Why We Need A Sense Of Mystery In The Sacred Liturgy

By JAMES MONTI

In the Book of Exodus, we read of the deliverance of the Israelites beginning in the strangest of ways — a solitary man tending sheep spots a bush that appears to be on fire yet is not consumed. He is bewildered by the sight and is drawn in by it:
“And Moses said, ‘I will turn aside and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt’” (Exodus 3:3).
His initial wonder about a physical plant exhibiting such an inexplicable property quickly gives way to the realization that it is but a sign that he is entering into a direct encounter with the God of the universe, who tells him in no uncertain terms, “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).
It would not be the last time that God would manifest Himself by mysterious means. After Abraham upon the command of the Lord had prepared a sacrifice of a heifer, a she-goat and a ram, each cut in two, plus a turtledove and a pigeon, God manifested the ratification of His covenant with the patriarch in a most mysterious manner: “When the sun had gone down and it was dark, behold, a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces” (Gen. 15:17).
Mystery is integral to all of man’s encounters with His Creator. For as the Dominican writer Fr. Conrad Pepler explains:
“When man is confronted by the real God he is at once presented with that which is all knowable and so infinite in its perfection as to be beyond his own capacity to know….Confronted by the reality of God he cannot recount what he sees, but rather is he overcome by the awareness of what is utterly beyond his possession or mastery. This is the Mystery and man’s first attitude is not one of affirmation but of worship” (“The Worship of Mystery,” Life of the Spirit, volume 7, nn. 74/75, August/September 1952, p. 60).
Yet despite the numerous biblical instances of God manifesting Himself through mysterious signs, there have been those who seem to think that God ought not to deal with us in such a mysterious manner. An 1845 Protestant essay, “How Account for the Success of Romanism?,” protests with virulent indignation how the success of the Catholic Church has come in large part by steeping her rites in an aura of mystery:
“On the front of the Roman power is inscribed by the pen of inspiration ‘Mystery’….It ever has been and now is the policy of the Romish Hierarchy to excite the imagination by the most powerful and mysterious representations.
“Is prayer to be made? It is offered in Latin. . . . The people are taught that the bread and wine become the very flesh and blood, the soul and divinity of Jesus Christ, by a very mysterious power that God has given to the priest. . . .
“Is a child to be baptized? The priest comes in a very mysterious way with his concomitants and his subsequents, to perform the ceremony in the most awfully impressive manner. . . .
“Is a person called to die? The priest enters the room, and unlike Protestant ministers, requests all to leave the room. . . . All is involved in impenetrable mystery. The dying confession falls on the ear of the priest. . . .
“Then extreme unction is administered. . . . Now all this takes place while the person is passing through the process of dying, when the feelings and imagination of friends are wrought up to the highest point of interest. At this painful crisis, such a veil of mystery is thrown over all these transactions as excites the imagination for days and months to come….
“The same policy is adopted, and the same principle is apparent throughout the whole structure and furniture of their churches” (The American Protestant, volume 1, n. 7, December 1845, pp. 194-195).
More recently, there have been those within the Church who have decided that the Church should do away with her sense of mystery. The pedestrian view of the Mass that has been promulgated for decades by leftist theologians, that of the sacred liturgy as just “a nice meal with Jesus,” is utterly alien to the spirit of mystery with which the Church has celebrated the Holy Eucharist from the beginning.
Inherent to the sense of mystery in the sacred liturgy is the element of concealment, that we are encountering something that cannot be fully penetrated or probed by our eyes, by our senses, or even by our intellect and understanding. It is like entering a huge forest that stretches for seemingly endless miles ahead of us, our eyes unable to plumb its depths. This concealment is not an obfuscation, an artificial attempt to prevent the perception or understanding of what is said or done, but rather a humble acknowledgment that the sacred reality of what is before us transcends our human vision and understanding.
Among the many examples of this “revelatory concealment” in the sacred liturgy are two particularly striking instances from Holy Week, when the Church’s liturgical encounter with sacred mysteries reaches its height.
At the end of the Mass of Holy Thursday, as the priest slowly carries in procession to the Repository the ciborium containing the Blessed Sacrament totally wrapped and hidden within the folds of his humeral veil, with the mist and fragrance of incense hanging round about, this very sight of the concealed Eucharist fills us with breathless awe, revealing just how unsearchable is the mystery liturgically set before us, that of the God of creation going forth to His Passion and death in the flesh of His Incarnation for our eternal salvation.
The destination of this liturgical procession continues this concealment and is itself mysterious, with the Blessed Sacrament placed not in a monstrance but rather in a closed, urn-shaped tabernacle amid the haunting flicker of numerous candles. Speaking of this sacred realm of Holy Thursday night, this mystical Garden of Gethsemane, foreshadowing the concealment with which the Passion will conclude, the concealment of our Lord’s Body in the Holy Sepulcher, Dom Prosper Gueranger observed, “The Majesty of our God has withdrawn to that mysterious sanctuary, into which we enter not but with silence and compunction” (The Liturgical Year: Volume 6: Passiontide and Holy Week, Westminster, MD, Newman Press, 1952, p. 395).
On Good Friday, the Rite of Veneration of the Cross begins with concealment, the crucifix totally wrapped from head to foot in a veil, again confronting us with the revelation that on Good Friday our Creator has done what was humanly unimaginable, what neither eye nor ear can fathom, sacrificing Himself on the cross for His creatures.
The use of veils and other forms of reverent concealment in the sacred liturgy (for example, the enclosure of the Blessed Sacrament within a beautiful gold or silver tabernacle), and also the use of religious pictures and statues, inspire in us a yearning for what remains hidden, for what lies beyond the veil, for what transcends expression by the artist’s paintbrush or chisel, captivated by its mystery.
Such liturgical concealments could be likened to a partly opened doorway through which we see brilliant sunlight streaming, revealing just enough for us to realize that a realm of unutterable beauty lies beyond the door, beyond our present eyesight, instilling within us an intense longing for what can only be found beyond.
There is a suggestion of this in the Song of Songs, in the Bride’s account of her Beloved standing “behind our wall, / gazing in at the windows, / looking through the lattice” (Song 2:9). It is from this place of concealment that the Bridegroom utters his impassioned invitation to his Bride, “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. . . .” (Song 2:10).
There is something too about a dimly lit church, a sanctuary cast in subdued light, a chapel illuminated only by candlelight or oil lamps, or even just a solitary red sanctuary lamp burning through the night, that heightens our sense of sacred mystery. The intervening snatches of shadow and darkness tell us that there is inexpressively more there than the eye can discern.
Silence in the sacred liturgy also serves as a revelatory concealment, an evocation of mystery, for it is an acknowledgment that the mysteries contained therein surpass verbal expression or musical composition. Of course, by no means is the entire liturgy reduced to silence. Verbal expression and sacred music are integral to the celebration of the liturgy. But its periods of total or virtual silence open the gates of Heaven just enough for one’s ears to perceive ever so subtly the voices and sounds of Heaven and to long for what remains hidden from one’s ears, what ear has not heard, “what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor. 2:9).
The Latin language likewise serves as a mediator of mystery in the context of the sacred liturgy. Its purpose is not to deny the faithful a knowledge or understanding of the words of the Mass, but rather to put a healthy bit of reverential distance between us and the sacred mysteries the words of the Mass recount and effect.
The symbolic actions of the sacred liturgy should also be understood from this perspective. Many of them have a meaning that requires some thought to perceive. They serve to set the liturgy on a higher plane, to surround it with an aura of mystery that compels us to enter with reverence, measured steps, and circumspection.

Transcendence

The value of not making everything crassly and instantly obvious, of being “mysterious,” can be seen by way of analogy in how we react to a literary or cinematic drama. We cringe when a story makes its plot and the thoughts and motives of its characters immediately and bluntly obvious. We find such a presentation corny, childish, and difficult to take seriously. For in real life, the highest and noblest things, such as love and friendship, progress and unfold in subtle and often hidden ways. There is an air of mystery about them, because they transcend what can be seen or heard.
What the critics of mystery in the Church’s liturgy fail to recognize is that mystery does not alienate man from God; quite the opposite, it irresistibly draws him in, as it drew Moses. And when man humbly admits that His God is utterly above and beyond him, it brings joy, as Fr. Pepler observes:
“Our Lord is manifest to us in such a brilliance of light that our eyes are unable to see; and, like the apostles on Mount Tabor, we are blinded by the sight — cheerfully, exultantly blinded” (Fr. Conrad Pepler, OP, “Latin Is Still Practical,” Life of the Spirit, volume 11, n. 132, June 1957, p. 563).