Hearing Travis read that letter to household, I realized that household will soon become very different. The near-traditionalist environment I walked into has passed away. The last founder, my best friend, will be leaving at the end of the summer. The torch is being passed on to another generation, and while I am confident we will retain our Eucharistic center, I am acutely aware that the personality of household will change. Travis is now one of two intents who play the guitar, a phenomenon which household has never experienced. So far, in its three years of existence, household has never even touched the genre of Praise and Worship. It has been content to worship God in hymnody and chant, a beautiful witness to the sacredness we uphold in the liturgy – but it is not unreasonable to believe that will change – possibly even this semester. The chant and hymnody is not going to disappear, but the time seems ripe for Praise and Worship.

In the past, I would have done everything I could to keep this from happening. Especially since entering the Sacred Music Program here, my youthful delight in Praise and Worship music has turned sour in my stomach. Much of what I once thought sweet and life giving about the genre now appears empty, self-inflating, and deceptive. The emotions I once thought so pious, I have learned to grow suspect of – and not without cause. There is something about emotionally driven melodies and meters which make it so easy to sing at the top of your lungs, to wave your hands about with utter abandon – and to sing whatever lyrics the leader leads you in. And that, right there, is where my difficulty remains. So many Praise and Worship songs have frighteningly bold, inappropriate, and problematic lyrics.

In the last semester, I have begun to see this distinction more and more within the genre itself – but in most cases, the good is sung with the bad without regard for what words are being sung, what sentiment is being expressed, what words we are offering to God before his faithful ones. Rather, Praise and Worship music is often chosen out of the convenience of chord progression, melodic variation, and general appeal. Very few musicians seem to obsess about the words they are actually praying! And this is the tragedy of the genre – an unavoidable one, it seems at times. How can we possibly sift through such a vast body of music, written in vast majority by Protestants, and agree upon what selections aptly express the truths of our Faith in an appropriate manner? Surely this is an impossible task! But is it not an entirely necessary one for us to undertake? For the sake of safeguarding our Faith from emotionalism, egotism, and error, is it not our responsibility to make this a priority, especially those of us who are in the position of administering this sort of music?

These were the thoughts that ran through my head as I sat in the Festival of Praise tonight. It felt awkward being back there in the Field house during the event I so openly loathed for the last two years. One of my fellow RAs was equally surprised to see me heading into the FOP. She said something like, “John, I thought you didn’t agree with the whole FOP thing.” I shuddered and then said something stupid like, “I’m trying to trust more.” That’s not exactly what was going on, but her statement made me acutely aware that it was my pride which was making me this awkward. After familiarizing myself with the Psalms over the last semester, I couldn’t help see some fundamental problems with my cold renunciation of “charismatic” (or more appropriately, “expressive”) praise of God. “The lifting up of my hands” is pretty convincing, and the clamor of harps and cymbals sounds strikingly similar to the strings and percussion which are characteristic of a FOP. Not that the Psalms were necessarily outlining the structure of a FOP, but in general, they didn’t seem as opposed to one another as I initially envisioned them to be. And so, in an attempt to “be open,” I walked into the FOP, with my household brother Max Kuhlman. It was good to have him there; very good as it turned out.

About half way through the night, as I was pondering these thoughts and praising God in whatever way I could, the elderly man to my left reached out and touched my shoulder. Initially, I was caught off guard. I shot him a glance. He had his eyes closed and he was singing softly. I closed my eyes again and prayed for the grace to get through this situation. In the past, I would have shaken him off me, but this time I tried to believe this man’s intentions were wholesome. Whatever he thought he was doing, he was trying to follow the dictates of the Holy Spirit, and that was enough for me. Ten minutes elapsed and then the man moved his hand over my chest, and rested it over my heart. Now things were getting interesting. I thought, he’s either a molester, or he’s praying for me with an intensity that I don’t understand. And so I ran with the second, trying to trust that this was still a genuine act of love toward me, but as the minutes ran by, I found it harder to breath. Every breath I breathed in, I could feel his hand there, and an unsettling feeling began to grow. What was he doing? What exactly was going on here? How long was he going to keep his hand there? Would he move it somewhere else?

And then it hit me: I was asking the wrong questions. I was so concerned with understanding the authenticity of the situation that I had become blinded to the opportunity he was affording me. I took another breath and felt his hand still there against my chest. Whose hand was this? Most likely, it was the hand of my elder brother in Christ, a man who was interceding for a brother whom he had never met, a brother whose struggle he had no knowledge of, a brother who had unknowingly been united to him many a time in the sacramental embrace of the Eucharist. I paused in amazement. He was Christ to me, and this expression of love pierced the heart which he was holding in his hand. In gratitude, I prayed for him. I prayed for his genuine devotion to Christ, that he might either remain my elder brother or at least die my brother in Christ. I wanted to be with him in heaven.

The man let go. My heart rate settled down and I stood up. After some additional time of Praise and Worship, Aaron, the MC for the night encouraged that we turn and intercede for one another by laying hands on the person next to us. A few seconds later, like clockwork, the hand was back on my shoulder. It journeyed to my back soon after. I thought of Max, but I dared not open my eyes, lest I make eye contact with this other man whom I was now once more incredibly suspicious of. I could tell Max was observing what was going on, but I refused to shake him off. I prayed for the strength to endure whatever was happening. Then the man motioned me toward him and, making eye contact for the first time, I leaned in toward him. “I have a word for you,” he told me. He broke apart my folded hands, and spoke what I can only assume were words of prophecy over me. His words immediately brought me back to my Confirmation, where the bishops own words rang true in what this man was speaking to me. When he had finished I embraced him and thanked him. His reply was simply, “Praise God!”

My suspicion of all of this runs deep. Ask anyone I know, and they’ll tell you. But as slow as I was to give his words any credit, I could not dismiss them. There was truth in what he spoke, and I knew this not by some charismatic gift, but by Faith. As his brother in Christ, I knew that his prophetic words of mighty deeds and marvels beyond my imagining were indeed true – I had already seen them come to pass in times of faithfulness to Christ, especially in the life of my household – and his words greatly consoled me. They reminded me that the difficulties I experience in my life now are nowhere near as powerful as the grace Christ affords me and that this grace is truly capable of changing my life forever. What a gift to receive; what consolation in the truth!

And so the FOP ended, and I never actually had the opportunity to meet this man. I suppose the whole thing could be much less than I made it out to be; in fact it probably is. But I cannot help but wonder if this whole time, my pride and my sinfulness haven’t been blinding me to the beauty of these encounters. Is it so wrong to think that in a Festival of Praise, people might actually be praising God? Was I so naiveté to believe that all of this was a farce? Surely, there is something good at the heart of the FOP. And sure, maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, and maybe it’s mistreated by a lot of people. But there is something worthwhile about going to a FOP. I’m growing more and more convinced of this. And while I may not have all the answers – and although the questions continue to draw on my constant attention – I must admit this one thing: one can assuredly encounter God at a Festival of Praise.

John Paul II hoped to reconcile this age old problem by providing insights as to how the unitive end of marital intercourse could be itself considered something holy. His ideas are expressed in terms of self-gift; of the “pouring out” of oneself into another in that physical embrace, the experience of which is both pleasurable and holy. This tends to be equally problematic in practical application because of the inherently selfish nature of the sexual urge after the fall. Augustine knew this all too well, having habituated himself in sexual activity prior to his conversion, not as a gift of self, but as a more natural way of satisfying his desire.

It seems to me there is wisdom in acknowledging that Augustine and Gregory weren’t ignorant in their approach to sexuality. It’s not as if John Paul II has blown them out of the water. Their concern is not detached from the human experience. Perhaps their insights, combined with JPII’s own more modern insights are not mutually exclusive. Instead of trying to liberate the marital union from scrutiny, perhaps modern man needs to inquire as to his own intention in the bedroom. Do I seek to love my wife in this act, or am I looking for something to satisfy a craving that I have formed through lustful thoughts and acts? I don’t think this is an unfair question, but I do admit it is a difficult one. It is a question which cannot be answered by some lofty ideal but by the honesty which characterizes Christian discipleship.

What makes it so absolutely fascinating is the conflict in Marcus Aurelius’ reflections and reminders. His frustration is readily apparent to the reader and is born out rather plainly in every part of the work. One of the best examples is when he writes, “Are you ever going to achieve goodness? Ever going to be simple, whole, and naked, - as plain to see as the body that contains you? Ever be fulfilled, ever stop desiring…?” The whole work betrays a sense of failure – a sense that even Marcus Aurelius, who some claim to be the “philosopher king” which Plato called for, failed to live well according to his philosophy.

For me, the most striking line of the entire text was one of the shortest meditations in the work, but its profundity captivates me. He writes, “To stop talking about what the good man is like, and just be one.” Indeed, there have been numerous times I have I felt a similar frustration about Christian life. It is one thing to have life figured out; it is quite another to live it accordingly well. This led me to reflect on the primary difference between the expectations I place on myself as a Christian and Marcus Aurelius’ own personal expectations as a Stoic.

It was actually a very frightening comparison at first. As I began to realize how much alike my Thomistic Christian worldview was to Stoicism, and I began to grow more and more sympathetic to him. The difference, which I began to sense in our second class discussion was not clearly apparent to me until after further discussion with my friend and fellow classmate, Michael Kujan. The difference, among others (like his body-soul dualism), is primarily found in our understanding of the Logos. For Marcus Aurelius, the Logos, as the principle of Nature, pervaded everyone and everything. Similarly, according to Thomistic philosophy, everything that has being participates in God who is Being. However, unlike what one experiences in Stoicism, we are not part of the Logos by merit of our participation in being. Marcus Aurelius believed himself to be a part of the Logos because he was part of Nature, and therefore necessary to Nature. As Christians, we do not believe we are in any way necessary to God, but that our participation in Being is itself a privilege and that our final union with Being in eternity – the source of our salvation – comes from outside of us. This is not the case for Marcus Aurelius who comments, “I have it in me to keep my soul from evil, lust and all confusion” (p. 106, emphasis added), and who later more explicitly states, “Salvation: to see each thing for what it is – its nature and purpose.”

For Marcus Aurelius, salvation was entirely dependent upon his own cooperation with nature, a cooperation which he assumed he was entirely capable of achieving by himself. After this final observation, it is little wonder to me why he felt such frustration! As a Christian, I know that by myself, I am incapable of my own salvation– of attaining the way of perfection – and that admittance seems, to me at least, a crucial step on the way to becoming the “just man” which was always just beyond his reach.

The line that struck me the most was from Romans: “When I am close to the sword I am close to God, and when I am surrounded by the lions I am surrounded by God. But it is only in the name of Jesus Christ, and for the sake of sharing His sufferings, that I could face all this.” For Ignatius, not unlike Polycarp, martyrdom was a joyful witness of God’s love which only made sense because of Christ’s cross which had gone before him. Just as the cross so greatly offends unbelievers, so this zeal for suffering is madness to a man without Christ. But as Ignatius himself says, if God is inside him, he will “understand my longings.” This led me to reflect about my own disposition toward suffering. I certainly don’t take pleasure in discipline as the Magnesians did, nor have chains ever been spiritual pearls to me. This realization was a profoundly challenging one indeed – could suffering ever be a joy for me?

This fundamental theme of suffering is born out in each of Ignatius’ epistles, but especially in Romans, where he gives it a sacrificial context. He achieves this most poignantly when he speaks of his martyrdom as an allusion to the Eucharistic liturgy where he sees the altar prepared for him, and asks to be ground fine and into the purest bread for Christ.

This likening to the Paschal sacrifice betrays Ignatius’ profound belief of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. It also explains why he so ardently desires the Eucharist even as he speaks of his death: “I am fain for the bread of God… and for my drink I crave that Blood of which is love imperishable.” These, his “pangs of birth” into eternal life, also explain well why he references the Eucharist as immortality in his letter to the Ephesians. It also sheds further light upon his appeals for unity, for he says in his letter to the Trallians that approaching the sacrifice requires unity, and in his letter to the Philadelphians that there is but one single altar of sacrifice.

This one sacrifice, the sacrifice of Calvary re-presented through the Eucharist, is the very sacrifice to which Ignatius wishes to unite his own suffering. It is the sacrifice which has forever and for all time, given man the opportunity of salvation. This is also why Ignatius differentiates Christ as a greater high priest than those of old and entreats the faithful to abandon their Jewish customs and embrace their sufferings. It is only through Christianity – through the cross of Christ – that the Jewish religion can even make sense any more. The immensity of this truth and the devotion to Christ’s cross shines through Ignatius’ writings like a beacon of tremendous hope and joy.

I was most struck by Clement’s assimilation of the Pentateuch into his own personal heritage even as a gentile. Whenever he cited Scripture in his letter, it came across as a deeply personal utterance in much the same way one might talk about his lineage. He references the Church in Rome as God’s “chosen people,” both Greeks and Jews alike. He cites the promise of God to Abram as a promise which, through Christ, has been fulfilled. He understands that in Christ, the chosen people, the descendants of Abraham, have truly become as numerous as the stars in the heavens – that the Good News has gifted all nations with the opportunity to become part of this heritage of Abraham.

Another striking aspect of Clement’s letter was the way in which he paralleled disobedience with self-assertion and excessive talk. His citation of Scripture in which he asks, “Does a man think himself righteous for his much speaking?” was a deeply personal question for me as was his Scriptural command to “never be a prodigal of words.” Righteous talk, for Clement – and for the Early Church, seems to have been a real occasion of pride and a breeding ground for disobedience. Historically speaking, I can see why that would be the case. The bishops and clergy were the ones entrusted with the tradition of Faith. The faithful, especially at such an early time in the Church, were not catechized anywhere near the extent we are today. For any man to speak of his faith as if he were an authority over it would very likely lead to false conclusions and schisms, as was the case at the time when Clement wrote his epistle. Despite our greater breadth and depth of understanding today, I can’t help but see the lingering relevance of Clement’s words in the Church today. Humility – a lack of self-assertion and authority – is still very important in order to avoid fracture in the Church – a phenomenon we are all too familiar with. Our submission to the Magisterium today reflects well the early Christian’s submission to their bishops.

What struck me most about the Didache, and indeed its relationship to Clement’s Epistle, was the deep respect and primitive formality which had already begun to form around the Eucharistic liturgy. A rather long part of the Didache is devoted to the Eucharistic prayer, and additional time is spent talking specifically about the Eucharist at Sunday Worship. It is very reassuring to know how revered the Eucharist was from the beginning, and how much the Didache discredits those who might claim the Eucharist to be a much later fabrication of the Church.

Weakness, shame and sin are there
And darkness does abound
But where these are and where they hide
My Lord, the Light, is found

A new improved John Brodeur
He’s the one that’s always been
Beyond the mask, behind the front
Where vice has fed within

Nothing there I bear as pride
Discovered, it destroys
But when I die to who I am
My Savior speaks his joys

A new improved John Brodeur
Truly nothing new at all
A broken man with too few plans
Whose heart awaits a call

In bitter days of loneliness
Confusion, lies I trust
But He is there and by His grace
My past is turned to dust

A new improved John Brodeur
A man disgraced, eschewed
Whose noble plans slipped through his hands
And inner storms imbued

A wasteland filled with blackest filth
A sinner gone astray
But He, the Father, greets me there
And with Him grants me stay

A new improved John Brodeur
Not at all the man you thought
A man unworthy – one unclean
Unlearned, green, untaught

How much I loved my straw tin man
The hero, savior, saint
But straw and tin can’t change what is
The soul my sins can taint

A new improved John Brodeur
In the end it’s by God’s grace
The Spirit of the Living God
Affirms his dwelling place

And therein lies the secret truth
Of newness, life, and love
To be a new creation here
Demands the things above

A new improved John Brodeur
Clearly not my own design
The manliness I sense within
Betrays a life Divine

A new improved John Brodeur
In my weakness He is there
Unchanging God, He changes me
And in His life I share

The Mass, as my father always said, is first and foremost a SACRIFICE. It is the re-presentation of Christ’s death on the cross - the moment when he atoned for our sins and won us our salvation. This is no small thing, nor something we ought to take lightly. In the Old Testament, there were many sacrifices offered to God. From the moment when God revealed himself to Abraham, he began preparing mankind with types and figures of how a sacrifice ought to be offered. It is important to see how far back the rituals, prayers, vestments, priestly function, and solemnity of the Mass today reach back. This wasn’t just the invention of the apostles or some councils. This is the work of the Holy Spirit which - from the beginning - has been guiding us and teaching us how God desires to be worshiped. I think about that sometimes and am held in awe of how privileged we are to participate in and see the fruits of such an ancient heritage!

So basically, the first point I am trying to make is that when dealing with the Mass, it can’t just be about personal preference or what’s easy for us. It has to be about what is most pleasing to God. That of course, begs the question: what is most pleasing to God? This is a question easily answered by any good Catholic. What is most pleasing to God is man’s salvation, man’s love for God, and our being in communion with Him. As much as God is Love, he desires to be loved by us. If our love is what pleases God the most, what could the Eucharistic sacrifice be if not the definite act of love and an invitation to draw into Christ’s sacred mysteries? Is it not our greatest opportunity to be caught up in the love of God? The mystery of God’s love for us is integral to what happens at every Mass - despite our ability to sense it with our physical senses. Needless to say, we can only perceive this great act of love with eyes of Faith. This is why we use so many signs, symbols, and sacramentals in a church. The more sacred and solemn an atmosphere we foster at Mass, the easier it is for us to see and believe with the eyes of Faith. It is true that without that solemnity, the extraordinary nature of what is happening remains unchanged - but our awareness of it and our devotion to it can be inhibited or enhanced by the environment that surrounds us. No doubt, it is our responsibility as ministers at Mass to create an environment that aids this awareness and devotion. It is our job to aid the parishioners in their “active participation” - not simply in their outward participation, but, more importantly, to help them inwardly prepare and commune with the Lord as they receive him, and to create an atmosphere in which love is easily communicated.

As to the nature of what that environment is, I would propose two images. Each of them is a supernatural reality of what is happening in the Eucharistic presence of Christ at Mass. First is the image of Jesus’ crucifixion - the sacrifice. As Catholics we believe that in a supernatural way, we are present at Calvary during every Mass. WE ARE AT THE VERY FOOT OF THE CROSS AS CHRIST IS LIFTED UP! This is the most solemn moment of mankind’s history! It is the moment when we witness Christ’s death on the cross - we witness Christ’s battered body, drained of its blood, mutilated, crowned with thorns and pierced with nails. We truly and actually witness this at every Mass. Whether we are even aware it is happening is another thing - but if we are to help others reflect on this reality, the atmosphere which we must foster is one of solemnity and silence. It has been the tradition of the Church to hold Gregorian Chant in high esteem for this reason - no other music so successfully leads people to the quiet which is required for silent contemplation. In that quiet - what JPII referred to as “Eucharistic amazement” - we can sense that something deeply profound is taking place. Not only does it stand in direct contradiction with our noisy culture, but it eliminates distraction for those who choose to pray and commune with unveiled hearts. This is also why Latin Gregorian chant is especially useful during communion. It allows the parishioners to pray without having to filter out a song which might be distracting them from prayer. The lyrics do not distract them - they add to the solemnity of the moment.

The second image is perhaps considered to be a more “modern” one although the Church has always cherished it. The second image is the Wedding Feast of the Lamb. Many theological studies and liturgical observations correctly interpret the Mass as a meal - a feast. But what is often neglected about this definition is the context of the bride and bridegroom. This is no ordinary meal. This is not even an ordinary feast. THIS IS A WEDDING FEAST BETWEEN CHRIST AND HIS BRIDE, THE CHURCH! Just as much as it is a banquet in which we are spiritually nourished, there is so much more going on here. We, as Christ’s Church, assemble as one body, Christ’s own body! We are joined to Christ like a bride and a bridegroom as they consummate their marriage! That type of atmosphere is completely out of place when set to loud music, monotonous melodies, or simple “church” music. This is the moment of all moments - the night of all nights if you will - when Christ gives himself completely to his bride. Indeed, we are more physically united to Christ in the Eucharist than we will ever be with anyone else on this earth. The profound aspect of this deeply moving truth is manifest in the whispers of a lover - it is too wonderful a moment for the same old, same old. This is a moment to end all others, and its solemnity, when fully realized, naturally draws us to silence.

In each of these supernatural elements of the Mass, there is an element of God’s mystery. How many times have we heard “as we enter these sacred mysteries” and glazed over them as if they were the announcements at a baseball game (with Jesus at our side of course…) We miss what’s going on today because many times, Mass is just another place where we need to be entertained. We need to keep people interested. We need to keep them participating. But at what cost? That we no longer have a sense of how sacred these events are?

Almost on a daily basis, I talk to parishioners who are saying the same things. The idea that the parishioners don’t want any of this seems extremely contrary to me. I still have people tell me to this day how much they enjoyed the more traditional song choices we made two summers ago and how they wish we did more of it nowadays. Yes, they said they even appreciate the Latin. As a general rule, I have found that if a fellow parishioner is serious about engaging our Lord in the Mass, they’re looking for this kind of music - music that is solemn, sacred, and prone to silence. And as the Church has always observed, the importance and integrity of our traditions is first understood by the general consensus of the faithful.

In today’s first reading, we encounter the people of Israel as they renew their covenant with the Lord upon receiving His ordinances from Moses. Twice the Israelites respond that they will heed His words, yet, as we know merely six chapters later, the Israelites will build themselves a golden calf in the absence of Moses on Mount Sinai. This, in many respects, reflects the very action of Adam and Eve in seeking to create and control God’s power by their own hand. Just as Adam and Eve sought to achieve this in themselves by making themselves like gods, the Hebrew people set about creating a god of gold. It is phenomenon all too familiar to each one of us; we have all experienced our inclination to displace God with either our own selves or with something or someone else in our lives.

Whether it be out of pride or a mistrust of God, this idolatry is not exclusive to the Books of Exodus or Genesis. It is a theme that pervades all of scripture – but there is a reason why the Old Testament is referred to as Salvation History. From the very first moments after the Fall, the Lord promised us a Redeemer, and beginning with Abraham, he instituted a covenant with the Hebrew people, a covenant which would prepare the world for a New and lasting Covenant in which one final sacrifice would atone for the sins of all the world.

We see such preparation at work in the sacrificial rite which takes place in the first reading. When understood in light of the New Covenant, the ritual is astonishingly significant: An altar is stretched over twelve pillars symbolizing the twelve tribes of Israel. In the New Covenant, the altars which represent Christ’s cross stretch the entire globe. Just as Christ’s arms were outstretched over Hebrews and Romans alike, the altars of the New Covenant are stretched over every continent and every civilization. Young bulls are drained of their blood and offered as a peace offering to the Lord. In the Eucharist, this is re-presented on the altar by the separate species of bread and wine. Jesus Christ, as he hung upon the cross, was himself drained of every last drop of blood, but as one definitive victim, one offering which would make lasting peace between God and man. As Paul says in the second reading:

For if the blood of goats and bulls
…can sanctify those who are defiled
…how much more will the blood of Christ,
who through the eternal Spirit offered himself unblemished to God,
cleanse our consciences from dead works
to worship the living God.

And notice that Paul recognizes Christ not only as victim, but as the one who offers himself; Christ freely entered into the sanctuary, freely was he lifted up, and freely did he shed his blood. In this way, he is both priest and victim – a shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep, the one mediator of the New Covenant and fulfillment of the old.

In the Old Testament ritual, half the bulls’ blood is splashed on the altar and half on the people, but in the New Covenant, the blood comes down from the altar and is wholly consumed by the people. No longer is this blood the kind which the Jews were forbidden to drink of. It is no mere bull’s blood. It is the blood of a divine person, the worthy victim; a blood which does not bring condemnation, but life. It is not sprinkled; it is consumed. And it is consumed entirely by each person, so that whoever drinks the blood of Christ communes with him in such a way that he inherits eternal life; he experiences the Divine Person of Jesus Christ dwelling both physically and spiritually within him.

It is not surprising, then, that Christ commands us to eat his flesh and drink his blood in the Gospels. “Take,” he says, “This is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed for many.” This command is not a harsh dictate. It is not a simple task, nor is it one to simply sit and wonder at. It is an invitation to be one of the “many,” to commune with a God we will never be able to commune with worthily. Nothing on our part can ever merit this New Covenant; it is only by the merits of the one who is inviting us that we dare approach. To drink the blood of Christ is to trust him completely. It is to be humbled before him. It is to give back what little love we can by responding to his command. When we partake in the Eucharist, we love God in exactly the way the people of Israel ultimately failed to, and in return we receive the supernatural grace to fight against pride and mistrust. Truly the Eucharist is our food in that it provides us with the humility and trust we need to be faithful to our own exclamations of obedience to God.

May we all, like the psalmist, faithfully take up this cup of salvation and call upon the name of the Lord, and may we, in the presence of all God’s people – our brothers and sisters in the New Covenant – witness to the love of God by fulfilling our vows to the Lord.

It has been a devastating thing to look back upon all my past reflections and wonder how I could have ever written any of it. It has also been devastating to realize how much time and opportunity I have wasted in my spiritual life since I began my freshman year at Franciscan University in the fall of 2008. This past year, my experience has taught me the danger of replacing my relationship to almighty God with rubrics and guidelines about spirituality. This is not to say I have found such rubrics and guidelines to be useless. Quite the contrary! But to the extent that I have made them an end to themselves, my spiritual life has become more and more inconsistent and less and less personal.

And what a loss it is when you allow your spiritual life to be stunted! What a disaster when you can look back and know for certain you have lost something precious! But that is what sin does; that is the doom of an undisciplined life. If I ever had any doubts before, I no longer do. I praise and thank God for this realization at last – I praise him for his faithfulness and the grace of resolution. He is truly the model of love – faithful in spite of my infidelity; patient in spite of my impatience; caring in spite of my neglect! What a wonderful God we serve! What a Love He has for us – a love that endures forever!

Starting today, I have resolved to spend more time here; to make sure I write a reflection at least once a week. This is not a new resolution. It is one I have made more than a few times since I began this blog, but I renew it with faith and trust that God can work even in my failure, and that even if I should fail to live up to such a resolution during times of restlessness, He will provide me the graces I need to acknowledge my humanity and strive to do better in the future.

It is my prayer today that the Lord might bless this work and all the people who witness it. May their lives be transformed just as mine is being transformed even now in a never-ending conversion to the limitless ocean of God’s mercy and love.

Amen.

“The hesitation and mysteriousness [of Gregorian Chant] happily express in church music the modesty and humility of the worshipper.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)

It would be a great detriment if the students at Franciscan University began to think of Gregorian chant as something second-rate or impoverished. In fact, the Church suggests that it is very much the other way around:

“Gregorian chant the Church most warmly recommends, the polyphonic style she expressly praises, and the modern she at least tolerates.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)

Our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI, in a speech given at the Sistine Chapel during June 2006, spoke of Gregorian chant as the form of music after which all other Sacred Music must be modeled after: “An authentic updating of sacred music can take place only in the lineage of the great tradition of the past, of Gregorian chant and sacred polyphony.” The Church has good reason to speak like this, and we have good reason to provide music with equivalent priority. A simple melody allows a cantor to interpret the words being chanted in a way that is moving and spiritually uplifting. Some of the most sacred moments I have experienced are moments of great simplicity and profound beauty:

“The most simple artistic means produce the deepest and most lasting impression, when skillfully employed. The first requisite is that the sentiments contained in the text be given true expression, and be not obscured by obtrusive external forms.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)

Many times, the chants I experience at Mass become “coated” with harmonies as a means of sprucing them up. This is so unnecessary! The beauty of a single voice during the Responsorial Psalm is something most of us in the congregation can only long for. One voice which actively conveys the sentiments of the Psalm is worth more than all the harmony in the world. Most often, the myriad of singers who join in during the verses of a Psalm make it sound muddy and put more emphasis on the music than on the text. The same is true of the Responses (such as the Sanctus and Agnus Dei) and our beloved Latin hymns (such as Tantum Ergo and Adoro Te Devote). St. Jerome himself cautioned:

“Let the servant of God sing in such a manner that the words of the text rather than the voice of the singer cause delight, and that Saul’s evil spirit may depart from those who are under its dominion, and may not enter into those who make a theatre out of the house of the Lord.”

There is absolutely no need to introduce harmony in these situations. It ends up becoming a distraction, and it furthermore slows down the melody to such a degree that it is almost impossible to retain the sentiments of the original text. It is true that the congregation harmonizes at times even without the initiative of the choir, but it is also worth observing how the congregation learns by example. If the leads were better instructed on how to sing the chants melodically and in a natural, timely way (without the dramatic pauses we so often experience between phrases), it is almost certain that the congregation would eventually follow suit. The greatest fruit we have to gain by all this is a clearer focus on the words being sung. It is the words, after all, that make the music so important. We do not sing for the sake of the music. We sing so that the words of scripture have a deeper and more lasting effect:

“In liturgical music, based as it is on biblical faith, there is, therefore, a clear dominance of the Word; this music is a higher form of proclamation. Thus the relation of liturgical music to logos means, first of all, simply its relation to words. That is why singing in the liturgy has priority over instrumental music, though it does not in any way exclude it. It goes without saying that the biblical and liturgical texts are the normative words from which liturgical music has to take its bearings.”

(The Spirit of Liturgy, p. 149)

Another common frustration we face in the congregation is song selections which do not have scriptural foundations or seasonal pertinence. So many of the songs sung at Franciscan have beautiful and inspiring lyrics which lack actual substance. There are very few hymns I encounter that are scriptural. Many have scriptural motifs for sure, but very few are truly scriptural. Even fewer are those songs which celebrate the liturgical season. There is very little difference between the songs we sang during Lent and those we are singing during Easter. Most of them are the same. This is such a tragedy because there are so many seasonal hymns which the Church offers us in order to more fully enter in to the mysteries at hand. Instead, it often feels like we are at the mercy of the lead singer’s favorite songs or personal devotions. Most of these songs seem awfully shallow, especially given their modern character.

This touches the primary concern I have with the music at Franciscan Masses: so very much of it is of the “praise and worship” genre. Don’t get me wrong. I actually enjoy praise and worship. However, there is a time and place for everything, and from all that I’ve observed and experienced, a Sacred Liturgy is not the time nor is it the place for the genre of praise and worship:

“All musical forms, whether for the organ or for voices, which are of a frivolous or sensuous character, should be excluded from the Church”

(The Council of Trent, Seas. XXII)

I realize I tread on a lot of personal ground by asserting this, but I’d ask for you to be patient with me as I express this concern. When I go to Mass, I am entering into the most sacred exercise of the Church. I am encountering Calvary through the Eucharist. Albeit that I have much cause for joy and praise because of what God has done upon the cross, it has always seemed inappropriate to hear the drums beating and the bass and electric guitars strumming away. At Mass, I am experiencing the moment of Christ’s death, and I simply cannot justify this type of music being played at the foot of the cross as Christ struggles for breath. Surely, there is a real need for solemnity and reservation on our part on the occasion of such a phenomenon. The more and more I understand the Real Presence, the more convicted of this I become, and the more conflict this kind of music seems to bring into the liturgy:

“Reserve and humble restraint befits the house of God. Sentimental and effeminate melodies are incompatible with the dignified seriousness of the polyphonic a capella style, and a composer’s temptation to indulge in them is more easily counteracted by this style than any other.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)

It is also somewhat discouraging to witness the effects this genre of music has on the way we sing. Praise and worship inspires a lot of expressive ad-libbing and trains the congregation to sing with sloppiness that is only artistically creativity in secular music. Many of us have become accustomed to adding trills and inflections to notes which would traditionally be sung in a straight tonality. I think one has to admit that the way most people have been trained to sing at Mass is much more reminiscent of secular “pop” music than of traditional sacred chant. How discouraging it is to hear that! And how slow the leads are to correct it! In so many cases, they are the worst offenders! This type of music, rather than disposing us to silent contemplative prayer, move us to be expressive in a way that, at least in my experience, hinders the truest communion we can enter into. We are so busy expressing ourselves that we miss the opportunity to reflect on the deeper mysteries at work. The Holy Father apparently thinks similarly:

“[Pop music] is aimed at the phenomenon of the masses, is industrially produced, and ultimately has to be described as a cult of the banal. “Rock”, on the other hand, is the expression of elemental passions, and at rock festivals it assumes a cultic character, a form of worship, in fact, in opposition to Christian worship. People are, so to speak, released from themselves by the experience of being part of a crowd and by the emotional shock of rhythm, noise, and special lighting effects. However, in the ecstasy of having all their defenses torn down, the participants sink, as it were, beneath the elemental force of the universe. The music of the Holy Spirit’s sober inebriation seems to have little chance when self has become a prison, the mind is a shackle, and breaking out from both appears as a true promise of redemption that can be tasted at least for a few moments.”

(The Spirit of the Liturgy, p. 148)

I love that term he uses: sober inebriation. Even in a state of ecstatic joy, we are called to remain sober in recollection of the solemnity and sacredness of what we are participating in. Praise and worship is anything but sober. It just begs us to throw up our hands and sing out louder. It does anything but inspire sobriety and solemnity. Perhaps some praise and worship songs could be done in a solemn way. I have witnessed a couple sung in such a worthy fashion, but for the most part, their melodies are so foreign to the model of Gregorian chant that it is simply impossible. For the most part their rhythms are inherently irregular and made to insight passions which I have so often mistaken for something more:

“Just as the great flexibility, the frivolous or passionate character of irregular rhythm in general are expressive of a worldly, superficial, and restless mood, so is reposeful and symmetrical rhythm expressive of and conducive to a prayerful mood…. The more the purely mechanical element yields to the expression of the religious mood, the more suitable the performance becomes for church. On the other hand, a delicately defined measure is aesthetically preferable to excessive freedom.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)

While our passions are not inherently evil or at odds with our entering into the sacrificial character of the Mass, they ought not to be sought out by the music as if they were the only means by which we can come to prayer. Our disposition to prayer does not rely on a passionate expression of how we feel. Neither does our “full active participation” require us to sing as loud as we can with as much emotion as we can muster. Rather, the participation that is called for is internal and from the heart. It is so important to make that distinction: the heart’s fondness is not dependent upon our passions:

“Church music should be free from exaggerated and extravagant expression of joy or sorrow, sentimental yearning, and theatrical effects of every kind; it should be the utterance of fervent prayer springing from faith and charity.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)

It is so very disheartening to come back from communion and not be able to pray because of the sheer volume and emotion of the music being played. This happened to me at the Easter Vigil. I understand how well intentioned the music was, but it was simply not appropriate. I was at war with the music around me because I felt forced to sing; I was physically handicapped by the music in such a way that I could not silently adore the Lord who had so humbly entered my body. Sheer volume, I have noticed, seems to have become more and more of a problem. It is especially overwhelming with many of the women’s voices, unfortunately. These situations have caused much anguish and distraction for me, which is the very opposite achievement for which the music ought to strive. Additionally, much of the praise and worship at Mass, particularly at Field house Masses feels like it is being shown off or performed. I know from my time in music ministry that this is never the intention, but nonetheless, it comes across that way in the congregation. This is evident whenever the music elicits applause at the end of Mass. According to Pope Benedict, this is telling of a real problem:

“Wherever applause breaks out in the liturgy because of some human achievement, it is a sure sign that the essence of liturgy has totally disappeared and been replaced by a kind of religious entertainment. Such attractiveness fades quickly—it cannot compete in the market of leisure pursuits, incorporating as it increasingly does various forms of religious titillation.”

(The Spirit of the Liturgy, p. 198)

Indeed, there are times when I’ve felt like Mass is just another activity. I want it to be special, I want it to be an encounter with the scared, but it just doesn’t come across that way, and the music has so much to do with that. The music just doesn’t touch any mystery; it doesn’t move my heart to see God outside myself. Surely, it often does inspire emotion, but it seems cheap and trivial after the fact. I’m so afraid that my brothers and sisters in Christ have begun to see the Mass as just another “extracurricular activity” on campus.

“Liturgy can only attract people when it looks, not at itself, but at God, when it allows him to enter and act. Then something truly unique happens, beyond competition, and people have a sense that more has taken place than a recreational activity.”

(The Spirit of the Liturgy, p. 198)

Perhaps one way to clear up this mentality is to make singing at Mass less of a mandatory activity. When I go to Mass, I feel incredibly obligated to sing; it feels like something I have to do rather than something I have to engage in. Pope Benedict XVI has encouraged choirs to work independent of the congregation when it is deemed appropriate to fostering “cosmic praise” and inspiring the congregation to a greater internal participation:

“If the congregation has a choir that can draw it into cosmic praise and into the open expanse of heaven and earth more powerfully than its own stammering, then the representative function of the choir is at this moment particularly appropriate. Through the choir a greater transparency to the praise of the angels and therefore a more profound, interior joining in with their singing are bestowed than a congregation’s own acclamation and song would be capable of doing in many places…. Does it not do us good, before we set off into the center of the mystery, to encounter a short time of filled silence in which the choir calms us interiorly, leading each one of us into silent prayer and thus into a union that can occur only on the inside? Must we not relearn this silent, inner co-praying with each other and with the angels and saints, the living and the dead, and with Christ himself? This way the words of the Canon do not become worn-out expressions that we then in vain attempt to substitute with ever newly assembled phrases, phrases which conceal the absence of the real inner event of the liturgy, the departure from human speech into being touched by the eternal.”

(A New Song for the Lord, p. 142)

I would also agree that silence could be much more integrated into our liturgies. There is nothing wrong with silence after communion instead of a meditation. In fact, it would be a big help for those of us who are looking for those intimate moments with our Lord. Silence itself can be an active force if it is appropriately rendered:

“We are realizing more and more clearly that silence is part of the liturgy. We respond, by singing and praying, to the God who addresses us, but the greater mystery, surpassing all words, summons us to silence. It must, of course, be a silence with content, not just the absence of speech and action.”

(The Spirit of the Liturgy, p. 209)

In conclusion to this lengthy collaboration, I would like to offer a few concrete suggestions for addressing some of these concerns. First, it would be wonderful to see music ministry train its leads to use chant often and well, having been instructed how to lead it and how to cherish it. Second, it would be wonderful to see the Psalm simplified and sung with more solemnity. Third, it would be good to hear less praise and worship and more songs from the treasure-trove of the Church’s tradition. Fourth, it would really help to lose the percussive and electrical instruments. This would really help to make the music less secular in quality. Fifth, it would really help to hear less of the guitar and more vocal arrangements that involve actual written parts. Sixth, more Latin would be extremely helpful for inspiring prayer. Seventh, lowering the volume and permitting some silence would be fantastic.

In conclusion,

“It is as important today as ever that we carefully distinguish between simply religious music — be it never so beautiful, artistic, and conducive to private devotion — and that kind of music which the Church requires for her services. Outside of the Church each one may sing such melodies to religious texts as best satisfy his own pious mood; he may even indulge his aesthetic predilections in choosing his hymns. The house of God, however, demands an entirely different attitude; we must realize that we are there to pray, that we may not force our personal mood on our fellow Christians, but that, on the contrary, we must follow with devout attention and pious song, according to the will and in the spirit of the Church, the liturgical action at the altar. And, in according to the Church our filial obedience, we need entertain no fear that she, the venerable mother and protector of the arts, will assign to music a function unworthy of its powers.”

(New Advent, “Ecclesiastical Music”)