What may we call the old Mass?

I’m fond of referring to the “traditional Latin Mass” on this blog, a term which ruffles plumage, especially at more, ahem, mainstream Catholic Web sites and fora. Go to Catholic Answers Forum, for instance, and you’re likely to be accused of schismatic tendencies for using the term. After all, what, are you implying that the new Mass is totally alien to Tradition, or that it can’t be said in Latin? (Rawr!)

Well, no, the new Mass is not alien to Tradition, but neither is it strictly traditional (and yes, there is a difference: the former concerns doctrinal truth, the latter encompasses discipline and praxis). Tradition comes from the Latin root word tradere, “to hand down.” Therefore a thing is traditional to the extent that it was handed down to us by our ancestors. The Mass we have today was not what was handed down to us by our ancestors, excepting the most recent generation of them: that’s why we call it the Mass of Paul VI, and not the Missal of Paul VI. It’s an entirely different order of Mass, new enough that there are people within living memory who predate it. Give it a few generations and sure, a stronger case for traditionality can convincingly be made, but until then, we’re still living in an age of liturgical novelty. And while it can be said in Latin, it virtually nowhere is. So, when I talk about a “traditional Latin Mass,” people get it: no more explanation is needed. You have to be pretty clever to convince yourself otherwise.

The same people who would club people over the head with rolling pins for using the phrase “traditional Latin Mass” will often insist to high Heaven that the appropriate term is “the Extraordinary Form of the Mass.” That’s the term the Church uses! If you don’t use it, you’re not of one mind with the Church! (That’s not an exaggeration, by the way. I was literally told that once, in almost those exact words, and not just by some random Catholic busybody but by the superior of a religious order).

But easy now. Let’s look at Summorum Pontificum, the document issued by Pope Benedict XVI which liberated the use of the old Mass (emphasis mine):

Art 1. The Roman Missal promulgated by Pope Paul VI is the ordinary expression of the lex orandi (rule of prayer) of the Catholic Church of the Latin rite. The Roman Missal promulgated by Saint Pius V and revised by Blessed John XXIII is nonetheless to be considered an extraordinary expression of the same lex orandi of the Church and duly honoured for its venerable and ancient usage.

Erm, hmm. OK, what else?

It is therefore permitted to celebrate the Sacrifice of the Mass following the typical edition of the Roman Missal, which was promulgated by Blessed John XXIII in 1962 and never abrogated, as an extraordinary form of the Church’s Liturgy.

And…

§3 For those faithful or priests who request it, the pastor should allow celebrations in this extraordinary form also in special circumstances such as marriages, funerals or occasional celebrations, e.g. pilgrimages.

Then there’s the subsequent letter which Pope Benedict issued to the bishops of the world:

The last version of the Missale Romanum prior to the Council, which was published with the authority of Pope John XXIII in 1962 and used during the Council, will now be able to be used as a Forma extraordinaria of the liturgical celebration.  It is not appropriate to speak of these two versions of the Roman Missal as if they were “two Rites”.  Rather, it is a matter of a twofold use of one and the same rite.

As for the use of the 1962 Missal as a Forma extraordinaria of the liturgy of the Mass, I would like to draw attention to the fact that this Missal was never juridically abrogated and, consequently, in principle, was always permitted.

Those are literally the only instances in which the letters “extra” appear anywhere in either document.

So Pope Benedict said, “The old liturgy may be celebrated as an extraordinary form of the Mass,” and some folk promptly reply, “Get that? He says it’s to be called THE EXTRAORDINARY FORM OF THE MASS” and proceed to shower with anathemas anyone who doesn’t speak like they do, as if the primary purpose of Summorum Pontificum were to inaugurate a liturgical vocabulary rather than clarify the legal standing of the old Mass. “The Extraordinary Form” isn’t a perpetually legally binding title we’re obligated to use under pain of mortal sin: it’s a throwaway description of the juridical standing of the old form of the Mass relative to the new one (i.e., it is extraordinary — out of the ordinary; not the norm). And the best evidence for that is that Pope Benedict himself, in the same letter to the bishops, sometimes referred to it as the usus antiquior (the “more ancient use” of the Mass), and his successor has referred to it in official documentation as the Vetus Ordo (the “Old Order,” as opposed to the Novus Ordo, the “New Order,” of Mass).

Could Pope Benedict, or can Pope Francis, be accused of not being of one mind with the Church?

I have no real problem with calling it the “Extraordinary Form” and one may note that I often refer to the reformed Mass on this blog as the “ordinary form” (lower case letters!), but it’s silly to insist that a description used by the Pope emeritus on a few occasions was, in fact, a definition to which we must adhere exclusively as if with divine and catholic faith, and to use that description as a blunt object with which to bludgeon people into embarrassed silence. That’s not “thinking with the Church,” that’s just Phariseeism.

Distribution of Holy Communion at an Anglican Use Mass at Our Lady of the Atonement in San Antonio, TX — a form of the Mass which is apparently neither ordinary nor extraordinary.

Well, I suppose I do have one problem with calling it “The Extraordinary Form”: it’s no longer accurate. The traditional Latin Mass was, for a time, the sole extraordinary use of the Roman rite, but as of 2009, there’s also an Anglican Use Mass, which is considered part of the Roman rite’s patrimony and the celebrants of which are subject to their local Roman rite ordinaries. It, too, is certainly an extraordinary (out of the ordinary) form of the Roman rite Mass.

Actually, I guess I have two problems: if you’re not a Catholic dweeb like me, you won’t know what either “Ordinary” or “Extraordinary Form” mean, anyway, so the description is functionally useless and insisting on it is counterproductive. They are juridical terms far removed from the practical lives of ordinary Catholics: nearly everyone uses “Novus Ordo” for the reformed Mass and “Latin Mass” for the old one, and even-more-nearly everyone knows what is meant by those terms. Which is another good reason not to browbeat people who use such terms conversationally.

No Mass this Sunday; future plans

We will have no traditional Latin Mass this Sunday at St. John’s, but we will resume on Sunday, May 31, and afterward every Sunday through June and possibly into July. These will be at the usual time and place: 12 noon at St. John the Apostle Catholic Church in Bloomington, IN.

We are also planning our first Missa Cantata for the near future; currently, we’re aiming for Sunday, June 14. If you’re a competent singer familiar with chant and are willing to get involved, please let us know.

Finally, note that we will be taking up collections at Sunday Masses beginning on the June 7 Mass. These will be the usual Sunday collections in support of St. John’s, whose pastor has graciously made the parish available for the the celebration of the traditional Latin Mass, so I ask that all attendees show their appreciation appropriately!

Persecution and the traditional Latin Mass

Gnosticism was a family of heresies in the very early Church characterized, among other things, by a belief in the evilness of the material world, a consequent radical asceticism that far exceeded the boundaries of reasonable piety, and a dualistic theological system that pit an evil creating Old Testament demiurge against the loving New Testament God. In these respects, it was at best demented and at worst outright evil.

Gnosticism also had some distinctively mystery-cultic tendencies, with grueling and elaborate initiation rituals and a set of esoteric doctrines that were transmitted only gradually to people passing through the stages of initiation. People like to imagine that the mystery-cultic tendencies of Gnosticism were somehow intrinsic to it, so that if you take away the mystery-cult behavior, you are no longer dealing with Gnosticism. Hence we tend to bind up Gnosticism’s esoteric practices with our evaluation of the evil and demented doctrines they were intended to conceal, and we judge the practices as evil and demented, too; from there it’s a short leap to judging all such practices evil and demented, which nearly everyone today does. But this is, to be blunt, nonsense: all new religions are mystery cults, and early orthodox Christianity was no exception. The expulsion of the unbaptized from the Mass of the Faithful was so religiously observed that pagan Romans suspected the Christians of secretly sacrificing and eating infants (an accusation that was, ironically, plausible precisely because the Christians often adopted the deformed or unwanted infants whom the pagans left to die of exposure). The Alexandrian Church required its catechumens to study for a period of three years or more before being admitted to Baptism. And so on.

It’s only when a religion begins to succeed that it can shed its mystery-cultic tendencies. Those tendencies are a camouflage intended to shield the sect from the outrage that would ensure if its doctrines became widely known, at a time when its doctrines are deeply repugnant to the conventional wisdom. Once a religion reaches a critical mass in society, so that its doctrines and convictions are firmly within the Overton window, the camouflage is no longer needed: it can be safely discarded. Gnosticism never “went mainstream,” so to speak, so it never shed those mystery-cultic tendencies, which died with it. (But it’s mainstream today, and where are the elaborate initiation rituals conducted in secret?) Judging religious esotericism as uniformly bad is a conceit afforded only by modern prosperity and security: when men with swords are waiting around the corner to ambush you and feed you to the lions, it’s a reasonable precaution to take.

There’s no denying that modern society is growing increasingly hostile toward traditional Christian beliefs, practices, and institutions. Increasingly, basic Christian values are seen as repugnant to common sense, conventional wisdom, and the common good, and especially to the hypertrophied modern values of “freedom” and “equality.” This is a dynamic we’re going to be stuck with for a while: although it’s true that traditional, orthodox Christians have a vastly greater fertility rate than secular moderns, and while it’s true that the heritability of religiosity means our children will prove increasingly impervious to the world’s attempts to steal them away, it will probably be two centuries or more before we catch up to them, all else being equal, and we can be certain that they will make sure that not all else is equal. As they lose ground, they will come after us, as they always have: first with legal warfare and social ostracism, later with ghettos and quarantines, finally with knives and nerve gas. It’s important, therefore, that we coordinate this transition effectively. The Catholic Church, barring a massive religious restoration (of which there is no reason to think we will be the major beneficiary), is going to go back into the catacombs: that means we are going to need religious practices that will be well-suited to a Church of the catacombs.

It means we are going to need religious practices that are increasingly mysterious, not immediately intelligible, which say what needs to be said less in words than in actions and which lend themselves easily to the gradual initiation of converts over a period of lengthy instruction, and ideally one which has weathered the trials of past persecutions. Gosh… if only the Church had such a scheme of religious practice close at hand!

The gates of Hell can certainly prevail… against you

A recently-released report from Pew suggests that the de-Christianization of America is accelerating, with substantial declines in Christian self-identification in just seven years. Catholics are the biggest losers here, alongside mainline Protestants; irreligious and indifferentists are the big winners. Evangelical Protestants shrank in terms of proportion of representation in the population, even though they grew in absolute numbers.

Russell Moore suggests, correctly, that this is largely due to nominal Christians jettisoning a label they never really believed in strongly now that it is socially acceptable to do so. He also suggests, incorrectly, that this is a good thing. To wit:

Bible Belt near-Christianity is teetering. I say let it fall. For much of the twentieth century, especially in the South and parts of the Midwest, one had to at least claim to be a Christian to be “normal.” During the Cold War, that meant distinguishing oneself from atheistic Communism. At other times, it has meant seeing churchgoing as a way to be seen as a good parent, a good neighbor, and a regular person. It took courage to be an atheist, because explicit unbelief meant social marginalization. Rising rates of secularization, along with individualism, means that those days are over—and good riddance to them.

Again, this means some bad things for the American social compact. In the Bible Belt of, say, the 1940s, there were people who didn’t, for example, divorce, even though they wanted out of their marriages. In many of these cases, the motive wasn’t obedience to Jesus’ command on marriage but instead because they knew that a divorce would marginalize them from their communities. In that sense, their “traditional family values” were motivated by the same thing that motivated the religious leaders who rejected Jesus—fear of being “put out of the synagogue.” Now, to be sure, that kept some children in intact families. But that’s hardly revival.

Secularization in America means that we have fewer incognito atheists. Those who don’t believe can say so—and still find spouses, get jobs, volunteer with the PTA, and even run for office. This is good news because the kind of “Christianity” that is a means to an end—even if that end is “traditional family values”—is what J. Gresham Machen rightly called “liberalism,” and it is an entirely different religion from the apostolic faith handed down by Jesus Christ.

In other words, we once lived in a society that encouraged virtue and piety to such an extent that the unvirtuous and impious felt compelled to conform their lives to Christ, at least superficially. Now, the currents of modernity are sweeping the weak-willed, ignorant, and impressionable souls into apostasy and captivity to their own passions. I suppose this is a good thing if you’re more interested in being part of a small, pure Church than in the salvation of souls, but it’s definitely not a good thing if you’re one of those weak-willed, ignorant, impressionable souls. Is it a good thing that our social order makes it difficult for the weakest to live virtuous lives and so to have at least a shot at salvation?

Not that I’m deriding the value of having a small, pure Church, mind you, but ironically, people leaving will worsen that trend, rather than make it easier. It is harder even for you and me to practice virtuous lives when the surrounding society is debased to the point of madness, and when our co-religionists are carried off by the zeitgeist. It is harder for a young person to say no to a boyfriend or girlfriend who offers their body when “everyone else is doing it.” It is harder for troubled couple to persevere in a difficult marriage when the justice system promises easy, consequence-free divorce, or for a frightened rape victim to carry her innocent child to term when a shot of solution can make her worries disappear. It is harder for anyone to suffer for the sake of Christ, when Christ is ignored or derided by everyone around them. The body suffers when its members fail, and our body is now suffering terribly.

Moore concludes:

The future of Christianity is bright. I don’t know that from surveys and polls, but from a word Someone spoke one day back at Caesarea Philippi. The gates of hell haven’t gotten any stronger, and the Light that drives out the darkness is enough to counter every rival gospel, even those gospels that describe themselves as “none.”

Which is virtually identical to the argument to which Catholic liturgical traditionalists are subjected any time they suggest that things aren’t all rosy: take heart, you ignorant Pharisee! The gates of Hell can’t prevail against the Church!

Of course the gates of Hell cannot prevail against the Church: that much is simply divine revelation. But they can prevail against your mother and your father, against your brother and your sister, against your husband or wife and against your children — yes, even against you. That much, too, is divine revelation. The Church will win out in the end, and that may mean that everyone you love in the world will go to Hell. You have to be ready for that (Our Lord Himself told us as much when He said that whoever loves his family more than Him is unworthy of Him); but are you okay with it?

A brief walkthrough of the Mass: Lections, Responses, and Gospel

Following the Collect, the priest (who should already be at the epistle side of the altar) announces and begins to read the epistle. (Which should technically be called the “Lection” or “Lesson,” since, after all, it isn’t always one of the Epistles). Afterward, he moves to the center of the altar, prays a few preparatory prayers while the Gradual and Alleluia are chanted (at a High Mass; at a Low Mass, he would have already spoken them aloud before moving to the center), and then proceeds to the Gospel side of the altar to pray the Gospel; at a Solemn High Mass, the deacon will proceed to the left of the altar altogether, sometimes to a separate altar, and proclaim the Gospel facing to the left, as pictured below.westminster-cathedral-gospel-reading-tlm

It’s opportune to reflect here on the idea of “epistle” and “Gospel” sides of the altar. If you’re sitting in the pews and looking at the altar, the priest moves to the right-hand side to read the epistle: that’s the epistle side. He moves to the left-hand side to read the Gospel: that’s the Gospel side. Here, as always, there is symbolic significance: the altar symbolically (and often literally) faces east, toward Jerusalem, the direction from which Christ will return. If facing the altar is east, then moving to the right-hand side of the altar is moving south, which is to say, in the direction of those already converted, for whose benefit the epistles were written, and for whose instruction they are proclaimed. Recall here that, during the apostasy in Israel, it was Judaea, the southern half of the kingdom, where faithfulness to the Lord was alone preserved. Moving to the left-hand side of the altar, then, is moving north, which is to say, in the direction of those not yet converted: toward Galilee, the gateway to the gentile world, where the Gospel yet needs to be proclaimed. Note, too, that while the altar stand faces straight for the epistle, it is angled 45 degrees away from the altar for the Gospel, an explicitly outward-moving and evangelical gesture. (All of this is the customary interpretation, anyway, which may be specious: the epistle/Gospel side distinction is definitely not pre-Tridentine).

It’s not generally well known that the two forms of the Mass have an entirely different lectionary (that is to say, appointed Scriptural readings). As far as I know, there are virtually no occasions in which you would hear the same readings at a traditional Latin Mass as you would at the ordinary form Mass on the same day. Let’s compare the two lectionaries briefly:

  • Cycles of readings: The reformed lectionary has a three-year cycle of readings for Sundays and a two-year cycle of readings for weekdays. That means the readings for, say, the 13th Sunday of Ordinary Time in 2015 won’t be repeated until the 13th Sunday of Ordinary Time in 2018, while the readings for the Monday of the 13th Week of Ordinary Time in 2015 won’t be repeated until 2017). The traditional Latin Mass, however, has a one-year lectionary: readings are repeated year after year, with the usual exceptions for moving feasts.
  • Weekday propers: The reformed lectionary has proper readings for every occasion, from the Solemnity of Easter down to the ferial Tuesday of the Umpteenth Week of Ordinary Time. The traditional lectionary, on the other hand, has proper readings only for Sundays and feast days; on ferias (so-called “free days,” for which no special observance is appointed), either a votive Mass must be celebrated, or the Mass of the most recent Sunday re-celebrated.
  • Numbers of readings: Masses celebrated on Sundays and solemnities have three readings in the ordinary form, and possibly more on very special occasions (such as the Easter Vigil), and two on weekdays. In the traditional Latin Mass, only two Scripture readings are proclaimed, if you exclude the Last Gospel, which never changes. There are, however, a greater number of occasions at which additional readings are proclaimed: not only Easter Vigil, but also the so-called seasonal embertides, a sequence of Masses celebrated on a successive Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday of a given season, in which up to seven readings are done at the start of Mass, in addition to those proclaimed from the altar.
  • Range of readings: The reformed lectionary draws from a wider range of Scripture, with the first reading typically being from the Old Testament, the second from the epistles, and the third from the Gospels. The three-year cycle allows an emphasis on different Gospels in each of the years (each one of the three years corresponds either to Matthew, Mark, or Luke, with readings from the Gospel of John scattered evenly throughout). The traditional lectionary, on the other hand, includes far fewer readings from the Old Testament and from the Gospel of Mark (the other three being about equally represented in Sunday Masses and other major feasts).
  • Language: As is generally known, the readings for the ordinary form typically follow the vernacular. At traditional Latin Masses, the readings are now required to be in Latin only when sung (and then they may be repeated in the vernacular at the start of the homily); at low Masses, where no singing occurs, the priest may read the readings in the vernacular, at his discretion.
  • Readers: In the ordinary form, only the Gospel is required to be read by a cleric; the rest may be (and typically are, even at sparsely-attended daily Masses) read by laypersons from the ambo. In the traditional Latin Mass, all readings are done by clerics, though recent revisions allow a server to sing the epistle, if he is competent to do so; at Solemn High Masses, the subdeacon sings the epistle and the deacon the Gospel.
  • Reading location: In the ordinary form, the readings are typically done from the ambo. In the traditional Latin Mass, they’re read from the altar. That’s important; keep it in mind.

Most people take for granted that the reformed lectionary is better, because it includes more Scripture. That’s certainly a positive, but we mustn’t imagine there aren’t drawbacks to it, as well, or that the traditional lectionary has nothing to offer. Consider:

  • The shorter cycle of readings of the traditional lectionary means that critical themes are revisited year after year, allowing people to acquire a certain degree of comfort and familiarity with the readings and compelling them to meditate upon those themes in a rhythmic manner. The much longer cycle of readings in the ordinary form means a reading may be heard only once every three years (or less often, since a feast celebrated this year may be displaced by another one three years hence), far too long to allow any familiarity or comfort to develop. As such, every reading is effectively a novel experience.
  • In the traditional order of Mass, everything is on a one-year cycle, readings and propers alike (Collect, Offertory, Secret, etc.). The traditional breviary, too, is on a one-year cycle. Consequently, there is a certain thematic continuity which is permitted between readings and propers, not just in the Mass but in the Divine Office, as well. In the ordinary form, however, Sunday readings are on a three-year cycle, weekday readings are on a two-year cycle, and Mass propers (as well as the readings and propers for the breviary) are on a one-year cycle. This destroys the integration of Scripture not only with the celebration of the rest of Mass, but with the entire liturgical life of the Church: there is no longer a necessary or logical connection between the Mass’ Gospel reading and, say, the Offertory or Secret or Collect, much less the Office of Readings or Evening Prayer. The result is a modular, mix-and-match liturgy in which one component has little to do with the other.
  • The proclamation of Scripture by the priest and from the altar had a symbolic significance: namely, it established that the reading of Scripture is itself a form of prayer, not something done in addition to and apart from the prayers of the Mass, and that it is moreover an integral part of the offering of the Sacrifice. This is why the readings were also, until the 1950s or so, still done in Latin, and very often sung, just as much as the rest of the prayers. Think of Moses pleading with the Lord on Mt. Sinai to have mercy on his people, reminding Him of His own benevolence: that is the role which Scripture plays in the traditional Latin Mass; we remind God of his generosity and benevolence in order to plead with him to show us His mercy, as well. Moving the proclamation of Scripture away from the altar has destroyed that symbolically significant relationship of the reading of Scripture as a prayerful part of the offering of the sacrifice, as has allowing laymen (who do not offer the sacrifice directly) to assist in reading. This latter change has had the benefit of more fully demonstrating that the Mass is a corporate act of worship, not merely an act of the priest, but it’s not clear that what was gained is worth more than what was lost.
  • The fact that the reading of Scripture is no longer integrated with the other elements of the Mass means that the readings no longer speak for themselves thematically, and the fact that there is a very long cycle of readings means each reading is basically novel. This means, if the readings are to have any value at all, they must be “unpacked” by the priest in the homily: hence the modern homiletics problem, in which priests speak at length about dry historical or exegetical issues of little interest to the laity, rather than expounding on the teachings of the Church, exhorting imitation of the lives of the saints, and so on. That problem, by the way, isn’t the priests’ faults: homilies explaining the Scripture readings are explicitly recommended (maybe even commanded) by the General Instructions of the Roman Missal, para. 65.
  • More generally, the fact that the readings are done mostly by the people, facing them, in their native language, away from the action of the altar, tends to reinforce the tedious, self-referential anthropocentrism that has plagued postconciliar liturgy. Hence the old complaint: “What’s the point of reading Scripture at Mass in Latin? No one can understand it.” Get it? Cause it’s all about you.

There is an additional problem with the reformed lectionary, which I will have to handle in a separate post: namely, what it leaves out, compared to what the old lectionary included.

How not to sing polyphony

A warning: headphones recommended, especially for readers with dogs who are prone to howl at passing ambulances. This is the Sistine Chapel Choir’s rendition of the Kyrie from the Missa Papae Marcelli, arguably the finest composition of sacred music in history, by the famed Renaissance composer Giovanni Pierluigi de Palestrina.

This is dreadful, ghastly stuff, and doubly tragic given that it was produced by the group which ought to be a shining jewel of sacred music for the entire world, but which instead has merited the nickname “The Sistine Screamers.” Gone from the performance are the light, plaintive, longing swells of Palestrina’s angelic touch, replaced instead by the kind of ghoulish wailing one would expect of treating every composition as a Puccini piece to be plodded and bludgeoned through ham-handedly. The expressions of the assembled prelates really tell the story: boredom, distraction, irritation, and fidgeting; not a single one among them has that look of rapt transfiguration you would see at a more appropriate performance of the piece. Once again, I find myself pitying poor Msgr. Guido Marini, the long-suffering Papal master of ceremonies, seen to the Pope’s left beginning at around the 1:45 mark. He looks traumatized, like a man praying his way through a hurricane.

A far superior rendition is offered by the Oxford Camerata: