By JAMES MONTI
In the Book of Revelation, St. John relates that the Heavenly Jerusalem, “the Bride, the wife of the Lamb” was enclosed within “a great, high wall” with twelve gates (Rev. 21:9, 12). The imagery of enclosing, setting apart and distancing that which is sacred from the rest of creation, of drawing firm boundaries between the sacred and the profane, of defining “holy places” by separating them from their surroundings — the recognition of that which is the privileged “property” of God — runs through the Bible and down through two millennia of Catholic life and liturgy.
When Moses was drawn to Mount Sinai for the first time by the mysterious sight of the burning bush, the Lord commanded him to keep his distance, saying to him, “Do not come near; put off your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5).
When later the people of Israel freed from Egyptian slavery approached Mount Sinai on their journey to the Promised Land, the Lord commanded Moses to set a boundary around the base of the mountain in preparation for his descent upon it to speak with Moses:
“And you shall set bounds for the people round about, saying, ‘Take heed that you do not go up into the mountain or touch the border of it; whoever touches the mountain shall be put to death’” (Exodus 19:12).
Across the centuries, it has been the tradition in Catholic architecture to set a boundary between the nave and the sanctuary, setting apart the altar and its immediate surroundings from the rest of the church. In the early Christian basilicas this took the form of a chancel wall, sometimes called the templon. Over the centuries that followed, there came the altar rail and the rood screen. In the Eastern liturgies, it has taken the form of the iconostasis.
Far from being an impediment to our communion with God, this cloistering of the altar, this physical barrier, teaches the soul the incomparable beauty of what is transpiring beyond it, and the infinite goodness and majesty of Him who dwells beyond it. The Church architect Dennis McNamara has described the altar rail as the symbolic boundary “where heaven and earth meet, where the priest, acting in persona Christi, reaches across from heaven to earth to give the Eucharist as the gift of divine life” (Joseph Pronechen, “Altar Rail Returning to Use,” National Catholic Register, posted online July 2, 2011).
This reservation of the sanctuary heightens our love and longing for the sacred, and bestows a sublime character on those special privileged moments when one is permitted to enter its holy precincts. For the priest, this is a daily privilege, but by no means one that he should take for granted. The altar rail reminds us all that on such holy ground we are only the invited guests, the privileged visitors. My late mother used to tell me of her awe at being allowed for the first time in her life to enter inside the altar rail for her wedding. What is sacred most intimately discloses itself to us when it is enclosed.
Closely related to this idea of the sequestration of what is sacred is the image of journeying away from or out of what is earthly deep into the realm of the sacred. Thus it was that God led the people of Israel out from the profane world of pagan Egypt by a long journey across the desert to the Promised Land. There have also been journeys to and up mountains for an encounter with God: Moses ascending Mount Sinai (Exodus 20:20), the Prophet Elijah journeying “forty days and forty nights” to the same mountain (1 Kings 19:12), and Christ leading the Apostles Peter, James, and John “up a high mountain apart” (Matt. 17:1) to see Him transfigured.
The concept of “depth” is a key idea in the philosophical and theological vocabulary of Dietrich von Hildebrand that appears repeatedly in his writings, In an August 1974 presentation at the Sixth International Church Music Congress in Salzburg, von Hildebrand stressed the need for a contemplative participation in the Mass that takes us “into the depths” of the sacred.
He cites how at the outset of the Traditional Latin Mass, through the prayers of the priest at the foot of the altar, “we are led into our depths, the world of the profane is to be left, and everything is to sink away in the ascent before God” (“Die Mission der Musik in der Liturgie,” in Conservare et Promovere: VI Internationalis Musicae Sacrae Salisburgi: 26. August bis 2. September 1974, ed. Johannes Overath, Rome, Sekretariat der CIMS, 1975, p. 180).
The Eucharistic journey deep into the sacred reaches its summit in Holy Communion, a moment calling for the utmost receptivity to God and the utmost response of love, epitomized by the words of the Apostle Thomas confronted by the glory of the Risen Christ, “My Lord and my God!” (ibid., p. 180).
It can become much more difficult to enter deep and contemplatively into the sacred if the liturgy is not celebrated in a reverent and fitting manner. Unfitting “activity” during the Mass, von Hildebrand observes, such as the congregational singing of music devoid of a genuinely sacred character, thwarts our ability to enter the depths of the sacred, our contemplation of the sublime celebration of the Holy Eucharist. The motivation behind such an approach to music for the liturgy, that the congregation needs to be given something to do, something to busy themselves with during the Mass, so that they don’t get bored, is in von Hildebrand’s words comparable to “the treatment of little children who are given a picture book in their hands so that they do not get bored during the Mass” (ibid., p. 182).
By contrast, truly sacred music, and in a paramount manner Gregorian Chant, fosters within us a contemplative receptivity to the Mass, enabling us to journey deep into the sacred. As von Hildebrand explains, Gregorian Chant is “the unsurpassed ideal music for the divine cult,” possessing “an eminently contemplative character,” one could say “a quasi-sacramental character,” able to give “full expression to the sublime ardor of the heart” while retaining “a sacred sobriety” (ibid., p. 182). There is also the God-given “sound-
track” of silence that helps us to make the journey into the sacred, delivering us from the din of the world.
The spiritual journey of entering deep into the Holy of Holies of the Eucharistic mystery can be likened to a journey that takes us deep into the wilderness. Gradually, as we venture onward, the landscape and scenery change, showing less and less the marks of human activity and habitation, until at length we find ourselves immersed in the sights, sounds, and scents of a pristine forest.
This similitude between entering deep into the sacred and deep into the wilderness of nature is brought to the fore in Richard Wagner’s 1882 music drama about the relics of the Holy Grail and the Holy Lance, Parsifal. Wagner depicts the shrine built for the veneration and safekeeping of these two sublime “artifacts” of the Last Supper and the Passion as immersed in what he calls “the domain of the Holy Grail,” a deep, forested, impenetrable mountain wilderness where the very presence of these relics has sanctified even the animals that inhabit the surrounding woods. The immensity of the transition one must make to travel from the outside world to the sight of the Holy Grail within its secluded shrine is dramatically expressed in the famous “Transformation Music” in Act I of this music drama.
One of the keys to understanding the liturgy is the recognition that when it comes to the sacred, repetition enriches the soul, for the wellspring of divine worship is inexhaustible. Often enough of late, there have been excellent articulations of why the repetitions of certain words or prayers within the Mass befit the praise, supplication, adoration, and thanksgiving we offer to God.
What has perhaps not been sufficiently addressed in discussions of restoring the sacred is the utterly incomparable value of frequent participation in the Mass as a whole, and the frequent reception of Holy Communion, along with penetration of the sacred fostered by Eucharistic adoration. When it comes to our ability to enter into the depths of the Holy Mass, the more frequently we make this journey, the more frequently we climb this sacred mountain, the deeper we will go. And the more we extend our stay on Mount Tabor by frequent and prolonged Eucharistic adoration, the greater will be our intimacy with God.
The Family And The Future
One practical application to be drawn from this concerns the fostering of vocations to the priesthood and religious life. The fact that even in some places where there are many devout Catholic families homeschooling their children vocations remain scarce begs for an explanation and a solution. These families are admirably conscientious about taking their children to a Traditional Latin Mass or a reverently celebrated Ordinary Form Mass every Sunday.
I believe what is needed further is an effort whenever possible to attend daily Mass and receive Holy Communion daily. It is difficult for a child to develop a deep familiarity with the Lord, a familiarity that opens a child’s ears to the gentle call of God, if his or her family is spending only an hour per week in church.
The contemporary cultural phenomenon of the “soccer mom” that pushes mothers into relentlessly driving their children from one sporting or social event to another doesn’t make it easy for a mother to take the time each morning to get her children into the minivan for daily Mass. And homeschooling mothers have the added workload of being their children’s educators. But it is a goal well worth striving for, with profound implications for the family and the future of the Church.
Frequent Mass and Holy Communion are so important that even liturgical aberrations or the widely recognized flaws in the Novus Ordo Mass must not deter us, as Dietrich von Hildebrand stresses: “…the right response from us is to strengthen our faith in the real bodily presence of our Lord in the Sacrament, and to desire more deeply than ever to attend Mass and receive Communion every day. And by the way, we should not let ourselves be diverted by new formulations and by the elimination of important prayers, from what is objectively present at Mass” (The Devastated Vineyard, Harrison, N.Y., Roman Catholic Books, 1985 ed., pp. 245-246).
The single most powerful way the ordinary “man in the pew” can fight all the pernicious heresies and falsifications of the faith in our age is to place himself in that pew as often as possible, and enter deeply into the sacred.
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