But someone will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come?’ Fool! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And as for what you sow, you do not sow the body that is to be, but a bare seed, perhaps of wheat or of some other grain. But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. Not all flesh is alike, but there is one flesh for human beings, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish. There are both heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is one thing, and that of the earthly is another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; indeed, star differs from star in glory.
So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body. Thus it is written, ‘The first man, Adam, became a living being’; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual that is first, but the physical, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so are those who are of the dust; and as is the man of heaven, so are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we will also bear the image of the man of heaven.
(1 Corinthians 35-49)

     Last semester, I received a great gift from my Liturgical Celebration class: a moment in which I perceived the heavenly Body in the earthly Body. As is my calling, I will try to return it today.

On All Saints’ Day,
   I walked out of the Abbey Church towards the lake,
      into the grounds.
I heard a community of prayer moving around me,
   and sensed that it extended
       beyond the living,
          up the hill
       to the graveyard where I was headed.

The wind that day spoke of winter coming,
   a winter now here.

It called my attention to the trees
   arching overhead like rafters.

“Out of a church into a larger church,” I thought.

Out of the earthly church,
   with its glory of concrete and flesh,
      into a larger church
   whose glory is yet unknown.

I am called to be a life-giving spirit, but what I know is death and failure.

Any vocation is a being sown,
   not always distinguishable from death.
Some days it seems all too likely to me
   that the Word of God has come
     only to die again in my dishonorable flesh.

But the Word, as Julian of Norwich puts it,
   came among us
      to suffer on the cross
         from two great thirsts:
   the physical thirst of his bleeding, dying flesh,
   and his spiritual thirst,
       his “love-longing
          to possess all his people
             together
          wholly within himself,”
       united in love with him and with one another.

Until we are raised,
   until we bear Christ’s image, wholly,
      in the image of human flesh,
         the work of the crucifixion is not yet finished.

Until then,
may we make this place a fertile ground from which every seed may spring up in renewed life,

and may we be sown.

I love her use of theological language to talk about the experience of parenting, and I also think it’s relevant to my experiences of liturgy. Last semester in one of my classes we discussed the fact that liturgical discipline includes worshiping when we’re not worshipful, in hope that (to use Glennon’s words) kairos will explode out of our ordinary experience of chronos. When it does, whether in the grocery store or the sanctuary, grace is there.

I also like her reminder that contributing to the (often significant, but invisible, and thus not known to you as an observer) guilt of mothers and of churchgoers does not deepen their relationship with their children or with God. Let us be gentle towards one another.

Do you parent, or do you attend church, seeking kairos? What do you do when you show up, but (to your knowledge) it doesn’t?

Behold

Jesus. Lamb. Rabbi. Teacher. Messiah. Christ. Names for One who walks right by you, obscured, perhaps, by the verbiage of ages and by your own tired expectations. Take a second look, a new look altogether, and see who looks for you.

You seek because you are sought, and caught. You have been found, and lovingly found-out. The desire and discipline, the curiosity and perseverance that bring you to this moment in a newly dawning year are your response to the One who wants you, who teaches you, questions and pursues you, who urges you to behold and perceive: the very object of your longing passes by.

Will you be bypassed? Will all the old familiar names for the inviting One of God—however reverent—keep you from hearing your own new name when it’s called?

You are called like Simon to leave aside your plans and go when summoned, to be beheld and known by God’s own, and be renamed.

You do have a choice. You can retreat, take comfort in the familiar, and risk missing your calling. Or you can set out, take on the discomforts of the strange and the stranger, and live into, live up to, your new identity.

Who will you be this day, this year? Who will lead you?

Answer by beholding. Perceive in a passerby your seeker, your teacher. Look into a life you might otherwise overlook, and let yourself be beheld. Is not this unfamiliar gaze—fearless, mutual, and clear—a revelation? Is not this new name your name?

Rachel Srubas

Rachel M. Srubas, a Presbyterian clergywoman and Benedictine Oblate, is the author of two books and numerous articles on the spiritual life.

Today at Mass, in a parish I was visiting, the intercessions brought this home to me very concretely.  The intercessions opened with a prayer for Pope Benedict and for the local bishop.  We then prayed for the unborn, and for the very sick and aged, that they would be allowed to die naturally.  We concluded with a prayer for the living and deceased of a particular group, for whom ‘this Mass was being offered up.’  Not that there are problems with any of the concerns voiced in these intercessions; I united my own prayers without difficulties with those of the assembly.  Rather, the point is the different kinds of concerns voiced in this parish from the ones I hear routinely in my own community (both parishes are in the same city).

My own community as often as not will voice the city’s heartaches in intercessions: the plight of the homeless and of those out of work or the suffering of those affected by the increase in violent crime.  And especially during the open intercessions, one might hear people “balance out” – for lack of a better term – the community’s prayers.  I remember, for example, how a prayer for the men and women in uniform was followed by a prayer for all the victims of violent, military intervention.

The point of all this is not that some intercessions have more right to be prayed than others.  My point simply is that our intercessions reveal who we are and what we passionately care about.  What will those who come to our liturgies as strangers learn about us, how will they “know” us, by our intercessions?

But this year, my experience of December 23 has changed. The day suddenly seems more important in and of itself, something akin to a liturgical hinge day, when things begin to turn.  As the last of the O-Antiphons is chanted today, our Advent waiting draws to a close and we stand on the threshold of something new.  Maybe December 23 – as one of those liminal, threshold days when things liturgical begin to turn — is akin to Holy Saturday (if only in that regard); maybe here are other such liturgical hinge days.

The antiphon for this year’s responsorial psalm at Mass puts us on high alert for what is to come:  “your redemption is near at hand.”  With that assurance, Advent’s waiting turns toward a new and different kind of encounter with God, as we turn towards the moment of ultimate mystery: God being born in our midst.

Of course our faith is lived within cultural trends that force other experiences of time to the forefront on this December 23: the last few, frantic hours of shopping have arrived.  And the retail industry will begin to report on whether its hopes have materialized, in the form of consumers who meet or exceed the expectations of the industry.  We cannot escape these peculiar rhythms around December 23.  It is precisely within their context that Christians, once again, have to struggle to embody their own rhythm of expectation and materialization.  This rhythm invites us, on this day, to begin to slow down rather than to speed up, and to turn, so as to be able to be present, really present, to the heart of Christmas, the mystery of the Word made flesh.

Ipsissimis verbis: 2011 Pastoral Letter with Decree Bulletin Insert.

Hmmm, if people can no longer extend their hands for the Our Father because the Missale Romanum states only that the priest does so, then what about the announcement of the Gospel Reading? The missal mentions only the deacon (or priest) signing himself on the forehead, lips, and breast, but the laity began doing the same ages ago. Is this too an abuse to stamp out?

awr

The coincidences remind me of the last time I was in the same room as royalty, about 10 years ago. The college in London where I was working at the time received a formal visit from the Chancellor of the University, Her Royal Highness the Princess Anne. I found myself in a corner of the room in company with a colleague, a feisty feminist from these United States. We both had to be there, because it was a command performance for the faculty; I at least was in fact sneakingly curious about what the princess looked like in the flesh. But neither of us wanted to have to talk to the august royal personage. In my case, this was because of an unease with polite conversation about nothing, of the kind that is expected when you meet the royal family. But my friend and colleague was far more forthright and definite: ‘Americans curtsey to no-one,’ she roundly declared.

‘Americans curtsey to no-one.’ If we celebrate this feast of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Universal King here in the US, we need to recognise that so much of what is valuable and precious in this country arises from a rejection of the idea of kingship, a recognition that the political power of this world can often be dysfunctional and abusive, that human freedom and dignity need to be safeguarded. These United States are founded on a belief that all are created equal. Most US citizens are descended from immigrants who came to this country because the monarchies of Europe could not provide them with a decent living. The Pilgrim Fathers stand as a symbol for millions who came to this land, found here the blessings of prosperity and liberty, and were thereupon moved to give thanks. It’s no coincidence that when I walked into the sacristy this morning I was wished not, ‘happy feast of Christ the King’, but ‘happy Thanksgiving’—and surely, however great our devotion to this Sunday’s feast, preparations for Thanksgiving will be taking up a large part of our energies this weekend.

I am actually a mildly monarchist Englishman, I suspect because all my lived experience is of an unusual monarch who is a woman. Queen Elizabeth’s behaviour has been exemplary over nearly sixty years; in particular, she has never used her position to further her personal interests and preferences, and she has always respected the prerogatives of her duly elected government. Not many monarchs in history have been like her. When the gospels speak of Christ as King—which they don’t very often—they are always concerned to bring out that his kingship is not like that of the great ones of this world who lord it over others. He is not a King before whom we bow and scrape and curtsey. This king is hidden from us; we don’t recognise him. He is in the poor, those in need, the naked, the sick, those in prison. St Paul tells us that Christ is raised on high by his Father, and given the name above all other names, precisely because he emptied himself into the human condition, and then went further, even to death on a cross. It is on Calvary, over the abused, executed, broken body of Jesus that we find the proclamation in Hebrew, Latin and Greek: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

The Gospel is anything but an endorsement of the established political order, anything but a simple affirmation of power as we experience it. The Gospel is about liberation. The title of Christ the King only makes sense if we see it in the context of this world’s powers and authorities being transformed, of a promise that all of us will be given a royal dignity, all of us will be given the exclusive privileges of a first-born son and heir.

Next week, the language of our Mass will change. One difference—perhaps the most striking—will be that metaphors of the Roman imperial court, frequent in the original Latin but downplayed by the first translators, will be restored. I have heard a respected theologian (pick up the video about 2 minutes in) in the last weeks state that it’s right for us, in our dealings with God, to use the formal, stately language of the court, language fit for a king. Now, there are, I think, some reasonable arguments for the impending change in tone: we do need to be reminded that our dealings with God utterly transcend our dealings with each other, and we Anglophone Catholics, we members of a universal Church from the most powerful culture and language group in the world, do need to be taught that we find salvation only in fellowship with people who don’t think and speak as we do. If a more formal liturgical language helps us in these ways, well and good. But our God is one who has no favorites, one who seeks out the lost, on who embraces death so as to rescue us and lead us to eternal life, one who identifies with the least of his sisters and brothers. This God needs to be addressed in the language of closeness, of warmth, of noble simplicity.

Even if we may be gaining in some respects with our new texts, we will be losing what has become familiar to us over some forty years. We will no longer hear expressions that, whatever their shortcomings, have helped many of us recognise the closeness of God to us, the unfailing intimacy of divine kingship and lordship. Our liturgy is about to become more remote in its expression. We must trust in the providence of God that good will somehow come of the change. We are regularly being encouraged to embrace the new translation and make its introduction a moment of growth in our relationship with God. Such calls obviously have their place. But precisely in order for that growth to happen, we may need also to recognise the losses involved, and give ourselves permission to grieve for something that has become dear and precious.

At any rate, the shift in register and tone next week must not weaken our grasp of the central truth about Christ’s kingship: such talk makes sense only because the language of kingship is being used in a quite distinctive, strange, quirky way. This kingship takes the form of Christ’s identifying himself with the poorest among us. The world of the court is evoked, certainly, but only so that it can be subverted.

All that said, we may, if this sort of thing appeals to us, take the image of a European monarch as a means of contemplating who Christ is. The ideal, if not always the reality, provides us with a rich symbol. But the feast of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Universal King, is rightly understood only when we see that there is also authentic Christianity in those who, at least when it’s a matter of this world’s royalty, have a grounded sense of their own God-given dignity, an evangelical dignity on the basis of which they rightly curtsey to no-one.

Here are the two important passages in Congar in support of the contention that this dialogue is a prayer between the ordained and the baptized/confirmed (see the previous thread). I have inserted “[NOTE]” at the places where Congar cites Van Unnik’s “Dominus Vobiscum: the Background of a Liturgical Formula,” in New Testament Essays: Studies in Memory of T. W. Mansen 1893–1958, edited by A. J. B. Higgins (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1959), 270–305). UPDATED: I have uploaded a scan of my marked copy of the article.

***

I do not wish to speak here about the third ‘sacrament of initiation’, the Eucharist, but would like to observe that the Greek word teleiosis, ‘perfection’, would be more suitable in this context than the Latin word initiare, ‘to begin’. I shall deal with the part played by the Holy Spirit in the Eucharist and the changing of the holy gifts into the body and blood of Christ as well as our communion in the Lord’s body and blood in Volume III of this whole work. Those final chapters are, I believe, extremely important. We have already seen above how a spiritual space or framework for celebration is created by the Spirit by means of an exchange of a promise and a bearing witness to his presence: ‘The Lord be with you’ —’ And with your spirit’. [NOTE] This is a sign of the reciprocity that constitutes the full truth of the relationships between the Christian community and the minister who is the president and the pastor of that community.

This mutual relationship, which expresses the constant aspect of the activity of the Spirit, can also be found in the process of the ordination of ministers. It may even be because of this that it takes place in the celebration. There was also a theological meaning in the early tradition and practice of the Church that we need to recover. The most important moment in the process of ordination was the liturgical act, but, in the early Church, the process in fact began before the celebration. The community took part in an election which, like all the acts that regulated the life of the Church, had to be ‘inspired’. In this election, the talents or charisms of the one elected were recognized. The consecrating bishop took up this intervention on the part of the community. In the consecration of another bishop, all the bishops present were ministers of the Spirit within the epiclesis of the entire assembly. . . .

Yves Congar, I Believe in the Holy Spirit: VOLUME I: The Experience of the Spirit (New York: Crossroads, 1983), 106–107.

***

. . . The Eastern tradition teaches as firmly as the Western Church that only the priest can do this, but this does not mean that he can do it alone, that is, when he remains alone. He does not, in other words, consecrate the elements by virtue of a power that is inherent in him and which he has, in this sense, within his control. It is rather by virtue of the grace for which he asks God and which is operative, and even ensured, through him in the Church.

It is worth recalling at this point the meaning of the exchange of words between the one who presides over the celebration and the assembled people: ‘The Lord be with you’ – ‘And with your Spirit’. This does not mean simply ‘and with you’. It means ‘with the grace that you received through ordination for the common good; we are asking now for that grace to be made present in this celebration.’ [NOTE] The ‘power’ received at ordination and the making present of the gift of the Spirit, the ordained celebrant and the community or the ecclesiaa are united in the celebration of the Eucharist. In the Eastern rite, the epiclesis is spoken in the plural, indicating clearly that the whole community invokes the Spirit. The Roman canon, however, also has ‘Memores offerimus’ and ‘Supplices te rogamus’ in the plural. We are not so very far apart.

Yves Congar, I Believe in the Holy Spirit: VOLUME III: The River of Life Flows East and West (New York: Crossroads, 1983), 236.

An explanation of Et cum spiritu tuo as referring to the grace of the Holy Spirit in the ordained celebrant seems to me fanciful and contrived…I wonder also if part of the modern popularity of this interpretation in terms of the grace of priestly ordination is because it can help to propagate the difference between priests and people which the Vatican Council tried so much to diminish and which others are now regrettably attempting to re-establish.

For the full text, please visit: ‘And with your spirit’? by Jack Mahoney SJ

While you’re on the Web site of Thinking Faith, you may also want to read:

‘Domine, non sum dignus’ by Andrew Cameron-Mowat SJ, a similar piece on the response before receiving the Eucharist; and

Words in essence by Frances Novillo, an overview of the new translation.

–ca

• Priests, cut the chatter before the Sign of the Cross. Your first words are “In the name…”
• Lectors, just recite the Psalm. Cut the intro “Today’s Responsorial Psalm is…”
• It’s the exchange of the peace of Christ, not of pleasant chatter.
• Communion antiphon, if not sung, should be recited at the beginning of communion, not the end. (This is regular practice in Austria, BTW.)
• Bring in silence.

I couldn’t agree more. I support every one of Weigel’s reforms.

Now if only the column were rewritten minus Weigel’s scolding, irritated, condescending tone. Let’s support the beauty and riches of the liturgy – with beautiful, rich, inviting language.

Oh – that reminds me. The clunky Missal translation we’re getting is hardly rich or beautiful or inviting. Strike the first paragraph, I’d say. Why do the same people who pan the “butchered” NAB Bible translation think the new Missal is good English?? I just don’t get it.

awr