Absolve Domine

Driving down from Indianapolis to Brookville this Sunday morning, the expanses of straw-colored corn and soy fields and the little two-story white farm houses gave way to steep declines, rocky streams, winding roads, and flame-leaved maples. On a narrow road that jetted out of downtown Brookville and crossed a river, I drove along the valley, finally mounting a hill with an old German church and a spruce-walled graveyard. It was Ss. Philomena and Cecilia Oratory. In an outbuilding the choir was practicing. Two boys stood at the front, opening the doors for parishioners. A tall slim priest sat in the rear confessional, curtain pulled to the side. A few old ladies with their mantilla'd daughters sat quietly with their rosaries. An altar boy scurried from one side of the high altar to the other, lighting two candles as carefully as possible while keeping a reverent distance from the oriental rug at the altar's base.

I came to this place years ago, to see a new place, happy with friends whom I can no longer see, and I came again because I believed I wanted to see that old place where only memories remain. But what I saw was not an old place, but a place that is always new. And I prayed Mass by my friend's little girl, with her cheerful deep brown eyes and her rose-laced veil, whom he was never able to see in this life. Those whispered Latin orations were falling on fresh ears, and my ears freshly, ever old and ever new, as they say. Who would have known back in 2009 that I would be here again seeing these things and feeling what I was now feeling. What a strange and wonderful world this is.

My iPad had only a few songs on it, which I browsed when I ran out of podcasts. One was the tract from the traditional requiem Mass, which I listened to over and over as I drove down those windy roads. And I got the gift of tears.

Absolve, O Lord,

the souls of all the faithful departed

from every bond of sin.

And by the help of Thy grace

may they be enabled to escape the avenging judgment.

And enjoy the bliss of everlasting light.

Customary Kisses (solita oscula)

If you like kisses, the Mass has unfortunately become much less interesting for you in the past hundred years. Yesterday, in search for an answer about the priest kissing the Sacred Host at Mass prior to the kiss of peace, I consulted a wonderful book called The Holy Mass by Dom Prosper Guéranger (1805-1875). The book has some great one-liners, all the better because he's entirely serious. For instance:

The Priest has yet two other Prayers to recite before the Communion. Those now found in the Missal are not very ancient; nevertheless, they are at least a thousand years old.

Not very ancient, but at least a thousand! Anyway, it turns out that, in the Mass of St. Pius V, the priest kisses the altar in front of the Sacred Host, rather than the Host itself.

Dom Prosper Guéranger

But the older form of the Mass is filled with many other kisses, called solita oscula. Pretty much every time the deacon gives or receives something from the celebrant, he kisses both the object and the hand of the celebrant. Adrian Fortescue, English Catholic priest and liturgist (1874-1923), who wrote Ceremonies of the Roman Rite Described, describes it thus:

The ceremonial kiss (osculum), which occurs frequently, should be made by merely touching the object with the closed lips. The rule is that every time anyone hands anything to the celebrant one kisses first the object, then the celebrant's hand. On taking things from the celebrant, first his hand, then the thing is kissed. But blessed candles and palms are kissed first when they are taken. When the Sanctissimum is exposed, only the kiss at the epistle, gospel, and for the chalice and paten remain. The thurible is then not kissed, nor the incense spoon. If the Ordinary assists at his throne the thurible is not kissed when handed to the celebrant, nor the incense spoon, nor the celebrant's hand at the epistle and gospel. At Masses for the dead and at funerals nothing is ever kissed.

Fortescue, however, is of the opinion that all this kissing is a little too florid for the austere Roman Rite, and hoped it would be reformed:

Two points occur which one might hope the authorities would simplify. One is the constant kissing. Certainly this is a very ancient sign of reverence; in some few cases, as, for instance, to kiss the hand of a bishop, no one would wish to see it abolished. But would not the actions gain in dignity if the endless kissing of objects and of the celebrant's hand by the deacon ceased? At such a simple action, so constantly repeated, as the deacon performs incensing, are eight "solita oscula." He has to kiss the spoon, the hand, the hand, the spoon; the thurible, the hand, the hand, the thurible. If only from the point of view of artistic effect these repeated inclinations of the head are not graceful. If all kissing were reduced to the chief cases of the paten and chalice and, at certain more important moments, of the hand of a bishop, the general effect of a ceremony would be calmer, and the osculum would become a more real sign of respect.

Fr. Adrian Fortescue

Personally, I've seen it in real life, and I kind of like the ceremonial kisses. They show a polite reverence for the office of the priest. Though, I will admit, kissing seems more in keeping with Latin or Oriental culture than Anglo-Protestant culture, which informs the American Catholic aesthetic.

You can see video footage of these kisses in the 1940 Easter Mass on YouTube:

Check out these times: 50:40, 51:18 - 51:40

Kissing the altar before the kiss of piece is at 1:05:26

Kissing the Sanctissimum

Today I was blessed to attend Mass for the Octave of Christmas at Blessed Sacrament Parish, one of Birmingham's ecclesiastical gems located on the west side. It was a low Mass in the Extraordinary Form. The dark Romanesque church was about half-full. I attended Mass there many Sundays when I lived in Birmingham. The priest offered confessions before and after Mass, and after the Leonine Prayers, we all sung the Veni Creator Spiritus for the plenary indulgence.

In the missal, I read the most beautiful thing. At the kiss of peace, there was a little note in the missal that said, in former times, the priest used to kiss the Sacred Host before the kiss of peace. In the solemn Masses I've attended, I noticed that the kiss of peace begins with the celebrant and deacon, then the deacon to subdeacon, and down from there. Thus, in former times, the kiss would have rather begun between the celebrant and the Sacred Host, and down to the deacon, etc.

I couldn't find an image of the priest kissing the Host, which makes sense if it is a more ancient practice. However, I found an image of the priest kissing the paten. I'm not sure if this is related:

Missa cantata in Troy

There is a most beautiful Gregorian chant, the introit for the fourth Sunday of Advent: Rorate caeli, which I heard at an Extraordinary Form Latin Mass yesterday in Troy.

After the 7:45 Mass in Auburn, at which the Schola chanted this in English, I had the desire to go to the Latin Mass also, even though I was on four hours of sleep after my friends' wedding the night before. We took the back way down to Troy, a way I'd never been before, through Tuskegee and Union Springs and a number of other small Black Belt towns (one called Smuteye). The ride was gorgeous, with little traffic, and many tall pines and grassy fields. The distance is shorter and we got to see the old, run-down plantation houses. I'm glad we didn't take I-85.

The Latin Mass was at St. Martin of Tours in Troy, celebrated by Fr. Irwin. The choir was almost as large as the congregation, and they sang all of the Gregorian propers for the Mass. It was a Missa cantata, a low Mass but with the readings and prayers chanted by the priest and the choir. We sat in the front pew, since my friend said he didn't like the other Latin Mass he had been to where he couldn't hear anything. The rest of the congregation, except for a family next to us, sat in the back two pews. There was an entire empty church between them and us, they at the back wall and we right behind the priest and servers. My friend said he loved this Mass, especially following along in the St. Edmund Campion Missal, which were provided in the church. It was easier to follow Fr. Irwin than many priests, because he spoke and sung the Latin slowly and carefully.

I was thinking, later, how that form of the Mass could enrich the Mass of Paul VI. There was something a little unsettling about it. It is much quieter, for one, and it takes its own sweet time, without regard for what the clock says. I'm not in control and I don't know entirely what's going on at the traditional Mass, even following in the missal, and this is intentional. Many parts are hidden from view or veiled in silence. And then, from the midst of the silent anticipation, the Son of God appears, elevated in the hands of the priest, and we are kneeling to worship Him. This is a key element of the lay participation in the older Mass: waiting, watching, trusting; being ready to receive and follow. Even the priest is not in control; he is not free to be himself and do things his way. He puts off his self and takes on the persona Christi in a very tangible way. This is not an attitude very popular in our time. We'd rather be in the know, have a sense of control and ownership, have things now. I might say that the traditional Mass appeals to Marys, and the new Mass appeals to Marthas.