[note to the reader: the virtue of Christian charity has temporarily left me due to the vices of annoyance and criticism, otherwise known as liturgical wrath]
Today I went to the Tri-Wizard Tournament, which is of course a worship gathering of the three theological colleges wherein we compete to see who can be most creative with the order of service while still maintaining a semblance of tradition and decorum.
Today’s theme was “When in Our Music God is Glorified: a celebration in music and praise.” The idea was great, actually: that there would be a service crafted around the singing of hymns all centered around the theme presented in the first hymn, whose refrains were sprinkled throughout the order of service as a structuring meditational aid, bringing you always back to the main message. A+ for actually crafting a service that looks like what it intends to celebrate.
Unfortunately, the first hymn was “When in Our Music God is Glorified,” whose refrain is “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”…during Lent. I’m not sure if I was the only person who didn’t sing those words, since of course this word is supposed to disappear from the liturgy, since it’s Lent. In the pre-Vatican II rite, the omission of the word actually began on Septuagesima; do we have to go shortening that liturgical period even more by ignoring it entirely?
Because this was the first – the central – hymn, the whole order of service was sprinkled with reflection phrases saying “Hallelujah!,” which I admit sort-of ruined the mood for me.
Music is important to me. Liturgy is important to me. I feel like I’ve been horribly betrayed on both counts here. Ironically, the third verse of the song reads, “So has the church in liturgy and song, in faith and love, through centuries of wrong, borne witness to the truth in every tongue.” Um, hello? What exactly do liturgy and song witness to if not the birth, ministry, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ, each in their own season, following an ever-flowing rhythm? Today’s service feels something like being betrayed by Harry Potter – as if something so loyal and good were broken, leaving a trail of broken pieces that make it difficult to recapture that pure magic again.
The refrain of the closing hymn, “Go to the World,” reads, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” So the whole worship service, expressing our praise through song, is framed and filled with liturgically improper worship and praise. Wow. Nothing this total has ever happened to me before. Oh sure, sometimes people add “Alleluia” to the closing blessing during Lent (which also happened today, and which already pisses me off enough), but an entire service? Wow.
I admit that, during the blessing, I actually rolled my eyes. This probably makes me a bad Christian, since that’s not exactly worshipful, but I couldn’t help it. I think I may not actually have been in a frame of mind for any of the service to count as prayer. What with the disposition of the heart being important and all.
After the service, people actually clapped for the organist! Dear Lord, why would anyone clap after prayer? I’ve never seen anyone break into applause after evening prayer. This is probably because a) you were all praying together so you’re congratulating yourselves, which is weird, and b) because laudatory applause directed at a musician makes the whole thing seem like a show, put on either for you or for God Himself. Prayer is not a show. Nor is it to be congratulated. The ‘well done, good and faithful servant’ belongs to God alone to give. Prayer resides in the heart and, though expressed in music, liturgical gesture and word, is not composed of them.
After the clapping, I confess that I started to laugh. Couldn’t help myself, and actually it took a while for the feeling to subside. I still kind of feel it right now. My levity makes me feel strangely joyful about it all…perhaps my heartfelt mirth counts as prayer?
Or is my sin of pride / intolerance / wrath / annoyance / and criticism in dire need of repentance and reconciliation?
Only the great Tri-Wizard Cup can decide.
Showing posts with label Liturgy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Liturgy. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Color Me Happy
I was planning to go to Anglican church downtown today but, having woken up at the early time necessary to catch the morning train, I decided that falling asleep during worship wouldn’t really be ideal. So I slept in and went to Catholic church instead.
This turned out to be a good idea, since our choir organist just came back from Australia, so I got to see her and give her a hug. Yay!!
At the beginning of Mass, the priest made a comment about how it was one of the two Sundays a year where clergy wear pink…he said that priests hate wearing pink, but that there is a good reason for the color: happiness, lightness, celebration, a break from penitence.
But his comment about pink isn’t true: Father loved wearing pink. It really brought out his coloring and he looked good in it. He thought so, too. One time he went into the hall to turn on the heat before Mass and accidentally locked himself out of the church – and, hence, the rectory. He called one of the wardens to come and let him back in. He was wearing pink pajamas and his Toronto Maple Leafs slippers. I’m not telling the story nearly as funny as it was.
I wish there was more pink in churches.
In his homily, the priest talked about stillness, about finding that moment of stillness where you can just sit and be with God. Likewise, Evagrios the Solitary, whom I happened to be reading today, says that “the practice of stillness is full of joy and beauty; its yoke is easy and its burden light.” He connects this stillness with asceticism, with charity, with wilderness, with constancy, with rejoicing (which sounds very much like Advent). He also says that, in order to be a space in which a person can really live his life, one's ascetic disciplines must be flexible enough that they can be modified or dispensed with if a person is sick or tired, so that he can return in strength to them. He also says that they should not limit the way a person participates in the lives of others, as for example would be the case if one were invited out to dinner.
In a way, this joy in stillness is exactly what ‘pink Sunday’ is about. A break from those burdensome or difficult aspects of devotional life, a place to stop and just be happy and recapture that stillness, recapture the meaning of all the preparation; a bubble of calm that can be carried out of that day and into the rest of life as the liturgical seasons flow on. A space in which to sit and be, of lightness and joy. In a way leaving the expectation and preparation behind for a while and just living in the simplicity of being, in knowing that in God all is already accomplished, that there is already a place for you and that God welcomes you into it even now, even in the middle of a life not yet fulfilled.
Maybe this is something I should try and take to heart. That I need to accept my own limitations in my prayer life without feeling guilty or ashamed or sad when I can’t accomplish everything I want to do. That I need enough flexibility to be able to live in that joy and stillness instead of always seeking to do something I haven’t had time to do, or obsessing over the ways I have failed. I’m not living a religious life, and that means that I don’t always have the freedom to live a God-centered life in all the ways I feel drawn to do, in all the ways I want to.
Maybe I’m supposed to understand that that’s okay.
I’ll try to work on that.
This turned out to be a good idea, since our choir organist just came back from Australia, so I got to see her and give her a hug. Yay!!
At the beginning of Mass, the priest made a comment about how it was one of the two Sundays a year where clergy wear pink…he said that priests hate wearing pink, but that there is a good reason for the color: happiness, lightness, celebration, a break from penitence.
But his comment about pink isn’t true: Father loved wearing pink. It really brought out his coloring and he looked good in it. He thought so, too. One time he went into the hall to turn on the heat before Mass and accidentally locked himself out of the church – and, hence, the rectory. He called one of the wardens to come and let him back in. He was wearing pink pajamas and his Toronto Maple Leafs slippers. I’m not telling the story nearly as funny as it was.
I wish there was more pink in churches.
In his homily, the priest talked about stillness, about finding that moment of stillness where you can just sit and be with God. Likewise, Evagrios the Solitary, whom I happened to be reading today, says that “the practice of stillness is full of joy and beauty; its yoke is easy and its burden light.” He connects this stillness with asceticism, with charity, with wilderness, with constancy, with rejoicing (which sounds very much like Advent). He also says that, in order to be a space in which a person can really live his life, one's ascetic disciplines must be flexible enough that they can be modified or dispensed with if a person is sick or tired, so that he can return in strength to them. He also says that they should not limit the way a person participates in the lives of others, as for example would be the case if one were invited out to dinner.
In a way, this joy in stillness is exactly what ‘pink Sunday’ is about. A break from those burdensome or difficult aspects of devotional life, a place to stop and just be happy and recapture that stillness, recapture the meaning of all the preparation; a bubble of calm that can be carried out of that day and into the rest of life as the liturgical seasons flow on. A space in which to sit and be, of lightness and joy. In a way leaving the expectation and preparation behind for a while and just living in the simplicity of being, in knowing that in God all is already accomplished, that there is already a place for you and that God welcomes you into it even now, even in the middle of a life not yet fulfilled.
Maybe this is something I should try and take to heart. That I need to accept my own limitations in my prayer life without feeling guilty or ashamed or sad when I can’t accomplish everything I want to do. That I need enough flexibility to be able to live in that joy and stillness instead of always seeking to do something I haven’t had time to do, or obsessing over the ways I have failed. I’m not living a religious life, and that means that I don’t always have the freedom to live a God-centered life in all the ways I feel drawn to do, in all the ways I want to.
Maybe I’m supposed to understand that that’s okay.
I’ll try to work on that.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Lord Jesus, Come!
Today is the first Sunday in Advent. While I can’t start eating my ‘Advent’ calendar yet, I still think that this is a pretty auspicious time.
In his homily, the priest spoke about Advent as being a time of hopefulness and preparation, especially in our parish given recent events. No one really knows what’s going to happen, though the bishop has said they have no intention of shutting the parish down. There is waiting, in hope, for a new parish priest. The board of Wardens has expressed to the bishop their desire to have a resident, full-time priest. They were then informed that our church was actually the only one in the entire diocese to have still had a resident, full-time priest. Nevertheless, the hope is still to have one. A time of waiting, of expectation and uncertainty: the parish family is in Advent.
Purple, of course, is the liturgical color of Advent in most western church Rites, although some churches have replaced the purple with blue. I asked someone about the blue, and I’m still not really sure what it’s actually supposed to mean. ‘Making more money for vestment makers,’ is not really the deep liturgico-theological revelation that I was hoping for, even though that was joke. The idea that it’s the color of the sky just before dawn is a nice one, I find: the time just before the sun comes out. That actually captures aspects of Advent very nicely. Ultimately, the reason blue is used is because the older Sarum Rite used blue, and this is a sort of liturgical return. A return to the time before the Roman Catholic Church suppressed all local customs at variance with those of the Latin Rite.
Blue vestments are actually still used in some Catholic churches in the Philippines and Spain during the observance of Marian feasts (of which there are, if you keep them all, many many). The current laws of the Roman Catholic Church do not recognize blue as a valid (or licit) liturgical color at all. Although blue was worn widely within the so-called ‘Gallican-Rite’ churches – Spain, etc. – in the Gregorian Liturgical Calendar and elsewhere blue is omitted. Presently, limited indults have been granted to specific churches to use blue vestments while celebrating Marian Inmaculada feasts, though I might say the practice is still generally discouraged. It is licit to use blue trim and such-like things on white vestments for Marian feasts, but those vestments are white. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in the Latin Rite, blue is NOT a legitimate liturgical color.
I don’t personally think that blue is an invalid color for Advent. I just don’t like it, not that I’ve ever seen it; I don’t like the idea of it, of what it would mean for my impression of purple during other liturgical moments. While Canon Law does not list Advent as one of the Church’s penitential seasons (§ 1250), I think erasing the penitential aspect is a mistake. The General norms for the Liturgical Year has this to say: “Advent has a twofold character: as a season to prepare for Christmas when Christ’s first coming to us is remembered; as a season when that remembrance directs the mind and heart to await Christ’s Second Coming at the end of time. Advent is thus a period for devout and joyful expectation” (§ 39). Yes, there is an emphasis on joy and well there should be: the end of days – and Christmas – are joyous occasions when the world and God are fully met together, and the kingdom of God is fully realized. But this preparation to welcome God does not involve only rejoicing: to make ourselves ready we have to be penitent. Because the coming of God is for us, not for God, and that implies a need of it, a need which we must recognize in order to be able to welcome the kingdom. Not that I think the gates to heaven are one big Confessional in the Sky, but that there is an inevitable sorrow at our human failings accompanying Christ’s coming. After all, Christ’s coming is an event that happened, is happening, and will happen. The coming of the kingdom and our freedom in joy is integrally linked to his victory on the Cross, his triumph over our sin and death, and we should not in our anticipation forget that.
I like the purple because it structures the liturgical year so that Advent and Lent are twinned seasons. They are tied together by the same color – Advent also has pink on Gaudete Sunday – and by the fact that they are both, fundamentally, seasons of expectation and preparation. Sure the emphasis on joy and repentance is different in one and the other, but both are always present. I think the pairing of purple helps us to remember that. So when we wear purple in sorrow, it is also infused with joyous waiting, and when we wear it in joyous waiting, it is always suffused with the Sacrifice. Both remind us that we must keep ready, be waiting, be watchful, because the Lord comes unexpectedly – as a child whose birth was unnoticed by most of the world, as a man crucified (and then risen), as a glorious king whose kingdom comes like a thief in the night. It is that kingdom, always that kingdom, for which we are waiting. Christians are a people in Advent.
The person I asked about the use of blue told me that some parishes use different shades of purple for the two seasons, light for Advent and dark for Lent, to help emphasize the difference. I think that’s a GREAT idea. Unfortunately, my home parish can’t do it because there is only one set of altar dressings and one set of purple vestments. I did notice something interesting today, though. The altar is dressed in dark purple, but the side altars – one of which holds the tabernacle and the other a copy of that Jesus-face thing – are dressed in light purple, which also covers the tabernacle. The deacon’s stole matches the dark altar, and the priest’s chasuble matches the light altars. Interesting.
In a feat of stunning making-something-accidental-have-a-deeper-meaning, I think that this is brilliant and makes an interesting point. So the altar where the Sacrifice is offered is the dark purple of sorrow and repentance – appropriate. The altars holding the Blessed Sacrament, the ultimate embodiment of the Sacrifice among us, and the picture of Veronica’s veil, from within Jesus’ suffering but also an astonishing gift that endures, are dressed in light purple, the color of hope and expectant joy – also appropriate. The remaining presence of Jesus among us associated with the happier and the Sacrifice with the sadder, and yet both living within the same family of purple, which is not fragmented but…differently shaded. The deacon, who serves the priest, is more strongly associated with the repentance, and the priest who stands in persona Christi with the joy. The Sacrifice sees both shades at the altar and is surrounded by both.
Perhaps this suggests that the kingdom of God is served in penitence and accomplished in joy.
In his homily, the priest spoke about Advent as being a time of hopefulness and preparation, especially in our parish given recent events. No one really knows what’s going to happen, though the bishop has said they have no intention of shutting the parish down. There is waiting, in hope, for a new parish priest. The board of Wardens has expressed to the bishop their desire to have a resident, full-time priest. They were then informed that our church was actually the only one in the entire diocese to have still had a resident, full-time priest. Nevertheless, the hope is still to have one. A time of waiting, of expectation and uncertainty: the parish family is in Advent.
Purple, of course, is the liturgical color of Advent in most western church Rites, although some churches have replaced the purple with blue. I asked someone about the blue, and I’m still not really sure what it’s actually supposed to mean. ‘Making more money for vestment makers,’ is not really the deep liturgico-theological revelation that I was hoping for, even though that was joke. The idea that it’s the color of the sky just before dawn is a nice one, I find: the time just before the sun comes out. That actually captures aspects of Advent very nicely. Ultimately, the reason blue is used is because the older Sarum Rite used blue, and this is a sort of liturgical return. A return to the time before the Roman Catholic Church suppressed all local customs at variance with those of the Latin Rite.
Blue vestments are actually still used in some Catholic churches in the Philippines and Spain during the observance of Marian feasts (of which there are, if you keep them all, many many). The current laws of the Roman Catholic Church do not recognize blue as a valid (or licit) liturgical color at all. Although blue was worn widely within the so-called ‘Gallican-Rite’ churches – Spain, etc. – in the Gregorian Liturgical Calendar and elsewhere blue is omitted. Presently, limited indults have been granted to specific churches to use blue vestments while celebrating Marian Inmaculada feasts, though I might say the practice is still generally discouraged. It is licit to use blue trim and such-like things on white vestments for Marian feasts, but those vestments are white. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in the Latin Rite, blue is NOT a legitimate liturgical color.
I don’t personally think that blue is an invalid color for Advent. I just don’t like it, not that I’ve ever seen it; I don’t like the idea of it, of what it would mean for my impression of purple during other liturgical moments. While Canon Law does not list Advent as one of the Church’s penitential seasons (§ 1250), I think erasing the penitential aspect is a mistake. The General norms for the Liturgical Year has this to say: “Advent has a twofold character: as a season to prepare for Christmas when Christ’s first coming to us is remembered; as a season when that remembrance directs the mind and heart to await Christ’s Second Coming at the end of time. Advent is thus a period for devout and joyful expectation” (§ 39). Yes, there is an emphasis on joy and well there should be: the end of days – and Christmas – are joyous occasions when the world and God are fully met together, and the kingdom of God is fully realized. But this preparation to welcome God does not involve only rejoicing: to make ourselves ready we have to be penitent. Because the coming of God is for us, not for God, and that implies a need of it, a need which we must recognize in order to be able to welcome the kingdom. Not that I think the gates to heaven are one big Confessional in the Sky, but that there is an inevitable sorrow at our human failings accompanying Christ’s coming. After all, Christ’s coming is an event that happened, is happening, and will happen. The coming of the kingdom and our freedom in joy is integrally linked to his victory on the Cross, his triumph over our sin and death, and we should not in our anticipation forget that.
I like the purple because it structures the liturgical year so that Advent and Lent are twinned seasons. They are tied together by the same color – Advent also has pink on Gaudete Sunday – and by the fact that they are both, fundamentally, seasons of expectation and preparation. Sure the emphasis on joy and repentance is different in one and the other, but both are always present. I think the pairing of purple helps us to remember that. So when we wear purple in sorrow, it is also infused with joyous waiting, and when we wear it in joyous waiting, it is always suffused with the Sacrifice. Both remind us that we must keep ready, be waiting, be watchful, because the Lord comes unexpectedly – as a child whose birth was unnoticed by most of the world, as a man crucified (and then risen), as a glorious king whose kingdom comes like a thief in the night. It is that kingdom, always that kingdom, for which we are waiting. Christians are a people in Advent.
The person I asked about the use of blue told me that some parishes use different shades of purple for the two seasons, light for Advent and dark for Lent, to help emphasize the difference. I think that’s a GREAT idea. Unfortunately, my home parish can’t do it because there is only one set of altar dressings and one set of purple vestments. I did notice something interesting today, though. The altar is dressed in dark purple, but the side altars – one of which holds the tabernacle and the other a copy of that Jesus-face thing – are dressed in light purple, which also covers the tabernacle. The deacon’s stole matches the dark altar, and the priest’s chasuble matches the light altars. Interesting.
In a feat of stunning making-something-accidental-have-a-deeper-meaning, I think that this is brilliant and makes an interesting point. So the altar where the Sacrifice is offered is the dark purple of sorrow and repentance – appropriate. The altars holding the Blessed Sacrament, the ultimate embodiment of the Sacrifice among us, and the picture of Veronica’s veil, from within Jesus’ suffering but also an astonishing gift that endures, are dressed in light purple, the color of hope and expectant joy – also appropriate. The remaining presence of Jesus among us associated with the happier and the Sacrifice with the sadder, and yet both living within the same family of purple, which is not fragmented but…differently shaded. The deacon, who serves the priest, is more strongly associated with the repentance, and the priest who stands in persona Christi with the joy. The Sacrifice sees both shades at the altar and is surrounded by both.
Perhaps this suggests that the kingdom of God is served in penitence and accomplished in joy.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
It's A Crazy, Crazy Faith
Our emergency priest last Sunday (the 15th) pointed out in his homily that, sometimes, our Christian faith is crazy. We always talk about heaven and the resurrection and saints in glory, about how that is our goal and the fulfillment of our lives. Except when someone actually dies: then we don’t want to talk about those things at all. Which is healthy – it would be a bit worrisome if one didn’t grieve.
However, at some point we must transcend our grief and share in the joy of our loved ones, who are in the Kingdom of God. I don’t know how it is anywhere else, but in the Catholic Church that transcendence is meant to occur during the Mass of Christian Burial. This may strike one as ironic, but really it isn’t. The whole process of Catholic dying leads up to it.
If a person receives last rites, the celebrant will be wearing a purple stole. The rite includes Absolution (or presumed Absolution, depending on the circumstances), Unction and Viaticum. The purpose of final Absolution is pretty obvious: it is a cleansing of sin before a person goes to meet God. Unction is an anointment of the body that embraces a kind of holiness of the flesh, presumably; I tend to understand it more as a sacramental recognition of the fact that the body already possesses an inherent holiness. It blesses the body before you die, imbues sanctity, but it is not intended to heal – which is of course why it’s permissible to anoint a dead body. Viaticum is simply Eucharist received for the last time as part of, or constituting, the last rites. Originally, it was so named because it was intended to give strength for the journey. Now, Viaticum is a plenary indulgence, making it the only indulgence in the Catholic Church that itself carries and creates the conditions necessary for receiving it.
Anyway, the point of all this is that it emphasizes the fact that you’re going away. The purple is a color of sorrow and mourning; but notice that it is the celebrant who wears purple, and not the person who’s dying – they don’t, like, drape a purple cloth over you or something. We are sorry about the going away, because it is our lives that you as we knew you will be missing from.
Purple, of course, has a second meaning, that of awaiting or anticipating the arrival of Christ and his Kingdom (hence the use of purple during Advent). Already, even in the sorrow, there is the anticipation that lies deep within all of us, always.
So here, here in the beginning of the journey, there is mourning for loss, as well as resolute anticipation of the things to come. There is anointing of the person who is dying in a way that expects the effects of that anointing to travel with him.
Next comes the actual handling of the body after death. The body is (thank God) embalmed, which has more to do with the people at the viewing than the actual body, so we’ll leave that aside. The body is laid out in clothing, usually something in some way representative of the person. In this case, Father is wearing his Christ the King chasuble. The vestment was new and unworn, probably because he was saving it for the feast, and he is now wearing it for the first time. I find this to be appropriate. For one thing, it’s white. For another, it emphasizes the kingship of Christ, a Kingdom which Father is now experiencing, the Kingdom to which our deaths look forward and which already abides among us: now is the Kingdom, now is the day. The feast brings a clarity to this reality and to our faith, as do these vestments. As we are in communion with all the Saints, the Kingdom is already our reality, though in this present darkness we cannot see it clearly. But we believe, and so we celebrate both Christ’s kingship and our Christian deaths. The vestment also points to the fact that, even though there is no Eucharist in heaven, the sacrament of Holy Orders leaves an indelible mark. Father is, like all other clergy, a priest forever, as we all remain ourselves in one way or another. After all, it is we ourselves who are saved, we who are loved, in all our sin and human frailty; our lives shaped and sanctified by the sacraments and realized in our deaths.
[A brief aside. I was saying to my brother, ‘Father is wearing his Christ the King vestments,’ to which he responded with something along the lines of, ‘no he’s not. He’s dead: his corpse is wearing them. He’s gone, he no longer exists.’ Of course, this is unacceptable. The person and the body we understand to be connected in some mysterious way that passes beyond death and into eternity. We speak about the body as the person because we recognize that, in some way or another, the person is coming back to get their body in the resurrection – or, perhaps more precisely, that the final resurrection will be an embodied one. Catholicism is not a faith that believes we shed the body as a snake sheds its skin, leaving it behind as a useless and meaningless thing. We take such care to prepare and present the body because we believe that even in death and eternal life a person is still themselves, still who they are, though they have also become so much more in the transformation that awaits us all. This conversation drives home an interesting point: in the reality of death our faith is both most deeply challenged and most strongly affirmed. Death exists. Death is real. This is no mirage. But eternal life is also real, also exists, is also not a mirage. Powerful stuff, this collision of two realities. Powerful. One might perhaps call it the center and definition of our faith.]
Then there is the funeral Mass. The celebrant(s) wears white vestments: the color of resurrection, eternal life and glory, sanctity. All sadness has been left behind, at least liturgically. At Father’s Mass, three bishops celebrated, along with a bunch of priests, at least one deacon, and a seminarian. The priests sang a song around the coffin: Ave Maria. In our Mother Mary, whom Father loved very deeply, the saint closest to the throne of God, we find an expression of brotherhood. That, too, is everlasting. We sang his favorite song (Lord of the Dance) and all simultaneously thought that if he were singing the Ave Maria with his brothers he’d be ruining it. Father loves singing, but can’t sing at all. Incense and holy water anointed the casket: again, we pray and sanctify the body until the moment when we commit it to the earth. We celebrate the Mass, the gift of God to us, the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus Christ, given for us for the remission of our sins. In the Mass we are all united in the mystical Church (itself a sacrament – the only one remaining after the final coming of the Kingdom, the one only fully realized within it). In the Mass we realize that God has shared in our death, in all of its horror, and so we are never alone in it; the feeling of aloneness is real – even Jesus felt it – but in reality it is an illusion. It is something we, in our humanity, must feel, but it is also a time when the Lord does not leave our side. I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.
The priest who gave the homily said something I believe is brilliant. He said that, throughout his life, Father experienced a dark night of the soul – only once did he feel the Lord’s presence and joy, when he was in the choir loft at seminary (perhaps why he loves singing). The fact that I seem to already have known this is a story for another time, or perhaps never. The priest said that it takes real courage to keep going, day after day, as a priest, without ever feeling anything, and he is right. Saint John of the Cross said that wood needs to be thoroughly dried out in order for it to burn. Father was consumed by the fire of the Holy Spirit when he died – a moment he had been waiting for all his life now come in completeness. Maybe that's why he looked so at peace, in a way I've never seen in a body before. Sudden, but not something for which he was not ready or unprepared. The Lord comes like a thief in the night, and we must be ready, because where one is taken there is another who will be left behind.
Thus we see, in dying and death, the promise and reality of our faith, in which we all participate through the rites and sacraments surrounding it.
However, at some point we must transcend our grief and share in the joy of our loved ones, who are in the Kingdom of God. I don’t know how it is anywhere else, but in the Catholic Church that transcendence is meant to occur during the Mass of Christian Burial. This may strike one as ironic, but really it isn’t. The whole process of Catholic dying leads up to it.
If a person receives last rites, the celebrant will be wearing a purple stole. The rite includes Absolution (or presumed Absolution, depending on the circumstances), Unction and Viaticum. The purpose of final Absolution is pretty obvious: it is a cleansing of sin before a person goes to meet God. Unction is an anointment of the body that embraces a kind of holiness of the flesh, presumably; I tend to understand it more as a sacramental recognition of the fact that the body already possesses an inherent holiness. It blesses the body before you die, imbues sanctity, but it is not intended to heal – which is of course why it’s permissible to anoint a dead body. Viaticum is simply Eucharist received for the last time as part of, or constituting, the last rites. Originally, it was so named because it was intended to give strength for the journey. Now, Viaticum is a plenary indulgence, making it the only indulgence in the Catholic Church that itself carries and creates the conditions necessary for receiving it.
Anyway, the point of all this is that it emphasizes the fact that you’re going away. The purple is a color of sorrow and mourning; but notice that it is the celebrant who wears purple, and not the person who’s dying – they don’t, like, drape a purple cloth over you or something. We are sorry about the going away, because it is our lives that you as we knew you will be missing from.
Purple, of course, has a second meaning, that of awaiting or anticipating the arrival of Christ and his Kingdom (hence the use of purple during Advent). Already, even in the sorrow, there is the anticipation that lies deep within all of us, always.
So here, here in the beginning of the journey, there is mourning for loss, as well as resolute anticipation of the things to come. There is anointing of the person who is dying in a way that expects the effects of that anointing to travel with him.
Next comes the actual handling of the body after death. The body is (thank God) embalmed, which has more to do with the people at the viewing than the actual body, so we’ll leave that aside. The body is laid out in clothing, usually something in some way representative of the person. In this case, Father is wearing his Christ the King chasuble. The vestment was new and unworn, probably because he was saving it for the feast, and he is now wearing it for the first time. I find this to be appropriate. For one thing, it’s white. For another, it emphasizes the kingship of Christ, a Kingdom which Father is now experiencing, the Kingdom to which our deaths look forward and which already abides among us: now is the Kingdom, now is the day. The feast brings a clarity to this reality and to our faith, as do these vestments. As we are in communion with all the Saints, the Kingdom is already our reality, though in this present darkness we cannot see it clearly. But we believe, and so we celebrate both Christ’s kingship and our Christian deaths. The vestment also points to the fact that, even though there is no Eucharist in heaven, the sacrament of Holy Orders leaves an indelible mark. Father is, like all other clergy, a priest forever, as we all remain ourselves in one way or another. After all, it is we ourselves who are saved, we who are loved, in all our sin and human frailty; our lives shaped and sanctified by the sacraments and realized in our deaths.
[A brief aside. I was saying to my brother, ‘Father is wearing his Christ the King vestments,’ to which he responded with something along the lines of, ‘no he’s not. He’s dead: his corpse is wearing them. He’s gone, he no longer exists.’ Of course, this is unacceptable. The person and the body we understand to be connected in some mysterious way that passes beyond death and into eternity. We speak about the body as the person because we recognize that, in some way or another, the person is coming back to get their body in the resurrection – or, perhaps more precisely, that the final resurrection will be an embodied one. Catholicism is not a faith that believes we shed the body as a snake sheds its skin, leaving it behind as a useless and meaningless thing. We take such care to prepare and present the body because we believe that even in death and eternal life a person is still themselves, still who they are, though they have also become so much more in the transformation that awaits us all. This conversation drives home an interesting point: in the reality of death our faith is both most deeply challenged and most strongly affirmed. Death exists. Death is real. This is no mirage. But eternal life is also real, also exists, is also not a mirage. Powerful stuff, this collision of two realities. Powerful. One might perhaps call it the center and definition of our faith.]
Then there is the funeral Mass. The celebrant(s) wears white vestments: the color of resurrection, eternal life and glory, sanctity. All sadness has been left behind, at least liturgically. At Father’s Mass, three bishops celebrated, along with a bunch of priests, at least one deacon, and a seminarian. The priests sang a song around the coffin: Ave Maria. In our Mother Mary, whom Father loved very deeply, the saint closest to the throne of God, we find an expression of brotherhood. That, too, is everlasting. We sang his favorite song (Lord of the Dance) and all simultaneously thought that if he were singing the Ave Maria with his brothers he’d be ruining it. Father loves singing, but can’t sing at all. Incense and holy water anointed the casket: again, we pray and sanctify the body until the moment when we commit it to the earth. We celebrate the Mass, the gift of God to us, the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus Christ, given for us for the remission of our sins. In the Mass we are all united in the mystical Church (itself a sacrament – the only one remaining after the final coming of the Kingdom, the one only fully realized within it). In the Mass we realize that God has shared in our death, in all of its horror, and so we are never alone in it; the feeling of aloneness is real – even Jesus felt it – but in reality it is an illusion. It is something we, in our humanity, must feel, but it is also a time when the Lord does not leave our side. I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.
The priest who gave the homily said something I believe is brilliant. He said that, throughout his life, Father experienced a dark night of the soul – only once did he feel the Lord’s presence and joy, when he was in the choir loft at seminary (perhaps why he loves singing). The fact that I seem to already have known this is a story for another time, or perhaps never. The priest said that it takes real courage to keep going, day after day, as a priest, without ever feeling anything, and he is right. Saint John of the Cross said that wood needs to be thoroughly dried out in order for it to burn. Father was consumed by the fire of the Holy Spirit when he died – a moment he had been waiting for all his life now come in completeness. Maybe that's why he looked so at peace, in a way I've never seen in a body before. Sudden, but not something for which he was not ready or unprepared. The Lord comes like a thief in the night, and we must be ready, because where one is taken there is another who will be left behind.
Thus we see, in dying and death, the promise and reality of our faith, in which we all participate through the rites and sacraments surrounding it.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Living God My Shepherd Is
Today at church the sermon was about how our relationship with God is important, and we should focus on that, and on the mystery, rather than trying to know everything. TNTK (the need to know) is something that consumes us, and it can keep us from realizing that God is alive and wants to have a relationship with us. Although I sometimes think our relationship is pretty dysfunctional, I’ve been lucky enough not to lose sight of that.
It just made me think about what it is that God is telling me. I feel like part of my vocation – or maybe this is better described as a pipe-dream – is to somehow bring the fire and energy of charismatic worship together with a high liturgical tradition. I don’t want to feel rootless, I don’t want to lose the gestures. I love the tradition. But, at the same time, I go to Catholic churches and high liturgical services and I feel like…like so many people are just going through the motions, like there’s so little feeling in the moment, so little emotion, so little passion in the congregation. Obviously not everyone’s like that, but I can’t help feeling that people come alive afterward at coffee hour as if the Mass is a separate part of their day, totally solemn and rehearsed, somber, old, and familiar. I want to live the Gospel in every moment of my life (or try to, anyway).
I like the high tradition because I love to pray and I love church and Mass is like an hour long prayer for me. I want to pray with my whole body and all of my senses, I want to get lost in God, I want to respond authentically to overwhelming feelings of awe, joy, and sometimes even sadness or just, like, overfullness. I want there to be passion in the liturgy: we are praising God, why aren’t we more dynamic? Does everything we say have to be perfect beauty without emotion, flat, rushed? Why can’t we burst out into a smile? I just…I wish that somehow I could find a way to bring them together, the two halves of my life that sometimes seem so far apart.
I know at times I try to contain what I feel because for whatever reason I think it’s not appropriate. Is it appropriate to just raise your face and look up with your eyes closed when you experience beauty and evanescence? Is it okay to smile, maybe even to laugh? Sometimes I feel such joy welling up like tears, but one should not of course cry in church. During the consecration, I feel so overcome with awe and littleness, gratitude and unworthiness, but how can you express it? Can I put my head in my hands? Of course we can’t cry out, like ‘woohoo’ or something, but sometimes I secretly want to. Should I pray in church (an odd question I know), really pray, allow myself to just go up and see what’s behind, above, inside and around these walls? I feel like I don’t want to be conspicuous. But it also sucks that I feel I can only have long encounters with Mary in a church if I sneak in mid-day when there’s no one around. I guess that’s why when I was going to St. Pat’s for daily Mass I’d sometimes come in an hour early, to be by myself, to hear, to listen, to see and to feel what it is that God wants to reveal; a place of companionable silence, neither saying anything, just being as if time has stopped. Sometimes I move through the liturgy as if I’m in a bubble, there and not there, focused in something else but still seeing everything and being a part of it.
Is that normal? Am I normal? Sometimes I really do wonder. I long so badly just to be with God, a kind of desperation sometimes, for there to be nothing else and nothing left but me and Him. I want to feel safe enough to let my eyes flow over with tears and laughter spring up at the same time, this awe, this feeling of being carried away, the light and the voice, the feeling in my hands and my face, the sometimes searing pain and overwhelming despair and sadness. But I don’t know how to feel totally safe when the focus is on dignity and propriety. And I don’t know how to feel safe when the visceral aspects of worship are absent, truncated, simplified. I do not long for simple worship. I wonder if there is a place for me anywhere, if there ever will be, if I’ll ever find another person who understands what I experience and long for, someone whose world this is too.
It just made me think about what it is that God is telling me. I feel like part of my vocation – or maybe this is better described as a pipe-dream – is to somehow bring the fire and energy of charismatic worship together with a high liturgical tradition. I don’t want to feel rootless, I don’t want to lose the gestures. I love the tradition. But, at the same time, I go to Catholic churches and high liturgical services and I feel like…like so many people are just going through the motions, like there’s so little feeling in the moment, so little emotion, so little passion in the congregation. Obviously not everyone’s like that, but I can’t help feeling that people come alive afterward at coffee hour as if the Mass is a separate part of their day, totally solemn and rehearsed, somber, old, and familiar. I want to live the Gospel in every moment of my life (or try to, anyway).
I like the high tradition because I love to pray and I love church and Mass is like an hour long prayer for me. I want to pray with my whole body and all of my senses, I want to get lost in God, I want to respond authentically to overwhelming feelings of awe, joy, and sometimes even sadness or just, like, overfullness. I want there to be passion in the liturgy: we are praising God, why aren’t we more dynamic? Does everything we say have to be perfect beauty without emotion, flat, rushed? Why can’t we burst out into a smile? I just…I wish that somehow I could find a way to bring them together, the two halves of my life that sometimes seem so far apart.
I know at times I try to contain what I feel because for whatever reason I think it’s not appropriate. Is it appropriate to just raise your face and look up with your eyes closed when you experience beauty and evanescence? Is it okay to smile, maybe even to laugh? Sometimes I feel such joy welling up like tears, but one should not of course cry in church. During the consecration, I feel so overcome with awe and littleness, gratitude and unworthiness, but how can you express it? Can I put my head in my hands? Of course we can’t cry out, like ‘woohoo’ or something, but sometimes I secretly want to. Should I pray in church (an odd question I know), really pray, allow myself to just go up and see what’s behind, above, inside and around these walls? I feel like I don’t want to be conspicuous. But it also sucks that I feel I can only have long encounters with Mary in a church if I sneak in mid-day when there’s no one around. I guess that’s why when I was going to St. Pat’s for daily Mass I’d sometimes come in an hour early, to be by myself, to hear, to listen, to see and to feel what it is that God wants to reveal; a place of companionable silence, neither saying anything, just being as if time has stopped. Sometimes I move through the liturgy as if I’m in a bubble, there and not there, focused in something else but still seeing everything and being a part of it.
Is that normal? Am I normal? Sometimes I really do wonder. I long so badly just to be with God, a kind of desperation sometimes, for there to be nothing else and nothing left but me and Him. I want to feel safe enough to let my eyes flow over with tears and laughter spring up at the same time, this awe, this feeling of being carried away, the light and the voice, the feeling in my hands and my face, the sometimes searing pain and overwhelming despair and sadness. But I don’t know how to feel totally safe when the focus is on dignity and propriety. And I don’t know how to feel safe when the visceral aspects of worship are absent, truncated, simplified. I do not long for simple worship. I wonder if there is a place for me anywhere, if there ever will be, if I’ll ever find another person who understands what I experience and long for, someone whose world this is too.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tantum Ergo
Today, we wear white vestments; today, we sing the Gloria; today, we celebrate the institution of the Lord’s Supper. Such a great gift in the midst of such a terrible time. I do not comprehend it.
Before the Mass, there’s the ceremony of the washing of the feet. I remember as a child following the priest as he knelt on the floor, moving in a semi-circle. I remember how our bowl of water leaked, so one of our jobs was to have lots of paper towels to dry the floor with. I loved this service: serving the server. We are all of us servants of the Lord. What I need to remember is that service, too, is sacrifice, sacrament. The most lowly service is also the highest; he who chooses the most excellent place is also the most humbled. What I need to remember is that our Lord first served.
I went to the Maundy Thursday service at a church I’d never been to for Mass but to which practically everyone had been telling me to go. It felt like…an adventure to a familiar but unknown longed for place. I love incense; the ritual is beautiful; the music is soaring. I learnt that I had become used to leaning on the front of pews for balance while standing in church.
It’s actually refreshing that I don’t know what’s going on sometimes: what are they bowing to, what is he doing up there, why is he ‘bowing’ like that, why are the images already covered, what’s the point of a choir screen that doesn’t block your view while kneeling? I was surprised that the Gospel was chanted. I was also surprised that the Tantum Ergo wasn’t sung in Latin. But I get ahead of myself. I like that this is something of a mystery to me. If you haven’t noticed, I quite like reflecting on liturgy, on gesture. This is something that I can turn over in my mind, seek and ask into, discover something new about worship, about myself. It’s a little scary in a way, not knowing after so much knowing, but it’s exciting and intriguing, too.
The celebration of the Mass takes on a new poignancy on Holy Thursday. Jesus, so careful to make sure we get to this place and this moment, at table with his betrayer gave to the world the Sacrament of His Body and Blood. Take and eat; do this for the remembrance of me. We partake in his Sacrifice to the end of the world.
I was prepared enough today to be able to receive Eucharist (though I’m still confused about specific fasting requirements). I admit that reading the Mass booklet freaked me out, though; I mean, it says you have to be in communion with your church and, well, since I have no church, I’m clearly not. I am always afraid someone will notice that I don’t know what I’m doing and call me on it. Or that, you know, God will strike me down: ouch.
I love the Blessed Sacrament, I love it so much! This is a part of me. Sometimes I feel like I’m on fire for it, full of light. It can be so sweet, like honey maybe, filling my mouth. I love how I can feel the Consecration, the Spirit, feel it like a wonderful shiver running through my skin. A bit like how I feel when I hear great church music.
Obviously, I stayed behind for a while at the altar of repose. I was grateful that I managed to somehow carve out a space for praying where there was no one behind me who could see what I was doing: God was with me. I can be a little intense in my adoration, especially when it’s combined with vigil. I don’t know that people would be understanding of the things that I do.
What does it mean to adore the Blessed Sacrament and to keep vigil? To give thanks for a marvelous gift and keep painful watch with Jesus in his agony in the garden? If it would remove one instant of his torment, I would give God my life and let Him take it. What I feel, this small part of being with, so difficult and searing, what is that compared to the suffering of our Savior? For one less tear of sorrow shed by him, I would gladly die.
It is a powerful and unnamable thing to keep watch and to give thanks at the same time. In a way, Good Friday is so much simpler. I cannot faithfully describe it, caught between joy and torment, sorrow and thanksgiving. There are no words that could even hold it in my heart, and it fills me up. I am too small for it: it overcomes me.
Maundy Thursday: the word, I learned, means ‘mandate.’ Jesus’ commandment that we love one another as he has loved us…for whatever reason, that has never been the focus of the day for me. I have not focused on the command, nor meditated on it during my Holy Thursday devotions. I have always reflected, rather, on the gift of the Eucharist – the gift, and not the demand. At first I thought centering my thought on the command was strange, but the more I think about it, the more it becomes clearer, deeper. What is it to love Christ but to understand that Eucharist is never only for us as individuals? I mean, of course it’s for us: the Blood is shed for the whole world as a communion of persons, and not as some abstract philosophical gestalt reality. But we are not meant to keep it to ourselves. Eucharist spills over and out of us, turning us outward toward each other; we go to the altar so that the altar can send us forth into the world embodying the message of the Cross, the Gospel of unmerited gift. Of course it is all about the new commandment. I am thankful that a chance question gave me the opportunity to reflect on this, and to express and honor more deeply the organic connection between the two.
Sweet Jesus, I lay myself before you as nothing, offering only longing to take away or make reparation for your pain. Live in me in all your sorrow and anguish, and transform my life into that for which I am made.
Before the Mass, there’s the ceremony of the washing of the feet. I remember as a child following the priest as he knelt on the floor, moving in a semi-circle. I remember how our bowl of water leaked, so one of our jobs was to have lots of paper towels to dry the floor with. I loved this service: serving the server. We are all of us servants of the Lord. What I need to remember is that service, too, is sacrifice, sacrament. The most lowly service is also the highest; he who chooses the most excellent place is also the most humbled. What I need to remember is that our Lord first served.
I went to the Maundy Thursday service at a church I’d never been to for Mass but to which practically everyone had been telling me to go. It felt like…an adventure to a familiar but unknown longed for place. I love incense; the ritual is beautiful; the music is soaring. I learnt that I had become used to leaning on the front of pews for balance while standing in church.
It’s actually refreshing that I don’t know what’s going on sometimes: what are they bowing to, what is he doing up there, why is he ‘bowing’ like that, why are the images already covered, what’s the point of a choir screen that doesn’t block your view while kneeling? I was surprised that the Gospel was chanted. I was also surprised that the Tantum Ergo wasn’t sung in Latin. But I get ahead of myself. I like that this is something of a mystery to me. If you haven’t noticed, I quite like reflecting on liturgy, on gesture. This is something that I can turn over in my mind, seek and ask into, discover something new about worship, about myself. It’s a little scary in a way, not knowing after so much knowing, but it’s exciting and intriguing, too.
The celebration of the Mass takes on a new poignancy on Holy Thursday. Jesus, so careful to make sure we get to this place and this moment, at table with his betrayer gave to the world the Sacrament of His Body and Blood. Take and eat; do this for the remembrance of me. We partake in his Sacrifice to the end of the world.
I was prepared enough today to be able to receive Eucharist (though I’m still confused about specific fasting requirements). I admit that reading the Mass booklet freaked me out, though; I mean, it says you have to be in communion with your church and, well, since I have no church, I’m clearly not. I am always afraid someone will notice that I don’t know what I’m doing and call me on it. Or that, you know, God will strike me down: ouch.
I love the Blessed Sacrament, I love it so much! This is a part of me. Sometimes I feel like I’m on fire for it, full of light. It can be so sweet, like honey maybe, filling my mouth. I love how I can feel the Consecration, the Spirit, feel it like a wonderful shiver running through my skin. A bit like how I feel when I hear great church music.
Obviously, I stayed behind for a while at the altar of repose. I was grateful that I managed to somehow carve out a space for praying where there was no one behind me who could see what I was doing: God was with me. I can be a little intense in my adoration, especially when it’s combined with vigil. I don’t know that people would be understanding of the things that I do.
What does it mean to adore the Blessed Sacrament and to keep vigil? To give thanks for a marvelous gift and keep painful watch with Jesus in his agony in the garden? If it would remove one instant of his torment, I would give God my life and let Him take it. What I feel, this small part of being with, so difficult and searing, what is that compared to the suffering of our Savior? For one less tear of sorrow shed by him, I would gladly die.
It is a powerful and unnamable thing to keep watch and to give thanks at the same time. In a way, Good Friday is so much simpler. I cannot faithfully describe it, caught between joy and torment, sorrow and thanksgiving. There are no words that could even hold it in my heart, and it fills me up. I am too small for it: it overcomes me.
Maundy Thursday: the word, I learned, means ‘mandate.’ Jesus’ commandment that we love one another as he has loved us…for whatever reason, that has never been the focus of the day for me. I have not focused on the command, nor meditated on it during my Holy Thursday devotions. I have always reflected, rather, on the gift of the Eucharist – the gift, and not the demand. At first I thought centering my thought on the command was strange, but the more I think about it, the more it becomes clearer, deeper. What is it to love Christ but to understand that Eucharist is never only for us as individuals? I mean, of course it’s for us: the Blood is shed for the whole world as a communion of persons, and not as some abstract philosophical gestalt reality. But we are not meant to keep it to ourselves. Eucharist spills over and out of us, turning us outward toward each other; we go to the altar so that the altar can send us forth into the world embodying the message of the Cross, the Gospel of unmerited gift. Of course it is all about the new commandment. I am thankful that a chance question gave me the opportunity to reflect on this, and to express and honor more deeply the organic connection between the two.
Sweet Jesus, I lay myself before you as nothing, offering only longing to take away or make reparation for your pain. Live in me in all your sorrow and anguish, and transform my life into that for which I am made.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Open The Gates Before Him; Lift Up Your Voices!
Wow: Palm Sunday. Holy Week has now begun. I have to admit, I’m a bit shell-shocked, unprepared. Can this really all be happening so quickly? I wish this wasn’t all happening at the same time the school semester is ending. I find myself wondering whether or not my scholastic endeavors can ever really be harmonized with my Christian life – eventually, something’s gotta give. What’s most important to me should be obvious from the fact that I find reflecting on my experiences through this blog more pressing than proofreading the assignment that’s due tomorrow, or for that matter researching term papers. School, I have found, is not at all understanding of the fact that I value my spiritual life – my liturgical confession of faith – as much as I value breathing and much more than I value knowledge. I guess that settles it: I need to find some sort of church job. Anyone in need of a secretary?
Because liturgy is my oxygen, I take it rather seriously. Perhaps too much. But it’s the only way I can know my faith, live it and breathe it in and move and have my being in it. It’s the water at the root of things that gives me the strength to live my faith, or at least to try.
So: Palm Sunday. It began with the congregation in the hall rather than the church proper, which I thought was pretty cool, mostly because of what followed. So the priest blessed the palms. I found this part a little strange, because he didn’t use aspersion with holy water, rather just touching them with his hand. I didn’t realize you could bless anything without holy water. Except of course holy water itself…hmmm…never thought of that. And I guess rosaries don’t get blessed with holy water. I suppose it makes sense.
What was super awesome was that the whole congregation (at least in theory) went in procession around the church. I’d never seen that: the church I used to go to had the children processing from the sacristy while the adults remained in the pews. I wonder who we are in the story: are we the disciples? Are we people from the crowd who decide to join in? If we’re all following Jesus, who’s strewing the palm leaves on the ground and praising him? Maybe we aren’t limited to only one of these roles: maybe we’re the crowd and the disciples; maybe we both follow and greet; maybe we are Judas, and all those who turn against him. Are we not all these things at some point in our lives? I don’t know. All I know is that we sang Hosanna, and all participated in the procession and liturgy, and it was wonderful.
I knew that the priest wouldn’t be using a cape. He did, however, put on a Jewish prayer shawl during part of the service, and I thought that was lovely.
I was shocked when I realized that the Passion wasn’t going to be read: I didn’t know you could even have a Palm Sunday service without it. I’m actually pretty devastated. It made me sad; it made me panic a bit; it made me wonder what on earth it was that I’d done. Has this been the right decision? Am I ready to leave behind the rituals that I have so deeply loved, that have shaped my life? It made me realize how completely unknown the Anglican church is to me: how foreign, how formless it is in my mind and my heart. How deep these waters whose bottom I cannot see, whose greatness and vastness of life I cannot fathom.
Of course, I was also sad that they didn’t celebrate Eucharist. But, then again, I already knew that they don’t do it every Sunday – itself a foreign concept to me. I admit that I also miss singing songs that are familiar to me.
Luckily, I have a subscription to Novalis’ daily missal, Living With Christ, so I have the entire text of the Passion as it was supposed to be read today. I’m going to read it instead of evening prayer. It isn’t at all the same, and I am melancholy about that, but at least I will be able to experience the Word. Though I must admit, it’s not at all right to be experiencing it all alone.
But at least I have that option.
I can’t do anything about Eucharist, though.
Because liturgy is my oxygen, I take it rather seriously. Perhaps too much. But it’s the only way I can know my faith, live it and breathe it in and move and have my being in it. It’s the water at the root of things that gives me the strength to live my faith, or at least to try.
So: Palm Sunday. It began with the congregation in the hall rather than the church proper, which I thought was pretty cool, mostly because of what followed. So the priest blessed the palms. I found this part a little strange, because he didn’t use aspersion with holy water, rather just touching them with his hand. I didn’t realize you could bless anything without holy water. Except of course holy water itself…hmmm…never thought of that. And I guess rosaries don’t get blessed with holy water. I suppose it makes sense.
What was super awesome was that the whole congregation (at least in theory) went in procession around the church. I’d never seen that: the church I used to go to had the children processing from the sacristy while the adults remained in the pews. I wonder who we are in the story: are we the disciples? Are we people from the crowd who decide to join in? If we’re all following Jesus, who’s strewing the palm leaves on the ground and praising him? Maybe we aren’t limited to only one of these roles: maybe we’re the crowd and the disciples; maybe we both follow and greet; maybe we are Judas, and all those who turn against him. Are we not all these things at some point in our lives? I don’t know. All I know is that we sang Hosanna, and all participated in the procession and liturgy, and it was wonderful.
I knew that the priest wouldn’t be using a cape. He did, however, put on a Jewish prayer shawl during part of the service, and I thought that was lovely.
I was shocked when I realized that the Passion wasn’t going to be read: I didn’t know you could even have a Palm Sunday service without it. I’m actually pretty devastated. It made me sad; it made me panic a bit; it made me wonder what on earth it was that I’d done. Has this been the right decision? Am I ready to leave behind the rituals that I have so deeply loved, that have shaped my life? It made me realize how completely unknown the Anglican church is to me: how foreign, how formless it is in my mind and my heart. How deep these waters whose bottom I cannot see, whose greatness and vastness of life I cannot fathom.
Of course, I was also sad that they didn’t celebrate Eucharist. But, then again, I already knew that they don’t do it every Sunday – itself a foreign concept to me. I admit that I also miss singing songs that are familiar to me.
Luckily, I have a subscription to Novalis’ daily missal, Living With Christ, so I have the entire text of the Passion as it was supposed to be read today. I’m going to read it instead of evening prayer. It isn’t at all the same, and I am melancholy about that, but at least I will be able to experience the Word. Though I must admit, it’s not at all right to be experiencing it all alone.
But at least I have that option.
I can’t do anything about Eucharist, though.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Faith Of Our Fathers
I love fancy vestments; I love incense; I love ornate language; I love high, vaulting music; I love pageantry, every moment drenched with meaning; I love kneeling, genuflecting, the sign of the Cross; heck, I might even love choir screens. All of these rituals, all of these symbols, help me feel connected to the past, to the generations of Christians for whom the same experience of beauty held true.
That isn’t to say that liturgical change is bad: we must incorporate the signs of our own times. I do think, however, that physical architecture should be taken into account. I once read about an Episcopal church where the altar was basically in the middle of the congregation. They would all gather around it to receive Eucharist, and after Mass they would have a communal meal there. Aside from my unease about using a consecrated altar as a picnic table (is there a relic in there?), I think this is a great idea.
Gathering around an altar when it’s lodged far away in the sanctuary almost seems like it would heighten the feeling of distance. One has to pass from profane into sacred space in order to encounter Jesus in the Sacrament. In this geography, I think it’s better that the congregation remain behind the altar rail. What is then symbolized – at least for me – in the distribution of the Eucharist is that Jesus passes from the sacred into the profane: in the Body of Christ, both Church and Sacrament, the distance and division between the profane and the sacred collapses.
The reason I prefer Eastward celebration is related to this. When the priest faces westward, the difference between clergy and laity is heightened rather than subsumed. Physically, it is as though the congregation is the passive recipient of whatever it is the priest is doing. Facing Eastward, the whole body of the church is turned the same way in a unity of action and prayer. The Sacrifice that is Christ is offered to the Father by Christ through or in the person of the priest. The sacrifice being made by the priest is the sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving: this sacrifice is made equally by everyone, because it belongs to the office of the universal priesthood of all believers. The Eucharist is God’s free gift in response to this offering. Why should we not all be facing the same way when we are making it?
That isn’t to say that liturgical change is bad: we must incorporate the signs of our own times. I do think, however, that physical architecture should be taken into account. I once read about an Episcopal church where the altar was basically in the middle of the congregation. They would all gather around it to receive Eucharist, and after Mass they would have a communal meal there. Aside from my unease about using a consecrated altar as a picnic table (is there a relic in there?), I think this is a great idea.
Gathering around an altar when it’s lodged far away in the sanctuary almost seems like it would heighten the feeling of distance. One has to pass from profane into sacred space in order to encounter Jesus in the Sacrament. In this geography, I think it’s better that the congregation remain behind the altar rail. What is then symbolized – at least for me – in the distribution of the Eucharist is that Jesus passes from the sacred into the profane: in the Body of Christ, both Church and Sacrament, the distance and division between the profane and the sacred collapses.
The reason I prefer Eastward celebration is related to this. When the priest faces westward, the difference between clergy and laity is heightened rather than subsumed. Physically, it is as though the congregation is the passive recipient of whatever it is the priest is doing. Facing Eastward, the whole body of the church is turned the same way in a unity of action and prayer. The Sacrifice that is Christ is offered to the Father by Christ through or in the person of the priest. The sacrifice being made by the priest is the sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving: this sacrifice is made equally by everyone, because it belongs to the office of the universal priesthood of all believers. The Eucharist is God’s free gift in response to this offering. Why should we not all be facing the same way when we are making it?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Colour Purple
Another thing I love about liturgy is the use and change of colour. So much meaning can be crammed into a single shade.
Right now, the colour is a Lenten purple. Purple strikes me as being so complicated. On the one hand, it is the colour of repentance and sorrow, and also of course always a sign of forgiveness. We are preparing for the greatest Sacrifice in history, the Sacrifice that drives in the gravity of our guilt.
But the Sacrifice also looks forward to our forgiveness, and the promised Resurrection, the free gift of God to us. Surely, while we must accept our fallen nature and our individual failings in order to best receive this gift – hence the preparation by repentance – we also must not forget that the reason we are mourning is the same reason we will be joyful. Surely, while it is necessary to recognize the truth of ourselves in order to give thanks and praise, the emphasis should be on the praising. That is why Lent is never the end. It helps remind us of that, I think, when we splash a little pink into this time. Laetare Sunday: Rejoice, O Jerusalem! Amid pain and suffering there is the unmistakable vibrancy of joy and happiness.
Purple is also the colour of royalty. Christ’s kingship is realized just as much in his Lenten journey as is the white and gold of the Resurrection. The purple robe placed on him, along with the crown of thorns, ironically recognizes this kingship in and by the very act of sending him to his death.
Purple helps me to remember that Jesus’ suffering is never far apart from his glory, and that I shouldn’t lose sight of one when in the face of the other. When we cover all the images in the church with purple cloth on Good Friday, are we not proclaiming exactly that? All the glory, all the truth of our faith might be hidden under suffering and despair; hidden, but always right there underneath the surface; hidden, but soon to be revealed.
I like it when the altar ‘dressings’ are changed along with the priest’s vestments rather than changing vestments and using unbleached linen for everything else. It is not only the priest, as image of Christ, who is on this journey. Rather, it is all of us, the whole Church, the Body of Christ.
Right now, the colour is a Lenten purple. Purple strikes me as being so complicated. On the one hand, it is the colour of repentance and sorrow, and also of course always a sign of forgiveness. We are preparing for the greatest Sacrifice in history, the Sacrifice that drives in the gravity of our guilt.
But the Sacrifice also looks forward to our forgiveness, and the promised Resurrection, the free gift of God to us. Surely, while we must accept our fallen nature and our individual failings in order to best receive this gift – hence the preparation by repentance – we also must not forget that the reason we are mourning is the same reason we will be joyful. Surely, while it is necessary to recognize the truth of ourselves in order to give thanks and praise, the emphasis should be on the praising. That is why Lent is never the end. It helps remind us of that, I think, when we splash a little pink into this time. Laetare Sunday: Rejoice, O Jerusalem! Amid pain and suffering there is the unmistakable vibrancy of joy and happiness.
Purple is also the colour of royalty. Christ’s kingship is realized just as much in his Lenten journey as is the white and gold of the Resurrection. The purple robe placed on him, along with the crown of thorns, ironically recognizes this kingship in and by the very act of sending him to his death.
Purple helps me to remember that Jesus’ suffering is never far apart from his glory, and that I shouldn’t lose sight of one when in the face of the other. When we cover all the images in the church with purple cloth on Good Friday, are we not proclaiming exactly that? All the glory, all the truth of our faith might be hidden under suffering and despair; hidden, but always right there underneath the surface; hidden, but soon to be revealed.
I like it when the altar ‘dressings’ are changed along with the priest’s vestments rather than changing vestments and using unbleached linen for everything else. It is not only the priest, as image of Christ, who is on this journey. Rather, it is all of us, the whole Church, the Body of Christ.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
I Fall On My Knees
Liturgy: how do I love thee! The question is, why? What does liturgy mean to me?
The liturgical calendar seems like an obvious place to start. For a long time, the pattern of my life has followed Church seasons. Advent is the beginning of the year, and I always find myself full of anticipation. Christmas, of course, is full of joy. Lent is difficult, sorrowful, a steep descending path to death full of danger. Easter is, again, joyful and light, and it fills me with a sense of hope and new life. Jesus has triumphed and, by trusting in him, so may I. Pentecost is fire and energy, a time of new vision and understanding. Through all this, the chain of ordinary time carries me forward through the ebb and flow of the week, punctuated by remembrance of the Saints and of events in Jesus' life.
Because the calendar s informs my lived experience of Christianity, I find it important that the liturgy reflect the changes that shape the year.
One of the reasons I like processions is because of the way they can inform the geography of the church. A procession can come out of the sacristy and pass through the center of the church, symbolically gathering the congregation together under the sign of Christ. It ritually connects the nave with the sanctuary since it incorporates the journey through the church into the journey toward the altar.
I like how changes in the procession can change my experience of the rest of the liturgy. On Christmas Eve, a baby Jesus can be carried in and placed in a manger at the foot of the altar. On Palm Sunday (Passion Sunday) the procession stops at the back of the church and continues after a reading; it recreates Jesus' joyous, welcome entry into the city, and the Eucharist takes on a bitter-sweet depth of meaning by following the happy reception. I like that the priest wears a 'cape' in that procession, and that they're re-dressed in a chasuble in the sanctuary. The garment -- the perception of Christ -- changed in such a short period of time.
I love that the Holy Thursday procession stops at the altar of repose, that Good Friday has no procession at all (at least until the veneration of the Cross). I love how the light from the congregation's candles spreads slowly forward alongside the procession at the Easter vigil, all the light coming from the Paschal fire.
Seasons and movement: so powerful for me!
Which is why we shouldn't say 'alleluia' during Lent. That defeats the purpose of glutting yourself on it at Easter.
The liturgical calendar seems like an obvious place to start. For a long time, the pattern of my life has followed Church seasons. Advent is the beginning of the year, and I always find myself full of anticipation. Christmas, of course, is full of joy. Lent is difficult, sorrowful, a steep descending path to death full of danger. Easter is, again, joyful and light, and it fills me with a sense of hope and new life. Jesus has triumphed and, by trusting in him, so may I. Pentecost is fire and energy, a time of new vision and understanding. Through all this, the chain of ordinary time carries me forward through the ebb and flow of the week, punctuated by remembrance of the Saints and of events in Jesus' life.
Because the calendar s informs my lived experience of Christianity, I find it important that the liturgy reflect the changes that shape the year.
One of the reasons I like processions is because of the way they can inform the geography of the church. A procession can come out of the sacristy and pass through the center of the church, symbolically gathering the congregation together under the sign of Christ. It ritually connects the nave with the sanctuary since it incorporates the journey through the church into the journey toward the altar.
I like how changes in the procession can change my experience of the rest of the liturgy. On Christmas Eve, a baby Jesus can be carried in and placed in a manger at the foot of the altar. On Palm Sunday (Passion Sunday) the procession stops at the back of the church and continues after a reading; it recreates Jesus' joyous, welcome entry into the city, and the Eucharist takes on a bitter-sweet depth of meaning by following the happy reception. I like that the priest wears a 'cape' in that procession, and that they're re-dressed in a chasuble in the sanctuary. The garment -- the perception of Christ -- changed in such a short period of time.
I love that the Holy Thursday procession stops at the altar of repose, that Good Friday has no procession at all (at least until the veneration of the Cross). I love how the light from the congregation's candles spreads slowly forward alongside the procession at the Easter vigil, all the light coming from the Paschal fire.
Seasons and movement: so powerful for me!
Which is why we shouldn't say 'alleluia' during Lent. That defeats the purpose of glutting yourself on it at Easter.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Missing Pieces: Mind The Gap
There are many things I know I’ll miss now that I’m not Roman Catholic, things that I have no idea where else to find, though doubtless it is possible, and even likely in some cases. Here are a few:
-stations of the Cross (it’s not the same without pictures on the walls of a church that you walk around to in order, without a marble floor to kneel on)
-Latin in the Mass; ‘Lord Have Mercy’ in Greek
-reservation of the Blessed Sacrament
-adoration of the Blessed Sacrament
-exposition of the Blessed Sacrament
-benediction of the Blessed Sacrament
-keeping vigil with the Blessed Sacrament at the Altar of repose on Holy Thursday through to Good Friday (I love just after the Mass of the Last Supper, 3:00 AM, 6:00 AM, and just before the Sacrament is removed from the Altar)
-veneration of the Cross on Good Friday
-frequent use of incense (I’ve never belonged to a church that actually does this; I just complained for years that we should be using more incense. I mean, at least cense the Gospel and the altar)
-holy water
-Eastward worship (also haven’t ever actually experienced this, but I have ‘theological’ ideas that make me like it)
-elaborate processions involving the use of a crucifix
-fancy vestments, especially the cassock, roman collar, amice, alb, stole, cincture, chasuble, cope / humeral veil; dalmatic; surplice; maniple; zucchetto (gloves would also be cool, but I’ve never encountered them)
-lots of kneeling (also haven’t belonged to a church where this is practiced)
-daily Mass
-random religious statues around the church
-praying for the dead
-indulgences (which is ironic because I don’t really like the theology behind them; nevertheless, I actually like doing them)
And many other things which I’m sure I’ll discover as I go along. I suppose the point of all this is to say that I am still very much worried I’ll never find a church to live in. I mean, I subsisted in the Roman church for years, so I don’t doubt I could do that elsewhere: I just wish there were somewhere I could be accepted while being fully myself. I worry that if I can’t find a liturgical home I’ll never be able to commit to a church, to her Sacraments, to her presence in my life. I worry that I will fall away, not have any church at all – that I will be all alone and find it even harder to get up the courage to take that necessary step of visibly belonging: receiving the Sacraments. I know how deeply receiving Eucharist binds me to a church, and I am not ready to be so bound. The thing is, how do I allow myself to so deeply love another church without knowing that she will accept me, when I am afraid of being thrown out as some sort of imposter? If someone knows of any way to make me believe I’ve been welcomed or received into a faith community, please tell me so that I can pursue it.
I love liturgy, and I guess you could say I like it ‘high.’ I like being able to feel it, to look at it and see it, to be carried away in beautiful symbolism, to taste it in the back of my throat, smell it and feel it on my skin. I’ve gone to evangelical and other mainstream Protestant churches, and I know exactly how much I need liturgy when I feel like it’s not there. Liturgy is intimately connected to my experience of the Divine: I love how it can pick me up and carry me away, lift me up, reveal hidden truths, wrap itself around me, follow me about in the world. I like how the incense separates the space out into something sacred, the film of it rising in the air a visible sign of our worship. I like the ringing of the bell during elevation. I love the colour and the carefulness and the orchestration: I love everything about it.
What I don’t know is whether or not the liturgical traditions I love in the Anglican church (for example: calling down the Spirit after the words of Institution) will love me back. And whether or not she will object so strenuously to my own liturgical longings that she will reject me just for having them.
-stations of the Cross (it’s not the same without pictures on the walls of a church that you walk around to in order, without a marble floor to kneel on)
-Latin in the Mass; ‘Lord Have Mercy’ in Greek
-reservation of the Blessed Sacrament
-adoration of the Blessed Sacrament
-exposition of the Blessed Sacrament
-benediction of the Blessed Sacrament
-keeping vigil with the Blessed Sacrament at the Altar of repose on Holy Thursday through to Good Friday (I love just after the Mass of the Last Supper, 3:00 AM, 6:00 AM, and just before the Sacrament is removed from the Altar)
-veneration of the Cross on Good Friday
-frequent use of incense (I’ve never belonged to a church that actually does this; I just complained for years that we should be using more incense. I mean, at least cense the Gospel and the altar)
-holy water
-Eastward worship (also haven’t ever actually experienced this, but I have ‘theological’ ideas that make me like it)
-elaborate processions involving the use of a crucifix
-fancy vestments, especially the cassock, roman collar, amice, alb, stole, cincture, chasuble, cope / humeral veil; dalmatic; surplice; maniple; zucchetto (gloves would also be cool, but I’ve never encountered them)
-lots of kneeling (also haven’t belonged to a church where this is practiced)
-daily Mass
-random religious statues around the church
-praying for the dead
-indulgences (which is ironic because I don’t really like the theology behind them; nevertheless, I actually like doing them)
And many other things which I’m sure I’ll discover as I go along. I suppose the point of all this is to say that I am still very much worried I’ll never find a church to live in. I mean, I subsisted in the Roman church for years, so I don’t doubt I could do that elsewhere: I just wish there were somewhere I could be accepted while being fully myself. I worry that if I can’t find a liturgical home I’ll never be able to commit to a church, to her Sacraments, to her presence in my life. I worry that I will fall away, not have any church at all – that I will be all alone and find it even harder to get up the courage to take that necessary step of visibly belonging: receiving the Sacraments. I know how deeply receiving Eucharist binds me to a church, and I am not ready to be so bound. The thing is, how do I allow myself to so deeply love another church without knowing that she will accept me, when I am afraid of being thrown out as some sort of imposter? If someone knows of any way to make me believe I’ve been welcomed or received into a faith community, please tell me so that I can pursue it.
I love liturgy, and I guess you could say I like it ‘high.’ I like being able to feel it, to look at it and see it, to be carried away in beautiful symbolism, to taste it in the back of my throat, smell it and feel it on my skin. I’ve gone to evangelical and other mainstream Protestant churches, and I know exactly how much I need liturgy when I feel like it’s not there. Liturgy is intimately connected to my experience of the Divine: I love how it can pick me up and carry me away, lift me up, reveal hidden truths, wrap itself around me, follow me about in the world. I like how the incense separates the space out into something sacred, the film of it rising in the air a visible sign of our worship. I like the ringing of the bell during elevation. I love the colour and the carefulness and the orchestration: I love everything about it.
What I don’t know is whether or not the liturgical traditions I love in the Anglican church (for example: calling down the Spirit after the words of Institution) will love me back. And whether or not she will object so strenuously to my own liturgical longings that she will reject me just for having them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)