The Changing of the Guard and the Sacred Liturgy

The summer after my 8th grade year, my class took a week-long trip to Washington, D.C. We did fundraisers all through the previous year to gather up the money to go, and as a little history buff, someone who had been able to name all the presidents since age 6, I was just a wee bit excited. The Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, copies of the Constitution and Declaration of Independence--I was in Nerd-vana!

We moved at a break-neck pace, stopping barely long enough at any place to snap a few pictures and hear a few paragraphs from a tour guide. But one of the sights that sticks most clearly in my mind, almost 20 years later, is the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns. If you've never seen it, here's a clip.

This is quite simply beautiful. The precision of their movements is almost mechanical. Every step and gesture is crisp with solemnity and respect. And this is a perfect example of an oft-forgotten truth: solemn does not mean somber, even at a tomb. C.S. Lewis says it well in his Preface to Paradise Lost regarding the Old English word solempne:

Like solemn it implies the opposite of what is familiar, free and easy, or ordinary. But unlike solemn it does not suggest gloom, oppression, or austerity. The ball in the first act of Romeo and Juliet was a ‘solemnity’. The feast at the beginning of Gawain and the Green Knight is very much a solemnity. A great mass by Mozart or Beethoven is as much a solemnity in its hilarious gloria as in its poignant crucifixus est. Feasts are, in this sense, more solemn than fasts. Easter is solempne, Good Friday is not. The Solempne is the festal which is also the stately and the ceremonial, the proper occasion for a pomp–and the very fact that pompous is now used only in a bad sense measures the degree to which we have lost the old idea of a 'solemnity’. To recover it you must think of a court ball, or a coronation, or a victory march, as these things appear to people to enjoy them; in an age when every one puts on his oldest clothes to be happy in, you must re-awake the simpler state of mind in which people put on gold and scarlet to be happy in. Above all, you must be rid of the hideous idea, fruit of a widespread inferiority complex, that pomp, on the proper occasions, has any connextion with vanity or self-conceit. A celebrant approaching the altar, a princess led out by a king to dance a minuet, a general officer on a ceremonial parade, a major-domo preceding the boar’s head at a Christmas feast–all these wear unusual clothes and move with calculated dignity. This does not mean that they are vain, but that they are obedient; they are obeying the hoc age which presides over every solemnity. The modern habit of doing ceremonial things unceremoniously is no proof of humility; rather it proves the offender’s inability to forget himself in the rite, and his readiness to spoil for every one else the proper pleasure of ritual… . You are to expect pomp. You are to 'assist’, as the French say, at a great festal action.

When I read this, I immediately think of the Mass (as Lewis does, when he mentions the celebrant approaching the altar). The Sacred Liturgy is intended to have just this kind of solemnity: an air of being set apart (which is the root meaning of holy). It is meant to take us outside of ourselves and into the presence of God and the communion of saints. When I run across people who complain that the Mass is "stiff" or even call it "empty ritual," I think of this passage from Lewis, and I wonder that these very same people would most likely witness the Changing of the Guard and think it beautiful for the very reasons they think the Mass not beautiful! Why is that? Why the double standard? An interesting question to consider. Thoughts?

Keep the Mass in Christmas

I notice the occasional post on Facebook where someone puts up same variation of a "Keep the 'Christ' in Christmas" meme. It is a response against the term "X-mas," feared to be a black mark redacting the title of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ from one of His most august feasts--the verbal equivalent of a brown paper bag covering a bottle of booze or a dirty magazine. And people protest against such an affront, and say that we ought not separate Christ from Christmas.

Except that "X-mas" doesn't take Christ out of Christmas, it just abbreviates it.

"X" in this case is not a crossing-out of something. It's the Greek letter chi, which is the first letter in the Greek word Christos [Χριστός], and you don't have to be a scholar of ancient languages to figure out that Christos means "Christ," "anointed one." Perhaps you've seem this symbol in church:



That's the chi-rho, the first two letters of Christos, which the Emperor Constantine famously had his soldiers place on their shields before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge in 313 AD after he had a vision in which God said to him: "In hoc signo vinces," or "In this sign you will be victorious." Constantine won the battle over his rival, and within a dozen years established Christianity as the official religion of the Roman Empire. All of which is to say: this has a long history as an explicitly Christian symbol.

I've read that "X-mas" came about because advertisers wanted a way to save precious space in their ads, so they began abbreviating it with the well-known Greek letter. It doesn't take Christ out of Christmas; it just shortens it.

Now, I can very well see the argument that says, "Nick, how many people are going to make that connection? Who knows Greek? If the link were so obvious, people wouldn't make this mistake! Besides which, technically it does take the word 'Christ' out of Christmas--that word ain't there no more."

Fair point. I'd prefer to use "Christmas" over "X-mas" any day. My point is to say it wasn't intended or invented as some plot to excise the Jesus from his own nativity.

I propose stressing a different point, though: how about keeping the "mas" in Christmas?

"Christmas" is short for "Christ's Mass." Yes, my non-Catholic friends, when you celebrate Christmas, you are at least nominally honoring the Catholic Mass. Thanks! This usage was more widely used in previous times. Maybe you've heard the term "Candlemas" for the feast of the Presentation, on which traditionally liturgical candles for the year are blessed?

So, whaddya say we keep the Mass in Christmas, and remember that, in the midst of the buying and the feasting and all the secular hub-bub and hoopla that fills this time of year, we are celebrating a religious holiday, a holy-day, in which we commemorate the day God Himself came forth from a virgin's womb and entered our world to save it. Let's keep the Mass in Christmas!

The Only Reason to Be a Catholic

Dear readers, I ask you: what is the point of being a Catholic?

Is it to carry on the traditions of your family, attending the same church that Mom & Dad went to, getting married in the same church Mom & Dad got married in, getting your kids baptized in the same church you were baptized in, so that you can be buried in the same cemetery Granny & Gramps are buried in? 

Is it a tribal designation, like the old joke: A man got lost in Belfast and wasn't sure if he was on the Catholic or Protestant side of town. Some rough-looking youths came up to him and asked, "Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?" Knowing the wrong answer could get him killed, he answered, "Actually, I'm an atheist." The youths looked puzzled and asked, "Yes, but are you a Protestant atheist or a Catholic atheist?"

Is it to have a sense of belonging and community? Perhaps that which you belong to is less important to you than that you belong, and it might as well be the local country club as the local parish? Or maybe you're simply trying to get the parishioner discount at the parochial school? Maybe using the Knights of Columbus for a little business networking?

These are insufficient reasons. The only reason to be a Catholic, the whole point to it, is that the Catholic faith reveals to us the purpose of life and helps us to fulfill it. I turn now to the first few entries in the venerable Baltimore Catechism.

1. Who made us? 

God made us.

2. Who is God?

God is the Supreme Being, infinitely perfect, who made all things and keeps them in existence.

3. Why did God make us?

God made us to show forth His goodness and to share with us His everlasting happiness in heaven.

4. What must we do to gain the happiness of heaven?

To gain the happiness of heaven we must know, love, and serve God in this world.

5. From whom do we learn to know, love, and serve God?

We learn to know, love, and serve God from Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who teaches us through the Catholic Church.

Every single human being who has ever lived has wondered, "What am I doing here?" asking both their origin and their purpose. Origin and purpose are fundamentally bound to one another: everything that is made is made for some reason, for some end, and is given that end or purpose or reason by its maker. Every person knows they have a purpose: they are enlivened when they have one and depressed when they have none. Modern folk tend to think that human beings should determine or create their own ultimate purpose for themselves, but this would only make sense if we were our own creators, which we are not. We did not bring ourselves into existence, so we cannot set our own ultimate reason for existing. That reason is inscribed in our very form, hardwired into us, part of the factory settings, so to speak, unalterable and irrevocable. 

Our purpose can only be made known to us by knowing the mind of the one who made us--that is, God. But who is this God who made us? He is the source of all existence, the creator of everything that is, having all perfections. And He made us out of pure generosity, absolute gratuity; He had no need to create us or anything--nothing could compel Him. Simply out of His goodness and His desire to share of Himself, God made us, destined for eternal happiness with Him. All we need do is follow His design for us, His design within us; for since He made us for Himself, our happiness will be in knowing and loving and serving Him. And yet we failed and continue to fail to heed this call, mysteriously rejecting that which will bring us fulfillment. So God comes to our aid, and helps us to know Him and love Him by revealing Himself to us, preeminently in the greatest event in history, in which God Himself condescended to become one of us in the person of Jesus Christ, teaching, dying, and rising, defeating death that we might live. In Christ our sins are forgiven and our unity with God is restored. In Christ we share in the very life of God Himself! And Christ continues his presence and his work on earth through his Body, the Church, built upon the rock of St. Peter, founded on the twelve stones of the Apostles, spread through the preaching of the Gospel message of salvation through Christ, nourished by those visible signs of his invisible grace, the sacraments.

This is the only reason to be a Catholic: to fulfill our destiny by knowing, loving, and serving God, taught by Christ and his Church. Family tradition and identity and belonging will follow from that, but those are ancillary concerns, attendant benefits of the grace of communion with the Triune God.

If this is not your reason for belonging to the Church, for attending Mass, I say: repent and be converted! Make Christ the center of your life! I say this as much to myself as anyone. We all need ever-deeper conversion to Christ, ever-strengthened unity with him, ever-greater love for him. Come and find your fulfillment! Come and find your purpose! Come and find your joy!

Go to Mass!

Q: Is it a mortal sin to skip Mass on Sunday or a holy day of obligation?

First, let's define our terms.

By "mortal sin," the Catechism says:

1857 For a sin to be mortal, three conditions must together be met: "Mortal sin is sin whose object is grave matter and which is also committed with full knowledge and deliberate consent."

Again:
1) it is a grave (i.e. serious) offense;
2) it is done with full knowledge (i.e. you knew it was wrong);
3) it is done with full consent (i.e. you weren't compelled). 

By "skip Mass," we mean choosing not to go to Mass even though there was nothing preventing you from going (e.g. work, illness, being 2,000 miles from a Catholic church, etc.).

By "Sunday or holy day of obligation," I think we all know what that refers to.

Second, let's examine our proposition: does the proposed action meet the conditions for mortal sin? If we answer positively for all three, then yes.

Condition One: is attending Mass on Sunday and holy days of obligation a serious matter? Let's consult the Catechism. Please pay attention to the first part, as it tells us the reason for the conclusion that follows.

2181 The Sunday Eucharist is the foundation and confirmation of all Christian practice. For this reason the faithful are obliged to participate in the Eucharist on days of obligation, unless excused for a serious reason (for example, illness, the care of infants) or dispensed by their own pastor. Those who deliberately fail in this obligation commit a grave sin.

You are never more Catholic than when you go to Mass. As the Second Vatican Council tells us, the Mass is "the source and summit of the Christian life" (Lumen Gentium 11). It is the highest point we reach in our lives on earth as Christians, and it is the main wellspring from which we draw the gift of God's grace, His very life, which enlivens us and strengthens us and makes us holy. No other moment in Christian practice compares with uniting our worship of and prayer to God to the sacrifice of His Son as re-presented on the altar at Mass. This is our spiritual nourishment. And just as it is harmful to us to forgo bodily nourishment, so, the Church informs us, it is harmful to us (i.e. sinful) to forgo our spiritual nourishment. Skipping Mass is like skipping a week's worth of meals. To commit a mortal sin is to cut yourself off from God's life and grace through your action: there is no clearer way of cutting the lifeline than refusing our nourishment. God commands us to worship Him not because He needs it, but because, as I have just been saying, we need it; and the Church legislates this for the same reason. This is serious, which is why the Church judges it a grave sin.

Now, whether one "deliberately fails" in this matter will be determined by the other two variables of the equation, but let us acknowledge that Condition One, the nature of the act itself, is fulfilled.

Condition Two: if you were to skip Mass on a Sunday or holy day of obligation, did you know that you have a duty to attend Mass on those days? I think you'd be hard pressed to find a Catholic of any degree of devotion who won't admit that you "should" or "ought to" attend Mass on Sundays, "ideally." Keeping the Third Commandment by celebrating the day of the Lord's Resurrection is something that's pretty well engraved into our minds. And the phrase "holy day of obligation" is pretty unambiguous; the term "optional obligation" is just contradictory. Now, it's possible that a person could run into someone they trust, e.g. a priest, nun, friend, etc., who tells them, "Well, you don't have to go every Sunday, it's not that big of a deal, as long as you're a good person and you believe in God," or something to that effect, and that person acts on that in good faith. That person's culpability could be lessened in that case: "I trusted them and they led me astray!" But I think most folks know what they're supposed to do. For most of us, Condition Two is met.

Condition Three: if you were to skip Mass on a Sunday or holy day of obligation, that is, choose not to go to Mass when you had the ability to go, were you doing it with full consent? Was there anything constraining you from attending? Were you being forced to work through every available Mass time? Were you too ill either to get up or such that you didn't want to risk infecting other people? Did you have to take care of young children or the sick or elderly? Were you being held hostage by terrorists, aliens, or Jehovah's Witnesses? No? Then we've met Condition Three.

There are many people, I dare say, who meet these three conditions. Every Christmas and Easter we see churches filled to two or three times their normal capacity by Catholics who don't usually attend during the rest of the year. Now, I cannot know any of their particular circumstances or knowledge of their own actions; I don't know what may be keeping them from Mass every other Sunday and holy day, so I could not say, "They are all in mortal sin," nor is it my place to. My purpose here is not to scold, but to inform. We have a serious responsibility and a wonderful opportunity in attending the sacred liturgy. Go to Mass if you can. If you haven't been to Mass for a while, go to confession, and receive the gift of God's forgiveness. God is waiting there to give you Himself. What more could you want?

A Tale of Two Churches

There are two parishes in my area that I've attended several times. I think they serve as illustrations of two visions of the Church current in America. And they show which one is winning out.

One parish has a church building that looks like a civic center on the outside and someone's living room from 1978 on the inside. It's earth tone color scheme and pews oriented in a semi-circle around a sanctuary that resembles a middle school theater stage don't exactly shout "sacred space set apart for the worship of God." The other parish looks like it was plucked right out of 17th century France. I don't know enough about architectural styles to tell you exactly what it is, but outside and in it has a very classic look. The stained glass windows fill the place with color when the light shines through. The high altar, adorned with gold candlesticks and an ornate tabernacle, shout "glory and majesty" to the eye.

One parish selects music almost exclusively published in the 1980s: sappy, un-sing-able Broadway-style tunes that make you feel like you're in the middle of one of the romantic numbers from West Side Story. The Alleluia may or may not have been lifted from one of those children's singalong albums, and comes complete with hand gestures that look like geriatric calisthenics. The other parish sings traditional hymns ("traditional" meaning not simply "old" but "in a traditional hymn style") that are beautiful, simple, and singable (and, surprise surprise, people then actually sing along!), and often includes some plainchant and polyphony (as Vatican II said the liturgy should, and as the current General Instruction of the Roman Missal assumes every Mass is doing); I'd bet the heavenly angelic choir sounds something like this, or at least closer to this than the other one.

One parish treats the Sign of Peace as "smooch time" (as I heard one priest at another parish call it), running across the aisles to compliment each other on their blouses, waving and winking to each other as if they were greeting each other at a soiree, and completely disregarding the Agnus Dei chant when it begins. The other parish appears to view this part of the Mass as a time to "share with one another a sign of Christ's peace," to invoke the Lord's blessing of peace upon each other, not to ask how yesterday's fishing trip went.

One seems to view the Mass as a weekly social gathering of the book club, while the other seems to view it as a holy time for worship and joining in communion with God.

One parish has a half-filled church on a good day, mainly populated by people my grandparents' age, because that vision of the Church is falling to the "chronological solution," i.e. its ideas are not being accepted by the next generations and thus is dying off. The other parish is packed every Mass with young families, many with at least a half dozen children.

Neither parish is perfectly ideal, and neither parish is completely flawed. But one seems to be more conformed in many important ways to what the Church envisions a parish's liturgy to be than the other. And that one is thriving.

Church Chat: Liturgical Edition

It seems that many Catholics are unfamiliar with the names of the various items used or worn in the liturgy. It’s quite understandable: you may see these things on a weekly basis, but you don’t necessarily hear them referenced or addressed. I thought I’d share a few of these with you.

(Unlike previous versions of “Church Chat,” I won’t be giving the roots of these words.)

For Mass, the priest is vested with several pieces of liturgical accoutrement: sometimes a priest will wear a garment called an amice, which covers the shoulders and ties around the torso, so that his regular clothes are not visible; the long-sleeved white garment which reaches from neck to ankles is the alb; if the alb is loose-fitting, it is bound by a cord around the waist called the cincture; the long neckband which reaches the shins or ankles (depending on the height of the priest) is the stole; the over-garment, the one you really see, is the chasuble. 

When leading another sort of liturgy other than Mass, the priest might wear a long black robe called a cassock, with a white over-garment reaching the waist or knees called a surplice, as well as the aforementioned stole. For some events he may wear a cape, confusingly called a cope (really, we change one vowel?).

A deacon, in addition to the aforementioned alb, has a stole of a different style, which sits on one shoulder and is draped across the torso, being fastened at the waist. He may also wear a dalmatic, which looks somewhat like a chasuble, except that it has sleeves.

A bishop, in addition to the usual priestly vestments, has a few other noticeable items: the staff he carries, meant to resemble a shepherd’s crook, is called a crozier. The tall hat with the tassels in the back is called a miter. The smaller, yarmulke-looking item that covers the top of the head is called a zucchetto. An archbishop will wear a band which encircles his neck and has a short protrusion at opposite ends; this is the pallium.

Several items are used in offering the sacrifice of the Mass. The cup which holds the Precious Blood is a chalice. The small, shallow plate which holds the hosts is the paten. Other hosts are held in a bowl-like or chalice-like container called a ciborium. On the altar one will find a corporal, a small white cloth on which the chalice and paten are set. The water and wine used for the consecration are held in small (usually glass) containers called cruets. 

Hope this helps!

Aristotle's Three Pair

In poker, if you're holding three pair, there's a pretty good chance you're cheating. When it comes to Aristotle's philosophy, if you can get a hold of these three pairs, you'll go a long way toward understanding his system. And since Thomistic theology uses Aristotle's philosophy as a baseline, and since a lot of Catholic theology today still relies on the Angelic Doctor, it might be of use to be familiar with these terms.

From the time that the first inhabitant of Greece or its Mediterranean colonies began thinking about something other than his sheep herd and olive groves, philosophers have been racking their brains trying to philosophically account for the phenomenon of change. How is it that something that didn't exist before could exist now? And how can things undergo some alteration but remain the same thing? How is it that I'm still me even when I get my hair cut or my appendix removed? And how is it that when a fire burns a log, the log ceases to be log-ish and becomes ash? Why is it that in some cases of change, things continue to be, while in others, one thing goes out of existence and another arrives? What the heck is going on here!?

Philosophers tried different answers. Some took the view that what we see is an illusion. Parmenides said that all that is, is, and all that is not, is not, and anything that seems to be to the contrary is a mistaken perception on our part; for Parmenides, there is no change, only existing things. Heraclitus, on the other hand, took the exact opposite approach: there are no existing things, only change. The universe is in a constant state of flux, such that nothing can be said to endure; you can't step in the same river twice. (His student Cratylus corrected him: you can't even step in the same river once. Cratylus followed this to its logical conclusion, that all things, including all words, are meaningless, and he never spoke again, only moving his little finger to communicate with his friends.) Others tried to say that things kind of change, but not really, because everything is really made of the same stuff, just more or less condensed; for Thales, it was water; for Anaximenes, it was air, and so on. None of these answers proved satisfactory.

Then along came Aristotle, who made a very reasonable argument: we all can see as clear as day that it is the case both that things really exist and that they really change. There's no point in trying to talk your way around those facts; you're better served to explain them. He went on: if a thing changes, it must have within it the capacity to be that new thing. Aristotle called this potency. And if a thing really exists, it must have something within it that makes it to be what it is. Aristotle called this actuality, or act. Here's our first pair. Everything that exists has both the potential to be something else, and the particular determination that makes it what it is.

Closely related to this is the second pair. Every existing thing is basically a relation between the possibility-of-being, called matter, and the determining actuality, or form. Yes, these two pair are very similar conceptually, for good reason. Form is a type of act, and matter is a type of potency. Now, let's get a few things straight here:

1) When we hear "matter," we think "atoms, molecules, protons, neutrons, electrons, etc.," i.e. stuff. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. Yes, I just intentionally repeated myself, for the purpose of driving the point home. For Aristotle, matter is simply possibility-of-being, potential, potency. It's not stuff.

2) Form and matter never exist independently of each other. You while never find matter in the Aristotelian sense just floating around, waiting to be informed; nor will you find forms drifting like ghosts, seeking some matter to inhabit. The two never exist without the other. They only ever exist in some already existing substance.

And that introduces our third pair. Form and matter combine to make an existing thing, called a substance. The substance is that which "stands under" (substantia) all appearances as the real entity. This existing thing also has many qualities which are not essentially connected to the thing, but are only attached (accidens) to it by happenstance, and are thus called accidents.

Consider a piece of wood. It's substantially a piece of wood; that's what it is. It's accidentally green, or rough, or pine-fresh. If it were to sit out in the sun and turn white, it would still be wood; if it were smoothed off by an obsessive-compulsive beaver, it would still be wood; if it were sprayed by an ill-tempered skunk, it would still be wood. All of those would be accidental changes. The substance would lose the accidental form (that is, that by which the thing has that attribute) of greenness or roughness or freshness and take on the form of whiteness or smoothness or stinkiness.

Consider the same piece of wood, currently having the substantial form of "wood" and also having within it the potency to become ash; now it's burned by the fire; the fire thus educes from the matter (that is, the possibility of being something else) the form of ashes. The wood has undergone a substantial change. It is no longer the thing it once was. The wood's potency to become ash has now been put into act; a new form has arisen from the matter; the substance, along with its many accidents, has changed.

Aristotle accounts for all of the earlier questions we had about change while not violating our common perceptions.

OK, let's tie this all together by using another example we're all familiar with: bread and wine sit on the altar at Mass. By the ministry of the priest, through whom Christ works, the potency of the bread and wine to be something else is brought into actuality; the possibility-of-being (matter) receives a new form; the bread and wine lose the substantial form of "bread" and "wine" and gain this new substantial form of "Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus Christ." The accidents remain the same--it is still soft and white and small and round--but remember we established above that the substance is separate from the accidents; one can change without the other being changed. Now, usually, in our experience, we see accidents changing and substances not changing, but philosophically, there's no reason a substance couldn't change without the accidents changing. This explanation for what happens at Mass by no means exhausts the mystery of the Eucharist, but the Church has said that it is a fitting way to describe the reality that what was bread and wine is bread and wine no longer, but rather it is Jesus Christ.

See, I told you philosophy comes in handy.

The Week in Review: Masses and Movies

Last week my friend Tony and I attended Mass at the church of St. Dominic in San Francisco. It looks a little out of place in the middle of San Francisco with its neo-Gothic architecture, but it is so beautiful compared to its surroundings that it might be better to say that St. Dominic's makes the other buildings look out of place--"What are you even doing here, O pedestrian product of 1970's fashions?" The inside is filled with the stained glass, statues, and other ornate intricacies one would expect of a church of this sort. As an added bonus, the music for that Mass (Epiphany Sunday) was from the Ceremony of Carols by the 20th century British composer Benjamin Britten. (The choir director at the church is himself a Brit.) A very English feel to the compositions, which is a good thing in my book, as I love the English choral tradition. The sights and sounds lent a serenity and a solemnity to the Mass, just as the aesthetic dimensions of the liturgy ought.

Mass was followed by lunch at an Italian sandwich shop in the City called Giordano's. The place is famed for its "all in one" sandwiches: for example, we each got a kielbasa and capacola sandwich with coleslaw, french fries, and a fried egg all between the two slices of bread. It was massive and delicious and will probably cut three months off of my lifespan.

We also stopped by the shrine of St. Francis in the city that bears his name. The shrine includes an exact replica of the Portiuncula church which Francis restored in the town of Assisi 900 years ago. The replica is even constructed of stones brought back from Assisi!

Alas, the next day was a sad day as my beloved Fighting Irish had the tar knocked out of them by the dynastic Crimson Tide of Alabama. Next year, Irish... next year. Good season, boys.

Apart from working, seeing as how there were few folks around since it's still early in the winter break (classes don't start again until February 4), I took the opportunity to see a few movies I'd wanted to see for a while, including:

Gone with the Wind - One of the greatest movies ever made and the all-time box office champ when numbers are adjusted for inflation. Every major element of a movie is done exceedingly well in this one. Good story? Check. Good acting? Check. Good scenery and cinematography? Check. Good character development? Check. Good dialogue? Check. Featuring a total dish like Vivien Leigh? Check. I can see what all the hubbub is about.

The Searchers - Widely regarded as the best western ever made, it tells the story of a man (John Wayne) who spends years searching for his niece who has been kidnapped by Comanches. It's simultaneously gritty and funny and has a romantic subplot that works well where similar attempts in other movies feel forced or flat.

Lincoln - Yes, I do see new movies on occasion, too. I'd been waiting for this one for a while, and it didn't disappoint. It addresses the greatest crisis in our nation's history and does it justice, historically and dramatically. Daniel Day-Lewis is a lock to win Best Actor for capturing our greatest president so well: Lincoln the lawyer, Lincoln the story-teller, Lincoln the devoted father, Lincoln the crusader, Lincoln the compromiser. If you haven't seen it, DO SO.

Church Chat II

The first edition of "Church Chat," in which I explained the meanings and etymologies of a number of Church-related words, was by far the most read post I've made on this site. Given its popularity, I thought it worthwhile to bring you another round of ecclesiastical vocabulary.

Confirmation -- from Latin confirmare, "to strengthen." In the Sacrament of Confirmation, we are strengthened in the gift of the Holy Spirit which we received at our Baptism. In the ancient world, oil was used to aid in healing injuries (as we still use ointments today for the same purpose); that is, it was used to make a sick person stronger. Sin is a sickness of the soul, and the anointing of this sacrament (as well as the Anointing of the Sick) acts as a sort of booster shot to fortify our our spiritual immune system. (This is not an exhaustive explanation of this sacrament, but it does describe an aspect of it.)

Grace -- from the Latin gratia, which, apart from itself meaning grace, means "favor, thanks, goodwill." The grace of God is not something I can adequately explain in a paragraph, but suffice it to say: it is God's sharing of His own life with us. It is His free gift to us, unearned and undeserved, a demonstration of His favor and goodwill. Here would need to follow a whole treatise on the distinction between earning and meriting, on how God's gracious action in us does not take away our freedom but rather grants freedom to us, and a host of other issues, but you might be better served by reading the section in the Catechism on grace. Say, that's a good one...

Catechism -- from the Greek katechesis, meaning "oral instruction," more literally "to sound down (into the ears)." Perhaps it's something of an oddity to use a word meaning "oral instruction" for a written text, but remember that the purpose of a catechetical text is use in teaching. This is much more evident in the format of past versions such as the Baltimore Catechism with its question-and-answer format. Catechisms are used in catechesis to hand on the faith. Say, that reminds me....

Tradition -- from the Latin tradere, "to hand over." Tradition, then, is that which is handed on, often used in a generational context: one generation bequeaths something to another. This word is used to describe the way in which the Christian faith is transmitted to succeeding generations, through teaching, example, and religious practice (especially the liturgy), and written works such as Scripture. (It seems to me that instead of drawing this divide between Scripture and Tradition, it would be more accurate to describe Scripture as part of and a product of the Tradition.) Note: The Latin word's flexibility allows it to mean both handing something on, like an heirloom, or handing someone over, as in betrayal. (If you look at the Latin text of the Mass, you'll see in the Eucharistic Prayers that when it says "on the night [Jesus] was betrayed" the Latin word is tradebatur, "he was handed over/betrayed.")

Reconciliation -- (I've mentioned this one in a previous post, but it's good enough to include again.) from Latin re-, "again," con-, "with," and cilia, "eyelash." To be reconciled, then, is to literally be eyelash to eyelash with someone once again. It is regaining a closeness you once had. And you can't be much closer to someone than having your eyelashes entangled. Think of a parent and child with their foreheads pressed together, or a couple kissing. That kind of intimate closeness. That's what reconciliation is about.

Saint -- from Latin sanctus, "holy." Like many Latin adjectives, sanctus is a verb form, the perfect passive participle. That fancy term means it's a word expressing an action that happened to a subject in the past, the effect of which continues into the present; in this case, sanctus is "one who has been made holy (and is still holy)." The saints are those who have received God's sanctifying grace and have cooperated with it and been made holy.

Liturgy -- from the Greek laos, "people," and ergon, "work." Liturgy is "the work of the people," or "a public service." Public services are done to satisfy obligations either owed to the people or required to be done by the people. We are obliged to worship God. But the obligation to worship God is not arbitrary or external, but necessary or internal. We need to worship God like we need to eat, or breath, or be with our loved ones. Too often, though, we substitute the good food of God for the junk food of lesser goods or goods twisted into evils (whether it be sleeping in rather than getting up and going to Mass, or seeking God's love through others via lust instead of self-giving love). We choose what might taste good for a moment, but will make us less healthy spiritually in the long run. This does give us what we need. The Mass, the Sacred Liturgy, is the pre-eminent place in which we get what we most need, for there we receive the true food, the Bread of Life and the Chalice of Salvation, the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ. For unless we eat His flesh and drink His blood, we have no life within us.

The Hidden Prayers of the Mass

Some of my favorite prayers of the Mass are the ones you don’t usually hear. Throughout the Mass, there are many prayers that the priest says inaudibly. Why is this, you might ask? Why should the priest pray prayers in the midst of a communal, public liturgy that no one else can hear? Couldn’t the people whom he’s leading in worship benefit from hearing those prayers? Quite possibly. I know that I have been given ample fodder for reflection on this prayer, as one example, said during the preparation rite:

“By the mystery of this water and wine, may we come to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity."

Here in this one sentence we’ve managed to pack in references to the Incarnation, the dual natures of Christ, transubstantiation, and apotheosis. That’s theological density equivalent to a neutron star. That’s a family fun-pack of divine truths in one convenient carrying case. It’s beautiful and profound (unlike my previous two sentences).

And you’ve probably heard it before. Many a priest will say out loud some or all of these prayers which the priest, according to the rubrics, is meant to say in audibly. Why do they do this? And why does the instruction say to pray the prayers inaudibly in the first place? I think both have to do with liturgical orientation. By that, I mean the direction toward which one is aimed during the liturgy. I mean essentially one’s interior disposition, though it can be expressed outwardly and physically (that’s the nature of sacramental worship—visible signs of invisible realities). One could put it as simply as, “What are you focused on during the Mass?”

A concrete and obvious example: in the Extraordinary Form of the Mass in the Latin Rite, the priest faces in the same direction as the congregation, while in the Ordinary Form, the priest faces the congregation themselves. The relationship between priest and people in these two orientations has a different look to it, and seems to send different messages. One could assign both a negative and a positive meaning to each. With ad orientem worship, one could call it (as people often do) “the priest with his back to the people,” as though he is scorning the lowly non-ordained plebs while he does the real work of worship; or one could call it “facing east,” as the great Advent hymn invites us to do, evoking the patristic notions of worshiping the Lord by facing the direction from which it was thought He would come again, with priest and people together looking at the rising sun as a sign of the Risen Son. With versus populum worship, one could see it as an unhealthy enclosure, the Christian community turning in on itself with the result that they see only themselves, singing, “We are called, we are chosen,” and forgetting who chose them or what they were called for; or one could see it as the appointed shepherd calling out to his flock, inviting them back to their home in the sheepfold—and one doesn’t call out to someone by facing away from them. These different views have the capacity to convey either a beautiful Christian truth or an ugly distortion of it. It’s possible within those two liturgical postures to develop one of the orientations described above: either self-exaltation standing on the backs of the peasants, or being the guide leading his people home; either the self-worshipping community, or the father addressing his spiritual children.

And notice similarities between the two positive and the two negative views: each of the positive views envision the priest doing a service for the people in the quest to commune with God, while each of the negative views envision priest and people losing sight of God and becoming self-obsessed. Whether the priest and people are facing one another or facing liturgical east, they must be focused on God; wherever the eyes of their heads are looking, the eyes of their hearts must be searching to behold the Lord.

So, back to the original question: why does the priest say some prayers inaudibly? Because they are intended to help him focus. These prayers serve as markers which can help the priest to maintain the proper liturgical orientation and stay on course. (Yes, priests’ minds can wander during Mass, too.) When the priest addresses a prayer to God quietly, instead of addressing a prayer to God out loud, the temptation to “play to the crowd,” to become focused on the congregation such that one loses sight of God, is thwarted. Now, obviously, the priest should be focused on the congregation to some degree, since it his duty to lead them in worship during the liturgy. But the relationship at the center of the Mass is not that of the priest with the people, but between the priest and people together with God.

Enough prelude, then. What are some of these “hidden prayers” of the Mass?

When the deacon reads the Gospel at Mass, you may notice that he bows before the priest and receives a blessing before going to the ambo. The priest blesses him, saying:

May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips,
that you may proclaim his Gospel worthily and well,
in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

When the priest reads the Gospel, he bows before the altar on his way to the ambo and prays:

Cleanse my heart and my lips, almighty God,
that I may worthily proclaim your holy Gospel.

After reading the Gospel, he kisses the book and says:

Through the words of the Gospel
may our sins be wiped away.

After the Offertory prayers (the two that begin “Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation”), the priest bows to the altar and prays:

With humble spirit and contrite heart
may we be accepted by you, O Lord,
and may our sacrifice in your sight this day
be pleasing to you, Lord God.

When he washes his hands, he prays:

Wash me, O Lord, from my iniquity
and cleanse me from my sin.

Just before the Agnus Dei, when the priest breaks a small piece from the host and puts it into the chalice, he prays:

May this mingling of the Body and Blood
of our Lord Jesus Christ
bring eternal life to us who receive it.

Just before saying “Behold the Lamb of God,” the priest prays one of these two prayers:

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God,
who, by the will of the Father
and the work of the Holy Spirit,
through your Death gave life to the world,
free me by this, your most holy Body and Blood,
from all my sins and from every evil;
keep me always faithful to your commandments,
and never let me be parted from you.

Or:

May the receiving of your Body and Blood,
Lord Jesus Christ,
not bring me to judgment and condemnation,
but through your loving mercy
be for me protection in mind and body
and a healing remedy.

Before he receives Communion, the priest prays:

May the Body of Christ
keep me safe for eternal life.

And:

May the Blood of Christ
keep me safe for eternal life.

While purifying the vessels after Communion, the priest prays:

What has passed our lips as food, O Lord,
may we possess in purity of heart,
that what has been given to us in time
may be our healing for eternity.

I’ve given you these one after another, without comment from me, so that the texts could speak for themselves, and so you’d get a sense of the overall feel of them. These prayers, as with all the prayers of the Mass, are signals and reminders to us that when we are at Mass, we’re not at the meeting of a social club, or a show at a theatre: we are, all of us, participating in the presentation of Christ’s sacrifice to the Father for the forgiveness and healing of our sins, communing with God through the reception of His Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, receiving a taste of heaven. It can be hard to keep that in mind, for any of the billions of reasons that we get distracted in anything that we do. So let the prayers of the Mass keep you focused on what is at hand. Pay attention to what is being said and what you are saying. There are profound and beautiful truths there, if only we have the mental presence to realize it.

The Week in Review: Mass and Class

This last Thursday I experienced my first Dominican Rite Mass. “What’s a Dominican Rite Mass?” you ask. A little background may be helpful here.

For much of the Church’s history, there were all sorts of officially approved forms of the Mass, called “rites”: rites for different regions, different religious orders, different languages. In the late sixteenth century, at the Council of Trent, the Church decided to try to standardize the form of the Mass for the entire Latin-speaking part of the Church. (When you hear the “old Latin Mass” or what we now call the “extraordinary form” referred to as the “Tridentine Mass,” it’s because it came out of the Council of Trent. Tridentine, Trent… get it?) But the Church allowed some groups to retain their own rites if they were old enough, and the Dominicans were one of them.

The Dominican Rite is very similar to the Tridentine Mass. Well, I’m sure that people more expert than myself on things liturgical would be able to point out all sorts of little differences, but I think I’m safe in saying that it’s much more similar to the Tridentine Mass than to our current form of Mass (often referred to as the “novus ordo” or “new order” of Mass). But here are some of the basic features that might stand out to someone:

--The priest and the congregation face the same direction for most of the Mass. Some folks will refer to this as “the priest with his back to the people,” but that gives the impression he’s snubbing the congregation. One should think of it as the priest leading the people in prayer, and when you’re leading someone, you’re facing the same direction as them. You might argue “A tour guide faces people when leading them,” but a priest is not a tour guide; he’s a trail guide, leading the people to heaven.

--Most of the Mass is in Latin, and much of it is said quietly by the priest. Some people might respond to that by saying, “Well, what’s the point? I don’t speak Latin, how am I supposed to understand him? And even if he were speaking English, he’s whispering for much of it.” This may sound like a rude response, but I say it to make a point: Why do you need to understand him or hear him? He’s not talking to you. Yes, he’s praying to God for us and on our behalf, so it would be nice to understand what he’s saying, which is why hand missals with the translation of the Mass texts are provided. But Latin is a beautiful-sounding language, and that combined with the soft-spoken tone of the Mass produce a very peaceful effect upon the hearer.

--The Mass ends with the reading of the prologue of the Gospel of St. John. (“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…” or in Latin, In principio erat Verbum, et erat Verbum apud Deum, et Verbum erat Deum.)

An added bonus was that the Mass was celebrated by Fr. Anselm Ramelow, OP, one of the professors at DSPT. Fr. Anselm is from Germany, and let me tell you, if you’ve never heard Latin spoken in a German accent, you’re missing out on a fascinating aural experience.

Anyway, it’s a beautiful way to pray. For those who are interested, you can find a series of YouTube videos detailing and explaining the Dominican Rite Mass beginning here.

Interesting things from classes this last week…

History of Ancient Philosophy: Fr. Eugene stated that Socrates was credited by Aristotle with being the inventor of inductive reasoning. He then gave what I thought was a great explanation of inductive reasoning: Let’s say I have a box on the desk here containing every flea in the world. How many legs does a flea have? How do I find out? Well, I pick up one, let’s see… one, two, three, four, five, six: this one has six… I pick up another… one, two, three, four, five, six: this one has six, too.... Eventually, I find enough fleas with six legs that I can be reasonably certain that it is usually true for all fleas that they have six legs. That’s the inductive method: reasoning from a set of particular instances toward a general conclusion about them. The assumption that sufficiently large sample sizes can give you a high degree of certainty about something is the basis for the scientific method. Be sure to thank Socrates some time for it.

Philosophy of Nature: We’re starting to read about and discuss Aristotle’s theories of change. I think I’m going to hold off for a bit until I have a better grasp on the material before I try to present it here. But it’s fascinating stuff.

Intro to New Testament: There’s a lot that we miss by not knowing the languages in which the biblical texts were originally composed. As one example, in the Book of Genesis it says that Adam and Eve were given clothes made of skins after their fall from grace. It makes you wonder, “What were they clothed in before that?” One answer could be, “Well, nothing, duh,” but another is given by looking at the Hebrew text. If you flip one letter in the Hebrew word for “skin,” you get the Hebrew word for “light.” Adam and Eve were clothed in light: they shone with the glory of God before their fall. Makes you think a little more about the consequences of sin, eh? These sorts of plays on words apparently are quite common in the Bible, if only you know how to look for them.

Aristotelian Logic: Last week we were discussing how words can be used univocally, equivocally, or analogously. To use a word “univocally” in regard to two different things means we mean that word in the same way for both things; so, if I saw of both Nolan Ryan and Greg Maddux “they are pitchers,” I’m using the word “pitcher” univocally. But if I say of both Nolan Ryan and the jug holding water “They are pitchers,” I’m using the word “pitcher” equivocally; the same word is being used to mean different things. There’s a middle way between these two, however. If I refer to both a stone in my garden and St. Peter as a “rock,” I don’t mean it exactly the same way for each, but there is some link between the way I’m using the word in each case; I’m trying to relate some quality in the rock to some quality in St. Peter. This is a case of using a word analogously. If you pay attention, you’ll notice that an awful lot of the problems people have when communicating with each other comes from equivocal or misunderstood analogous usages of words: people using the same word to mean two different things, or someone trying to use a word analogously without the other party grasping it. Keep a look out for these things and see what you find.

The Week in Review: Links and Logic

Apart from classes, this week featured two events of note.

On Wednesday we had a special Mass of the Holy Spirit for the opening of the school year. There’s a tradition to celebrate yearly Masses invoking the blessing of the Spirit for certain professions, from beginning-of-the-year Masses for schools, to “Red Masses” for lawyers and judges, to “Blue Masses” for police and firefighters. We converted one of the classroom areas into a chapel by bringing in the altar and ambo from our too-small-for-this-event chapel, and had about 50-60 people overall attend (not bad, given that the total student population is about 110). Beautiful music was provided by a schola of the Dominican student brothers. (“Schola” is short for “schola cantorum,” or “school of songs,” a traditional name for a church choir.) The Mass was celebrated by the school’s president, Fr. Michael Sweeney, OP, and the homily was given by the Rev. Br. Dominic David Maichrowicz, OP. You can find a video of his homily here; it’s worth a view.

(Side note: the title “Rev. Br.” is short for “Reverend Brother.” Br. Dominic David is a deacon. The normal form of address for a deacon is “Rev. Mr.,” but since he’s a Dominican brother, he’s styled “Rev. Br.” Once he’s a priest, it’ll simply be “Rev.” I’m considering doing a post on deacons, since a lot of people don’t seem to know much about them. Any interest, dear readers?)

I volunteered beforehand to lector for the first reading. Might as well put some of those seminary skills to use when the opportunity arises.

On Saturday, I participated in a student retreat given at DSPT. It was titled, "Turning Study into Prayer: How can the intellectual life transform and augment our spiritual life?" and was led by Fr. John Marie Bingham, OP. Only about 10 of us attended, but the small numbers simply aided in giving the event an intimate atmosphere. Fr. John Marie gave two presentations from which I derived several good points:

--always keep in mind, “How can what I’m learning bring me closer to God?”

--Knowledge is a good thing in itself, but, since bonum diffusivum est se (“the good spreads itself”), even better than us having knowledge is us sharing that knowledge with others; so always keep an eye toward sharing that knowledge, and in such a way that people without Ph.D.s can understand it. (Readers of this blog know that is one of my objectives in life, and a main reason that I keep this blog.)

--By our knowledge of things, we participate in them in some way. So, when we learn about God by studying theology and philosophy, in some way we come to participate in God. Study is a foretaste of heaven. (…which is easy to remember during a retreat, and hard to remember when you’ve got three papers due and are a month behind in your reading, but still good to keep in mind.)

The retreat also featured adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, daytime prayer and recitation of the rosary, and was capped off by the celebration of Mass. A good day of rest and relaxation, and a good way to get into the proper mindset as the school year begins.

Later that evening my roommate and I caught most of the ND/Michigan State and USC/Stanford games at the apartment of his old roommate and the old roommate’s girlfriend. (I hesitate to use names, because previous experience has shown me that some people don’t like their names popping up in random people’s blog posts, and I would find it too odd of a question to ask them, “Hey, mind if I mention this in my blog?”) If they happen to run across this, please know I enjoyed your hospitality and good company. Oh, and as to the results of the two games mentioned above, I respond with the following: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Bring it, Denard Robinson! We’ve finally got a front seven that will contain you! And for once, the Stanford game might be tougher than the USC game. We’ll see.

Interesting things we talked about in each class this week:

--History of Ancient Philosophy: The ancient Greek philosopher Anaximenes proposed that everything that exists is actually made of air, but that the air takes different forms depending on how condensed it is. This may sound silly, but…

--Philosophy of Nature: …think of the claim of modern physics that matter is simply a condensed form of energy. Perhaps Anaximenes was on to something. And he didn’t even have a Large Hadron Collider at his disposal.

--Introduction to the New Testament: There’s a prominent theme in Scripture that portrays salvation as a re-creation of the world. Consider: in the account of creation in Genesis chapter 1, the waters are separated from each other--the ancients thought there was water above the sky as well as on the earth, and for them water often represented chaos and destruction; when God saves Israel from slavery in Egypt (Exodus 14), He does so by separating the waters of the Red Sea; and in Mark 4, Luke 8, and Matthew 8, Jesus calms the sea during a storm, showing that he has power over the waters. Neat, huh?

--Aristotelian Logic: Did you know that “is” does not always mean the same thing? If you think about it, you know it, but Aristotle separated out five different kinds of “is,” or five predicables. The genus tells us what group out of a larger set of groups that differ in type a thing belongs to, e.g. Man is an animal--apes and elk and elephants are also animals, but they aren’t men. The species tells us what group a thing belongs to, so that all of things in a species differ only in number, not in kind, e.g. Paul is a man, and Nick is a man, and David is a man. A specific difference tells us what sets a thing apart from other things, e.g. Man is rational—no other thing has that quality; it’s what sets man apart from everything else. A property tells us a characteristic that belongs to that thing due to its specific difference, so that only that thing has that characteristic, e.g. Man is able to make jokes (because he is rational). An accident is a characteristic that a thing can have that can be had by other things, i.e. Man is hairy, but so are apes and elk and elephants (a little bit, anyway). It can get a little confusing to apply these, because some of these are used in biology, but they don’t mean quite the same thing as they do in logic. Logic is about relations, how one thing relates to another, not as much about the things themselves. If I haven’t scared you off now, we’ll get into this more another time.

Charisms, Cinema, and Chant

Thursday and Friday of last week featured a workshop at DSPT called "Gifted and Called to Study" on discerning one's charisms. The workshop was led by Fr. Michael Fones, OP, the student master of the Dominican seminarians at DSPT; and Mr. Ed Hopfner, an employee of the Diocese of Oakland and a DSPT graduate. A charism, from the Greek word for grace or favor, is a gift given by the Holy Spirit to a Christian for the service of others and the upbuilding of the Church. And, as any of you who have endured an untalented choir at your church know, it's useful for both yourself and those around you for you to know what your gifts are, and what they aren't. Though the workshop was titled "Gifted and Called to Study," it wasn't solely aimed at academically related charisms; it had a broader scope--O you who have come here to do graduate study, in what ways do you feel called to serve? What gifts might you have that you can put at the service of others?

The particular program we were using listed 24 different charisms, though it acknowledged there were more. Each participant was given a list of 120 statements, and instructed to rate from 0-3 how often that statement was true of them. Those scores were then used to determine which charisms one might possibly have. On the inventory, I scored highly on wisdom, counsel, knowledge, encouragement, teaching, and writing. It was emphasized to us, though, that scores from the inventory were a tool in discerning one's charisms, not the final say in the matter. We were also encouraged to pay attention to others' comments about us, and to try putting these charisms into practice and see 1) if they were successful, and 2) if they bring us joy and fulfillment in exercising them. I have to say that I do enjoy and get energized by teaching others, by learning things and passing on to others what I know, particularly through writing, and by giving advice or encouragement to others when I feel I have something helpful to say. I hope that others have felt the same way in my attempts to be useful to them.

Friday night I watched a classic film: Sunset Boulevard, from 1950. I encourage any of you who haven't seen it to check it out. Starring the rugged William Holden, a scary Gloria Swanson, and cute-as-a-button Nancy Olson, it's the story of a struggling screen writer who accidentally meets a reclusive former silent film star. She wants him to pen her big comeback movie, and since his career is going nowhere fast, he accepts. It becomes clear quickly, however, that she's a bit delusional about her legacy and her chances at coming back, and he's forced to tiptoe through the situation without upsetting the unstable actress or missing his chance with the script reader he's just, who also happens to be his friend's girl. It's dark and dramatic and funny and tragic. It features an outstanding performance from Gloria Swanson--how hard would it be to play an overly dramatic actress without doing it, you know, overly dramatically? It also has two of the great lines in cinema history: "I am big; it's the pictures that got small!" and "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up." (The last is more connected to the moment in the film.) Good stuff. Check it out if you haven't before.

On Sunday my roommate Rodrigo and I went to St. Albert's Priory in Oakland. There we prayed a combination of Matins and Lauds with the Dominican friars before Mass. A brief explanation: priests and those in religious vows make promises to pray daily a form of prayer known as the Divine Office, or the Liturgy of the Hours. It consists of sets of Psalms, other Scripture readings, readings from the writings of Church Fathers, ecumenical councils, and theologians, and intercessions. You can find examples here.Generally, they'll pray it at five different times or "hours" of the day; by doing this, they sanctify the day through their prayers and come as close as any of us can to following St. Paul's exhortation to "pray without ceasing." The two main "hours" prayed are Lauds, also called Morning Prayer, and Vespers, also called Evening Prayer. Another important hour is Matins, also known as the Office of Readings. There is also Daytime Prayer (split into Terce, Sext, and None, or the third, sixth, and ninth hours--usually the priest or religious prays one of these each day), and Compline, or Night Prayer. Oh, and no, each one does not take a hour to pray--you could pray night prayer in three minutes if you're doing it by yourself.

Anyway, the Dominicans at St. Albert's invite the public to join them in their common recitation of these hours of prayer, so we did. (It seems to be a popular thing for DSPT folks to do, actually.) Different religious orders will have slightly different ways of praying the Office. Some, like the Dominicans, sing it. The Dominicans have beautiful, simple tones for the different components of the Office; for some of them, there were multiple singing parts, and the strong-voiced friars in their beautiful, acoustics-friendly chapel, broke into harmonies that rang out and gave glory to God. I was pleased that one of the multi-part tones was one we used to use at Moreau--I knew the bass part, and got to sing along with the friars! It was beautiful.

This was followed by Mass, celebrated by the prior (e.g. head honcho at the priory), Fr. Reginald Martin, OP. Those of you in the Portland area may remember Fr. Reginald's soft and deep voice reciting the Angelus prayer on KBVM, from his days at Holy Rosary priory in the Rose City. It was a beautiful Mass in a beautiful chapel, and I look forward to going there again.

Tomorrow, boys and girls, is the first day of school. First up: Ancient Philosophy, then Philosophy of Nature. Say a prayer for my fellow students and I that we have a an enlightening school year. Do invoke the intercession of St. Albert the Great, patron of the college, and patrons of students like St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Brigid. Thanks for reading!