requiem Mass in Gregorian chant (which can be sung according to the new rite) is able to provide an objectification of grief; the beautiful melodies, most of them prayers for rest, light, and peace on behalf of the departed, have an air of confidence and fulfillment about them that assures the listener that there is something yet to be done—to pray for the departed, relying on God’s mercy yet cognizant of just judgment as well (the counter-balance given by the “Dies Irae.”) In my experience, this sung Requiem Mass aptly subsumes the grief of bereavement in the prayer for the departed by turning the grief to something purposeful to be done; it does not downplay the efficacy of that prayer to recognize that it also has a healing effect upon those who make it. To overlook this and simply celebrate the life of the departed is to cheat those whose grief needs objectification. What is more, the departed is cheated as well, for if it is said that he is now enjoying his heavenly reward, who will see the need to pray for him, even at his own funeral?
I recently attended the public memorial service organized by our university for a young woman on the faculty whose premature death was a shocking bereavement for all those who knew her. Many friends spoke with difficulty about her life, and a ‘cello played lugubriously. Soon after, a Gregorian Mass was sung for her, which some of her colleagues attended. Sometime later I met one of her close colleagues, and he spoke of the Requiem Mass. “I am not a believer,” he said; “I went to the university service, and it tore me apart, I was disconsolate after it. I came also to the Requiem Mass and found it to be the fitting closure of a life; it made sense of the loss.” This is one of the most fundamental human needs that the funeral rite must fulfill.
Lucie Mayeux mentions another aspect of liturgy that receives very little attention—the role of beauty. I have recently discovered that it is possible to achieve an effect of shocked surprise by asking someone concerned with liturgy, “but surely you would admit that the liturgy must be beautiful?” The reason for the surprise is that too many people have simply forgotten that aspect of liturgy.
Hans Urs von Balthasar has described the situation of beauty by comparing the three transcendentals—truth, goodness, and beauty—and showing that they must be in a state of complementary balance.
In a world without beauty . . . the good also loses its attractiveness, the self-evidence of why it must be carried out. . . . In a world that no longer has enough confidence in itself to affirm the beautiful, the proofs of the truth have lost their cogency. In other words, syllogisms may still dutifully clatter away like rotary presses or computers which infallibly spew out an exact number of answers by the minute. But the logic of these answers is itself a mechanism which no longer captivates anyone. The conclusions are no longer conclusive.
Thus beauty is that which makes the truth persuasive and the good desirable. The Church has rightly been concerned with the truth, by carefully refining the definition of doctrine, and with the good, by asking her members to apply difficult distinctions of moral theology to their everyday lives. But when it came to beauty itself, mediocrity and ugliness were allowed easy access to the liturgy—the central symbolic act that should epitomize and order the Christian life itself. Had beauty been maintained as one of the essential attributes of the liturgy, would not the present-day confusions of theology and moral life at least have been ameliorated?
Moreover, if beauty is a transcendental, an aspect of all being, then God, the highest being, possesses beauty of the highest order. Other beauty bears an analogy to that of God, and thus is a stepping stone that can lead the soul to God. In the case of the liturgy, where God is the principal object, beauty is central to its function: it makes its truth and goodness persuasive and desirable, and leads the soul closer to its object.