A few of you who know me "in real life" are aware of the various misgivings I've shared in recent weeks toward certain... attitudes and practices in the institutional Church, especially anything that contributes to the unhealthy sort of clericalism that frowns upon us questioning the bad decisions of bishops and popes. From the recent, seemingly arbitrary banning of the Latin Mass at Fisher-More College in Fort Worth to Catholic talking head Michael Voris's fatwa against anyone who criticizes Pope Francis's weekly shenanigans, and, of course, the Vatican City's refusal to extradite one of its resident archbishops to answer accusations of child molestation even after a full decade into the sexual abuse crisis, it's true that my faith in the men in red and white hats is at an all-time low. You may, then, find it strange that I still support the vocation and mission of the ancient monastic institutions. What do the men and women who take vows of poverty, chastity, and unflinching obedience to the rule of a religious order and its appointed superiors have to do with rebuilding the faith of a Church that has caused so much devastation in the name of "pray, pay, and obey"? Surely they are the problem and not the solution?
On the contrary, even though I've opined that mandatory priestly celibacy has perhaps outlived its usefulness for the Church at large (and been pilloried for such an opinion by fellow Catholics enough already), I have always been a steadfast believer in monasticism and all it stands for: foundations of prayer around the clock, oases of learning and the preservation of western civilization, and total submission of the soul to God in pursuit of one of the many hard sayings of Jesus we try to tone down and explain away in metaphors: "If thou wilt be perfect, go sell what thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come follow me." But until last weekend, monasticism was only an idea, as distant as the image of Saint Benedict on the right-hand column of this blog. So when one of my friends began organizing a retreat to the Benedictine Abbey of Our Lady of the Annunciation at Clear Creek, Oklahoma, I jumped at the opportunity to witness the monks' way of life firsthand. I had never been to an active monastery before, so for me, it promised to be on of those rare leaps from the stuff of a modern medievalist's obscure books, to reality.
What follows here is a diary-esque account of the days I spent at the abbey, followed by a brief reflection on what I learned.
The first day: Thursday
I, along with two companions from San Antonio, ventured north by car for some nine or ten hours with a mind to get to the abbey in time for Vespers (6:30pm). Save for gas and a brief but delicious stop at a Chik-fil-A somewhere in Whitesville, Texas, we blazed through one vast swathe of parched, casino-laden Indian territory after another until, at last, at the end of a bumpy dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the abbey's edifice came into view. The sun had nearly sunk into the horizon, but we made it for Vespers with a little time to spare. Before entering, we had a reunion of sorts with two of the founding members of our schola whom had since moved to greener pastures, and whom I hadn't seen in a few years. They were also part of our group but arrived in a separate car from Houston (where you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy).
|My first picture upon arriving. The sky grew progressively cloudier from this point on.|
At the ringing of the bell, we filed into the church, a Romanesque fortress in stone. True to style, the windows were small and high upon the walls. The floor, ceiling, and the great portal at the western entrance were unfinished; there was still much work to be done. The altar rail gave only about half of the church's total length to the laity, almost like they were an afterthought. The rest of the sacred space was reserved for the brothers. About forty of them, all habited in solid black, entered at once from their cloister and filled the inward-facing choir stalls, two rows on each side, with the abbot holding a cathedra-like seat at the east end of the gospel side. The service began with a monk intoning the words from the 69th psalm, Deus in adjutorium meum intende; O God, come to my assistance. It proceeded according to the traditional Benedictine Office: entirely in Latin, entirely chanted (no words uttered in a normal spoken tone whatsoever), and in most respects the same as the standard Office according to the pre-Vatican II Roman Breviary. It wasn't long into Vespers when I mused that they all sang with the quality of any Gregorian chant CD you could think of.... and as they should, since Clear Creek, and its mother abbey at Fontgombault in France are heirs to the legacy of the Abbey of Solesmes, known best for their work in restoring the art of Gregorian chant in the 19th century after centuries of corruption or disuse. It also helps that the church itself, with its high ceiling and stone or brick surfaces all around, was perfectly constructed to receive and resonate with the sounds of the chant.
Afterward, we met one of the priests assigned to watch over us, dubbed "Father Guestmaster". He greeted us, asked our names, and showed us to our rooms. The guesthouse was effectively a wing of the cloister sectioned off for (male) visitors. All rooms had windows facing out to the wilderness in the west. The cells themselves were plain and a bit on the small side, but hardly prison-like. I slept comfortably, with the exception that each night grew progressively colder until, by Sunday, I was consistently chilled to the bone. I was convinced that all the thermostat in my room did was make the room even colder if I turned it on.
Around the same time we brought our bags to our cells, the final group of three tore into the parking lot, and the fellowship of the ring, or of past and present altar servers and chanters from the Latin Mass community in San Antonio, was complete. It soon became time for dinner, so we were ushered in to a long, poorly lit hallway to await entry to the refectory (literally, "place of restoration", and much cooler-sounding than "dining hall" or "cafeteria"). The nervous waiting, coupled with the low sound of monks chanting a litany of saints seeping through the crack under the door was like waiting outside the vice principal's office in middle school when you got in trouble. But when the door opened, the expected response was quite the contrary. Attended by one the younger brothers carrying a silver ewer and dish, the abbot himself was there to welcome us and ceremonially wash our hands. I later learned that such a reception is prescribed in the Rule of Saint Benedict, the ancient governing rule of all Benedictine monasteries and their offshoots: "Let the Abbot give the guests water for their hands" (chapter 53).
Dinner was a regimented affair, not unlike my recollection of basic training in the US Army. The refectory was arranged with four rows of long tables, with one on a raised platform laid perpendicular to the others for the abbot; really, positioned like the judge's bench in a courthouse, except with the cross of Christ suspended behind him rather than the seal of the state. The guests were directed to sit at the inner tables. Not only did we have nicer chairs and dinnerware than the monks, we were also served richer food, especially since the monks were fasting through Lent. The first night's courses were soup and bread, followed by a beef pasta dish (though the monks were forbidden meat themselves), and a dessert. I've heard that they would have served us wine were our visit not during Lent, but we had to make do with either water or fruit punch. The cook was trained in France and every fare was of high quality without being decadent. Best of all, where the monks had to serve themselves, they provided us with waiters, or perhaps you could call them footmen. We apportioned our own food from serving trays laid in the middle of the table, but a monk would remove your dish within ten seconds of your finishing it and replace it with the next; always taking from your right, replacing from your left. Soup spoon, then knife and fork, then dessert spoon. By now you may wonder why I found something as mundane as dinner to be worthy of so much detail, but keep in mind that I don't even have a dinner table to eat from at home in the first place, so like a modern savage, my meals are generally consumed on a couch positioned before my television screen. In truth, I ate better at the abbey, even during Lent, than I do at home.
It's important to mention the centrality of reading at meals. The Rule of Saint Benedict orders that a lector must be appointed every week: "The meals of the brothers should not be without reading." And, "let absolute silence be kept at table, so that no whispering may be heard nor any voice except the reader's." At Clear Creek that evening, after grace but before we broke bread, the lector read a portion of the Rule regarding the duties of the kitcheners (I assume they read from the Rule at every dinner of the year, on repeat, forever). That ended, we began eating while the lector switched to another book, this one being Saint Dominic and His Times, specifically a chapter from it entitled "The Lateran Council". It also bears mentioning that whatever the lector reads, he does so by chanting it in recto tono (on one note). Let's say for now that this practice sometimes leads to unintentional hilarity.
When the abbot struck his gavel, the lector ceased and all rose for a prayer of thanksgiving (chanted in Latin, like everything else). Guests could resume eating if they needed afterward, but for a monk, when the abbot says you're done, you're done. We withdrew to a parlor and temporarily broke silence to chat with Father Guestmaster. Then night was upon us, and therefore, Compline. We and the monks reconvened in the crypt chapel directly under the main church to pray the final office of the day. Unlike Vespers, this was sung mostly in recto tono, and was over before you knew it. Following along in one of their booklets, I was reminded of my favorite part of Compline: Psalm 90 (Qui habitat).
He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.
Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.
He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.
Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;
Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.
A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.
Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.
Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation;
There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.
For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.
They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.
Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.
Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.
He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him.
With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.
The biggest variation I noticed from the standard Roman Office is that the abbot ended Compline by sprinkling us with holy water while the monks chanted Asperges Me (like before sung or solemn Mass on Sundays). With that done and the monks retiring for the night, we entered "great silence": no speaking until after breakfast the next morning. I hit the sack and slept like rock for the next eleven hours.
The second day: Friday
By the time I awoke, around 8am, the monks had been at continuous prayer for the past three hours: Matins, Lauds, and low Mass. I made my way down in time for Prime: the most important office of the morning, Father Guestmaster said, because after Prime comes breakfast! In truth, breakfast was a self-served affair and attended only by the guests and a handful of the brothers; in my observation, typically the younger ones or the ones most likely to do a lot of manual labor. The monks ate standing, and there was no lector, perhaps because the Rule only envisions lunch and dinner. I recall us only having cereal and bread with jam or peanut butter to eat.
To pass the time until the next office, we took a walk up a hill west of the monastery, called "Weathertop" by someone in our group at some point. Some of our less athletic companions felt winded on the way up, but I was more worried about sliding face-forward on the way back down for lack of proper footwear. The view of the surrounding countryside from the top of said hill was excellent.
We returned to the crypt for the office of Terce around 10am, followed immediately by the conventual Mass (or "community Mass" attended by all the choirmonks, as opposed to the many private low Masses each attended by only one server earlier that morning). It was celebrated in the form of what you might call a "sung low Mass": one priest and one server, though with everything chanted. A schola formed a circle in the middle of the chancel, between the stalls, to sing all the propers, but I noticed that all the monks present joined in the singing at certain parts of each chant as well. There were a handful of small divergences I noticed from your standard Latin Mass according to the 1962 books, but that deserves its own section, which I've written at the very end of this article. For now, I'll remark that there was no sermon, and that a few local laity came to attend and receive Communion, though if I recall correctly, Communion was not distributed to any of the monks themselves. I assume any monk who wanted to receive had already done so at one of the earlier low Masses.
I don't recall what I did after Mass, but as with breakfast, lunch was to immediately follow the office of Sext. By this point, I was drawn back to the church yet again more to present myself to lunch on time, rather than strictly out of devotion to God at regular intervals. Sext, like the other little hours, was mercifully brief, for all this prayer was working up an unusually monstrous appetite. Filing back into the refectory, we took our seats with all the other monks after grace, but held off on digging in until after the lector had read an appointed reading from Scripture, Genesis, I think. Then a great cacophony of metal against metal ensued as the abbot signaled his permission to commence with the eating. Being a Friday, we were served tuna pizza. By this time, I started to notice the occasional monk genuflecting before the abbot, seemingly at random points throughout the meal. I was later informed that a monk does this when he makes a mistake. In the context of meals, this may involve something like dropping a spoon or making a mess.
"When anyone is engaged in any sort of work, whether in the kitchen, in the cellar, in a shop, in the bakery, in the garden, while working at some craft, or in any other place, and he commits some fault, or breaks something, or loses something, or transgresses in any other way whatsoever, if he does not come immediately before the Abbot and the community of his own accord to make satisfaction and confess his fault, then when it becomes known through another, let him be subjected to a more severe correction." --The Rule, chapter 46
But then I later noticed the same random genuflecting going on at divine services, too (though there, they would usually stay in their places in the stalls rather than approach the abbot). There, they humble themselves by genuflecting whenever they make a mistake in praying, such as by mispronouncing a Latin word, hitting a wrong note in the chant, perhaps even when nodding off. The Rule says:
"When anyone has made a mistake while reciting a Psalm, a responsory, an antiphon or a lesson, if he does not humble himself there before all by making a satisfaction, let him undergo a greater punishment because he would not correct by humility what he did wrong through carelessness." --chapter 45
Let's just say that if the priest at the local Latin Mass where I now live had to observe this rule, Mass would run six hours, minimum. I'm not joking.
Great River: The Rio Grande in American History by Paul Horgan ("Volume 2: Mexico and the United States, Book 4: The United States Rio Grande, Chapter 5: The Cannonade, continued", as the lector would preface it). For a good while, Brother Lector regaled us with a detailed account of General Zachary Taylor and his men's misadventures during the Mexican-American War. Let me remind you that the lector chants everything in recto tono, without exception. More than one of us grinned when the book said of General Pedro de Ampudia: "he was a great generaaaal, he was a brave maaaan, he was a bloodthirsty fiiiend who in marching to the river just nooow had refused to be encumbered by sick and straggling soldiers and had ordered such wretches to be shot". I asked Father Guestmaster about the book later that evening, and he said they had been working on it more or less every lunch since January, and that we would hear about what happened at Port Isabel tomorrow afternoon unless they would get a new issue of l'Osservatore Romano (the Vatican City's daily newspaper). Elation abounded through the camp.
Exposition of the Seven Penitential Psalms. The book is a compilation of sermons, one for each of the psalms of David relating to the confession of sins. Praying the seven penitential psalms as a group was a standard practice throughout the Middle Ages until modern times. Fisher, the only bishop in the entire English church to defy King Henry VIII's separation from his wife and the Roman church, was beheaded for treason. But before that, he was renowned as a prolific writer and leading thinker of the northern Renaissance. These sermons was preached and published in 1508, a year before Henry VIII became king, and reprinted seven times in the course of Fisher's life. Reading them was a trip into the mind of an extremely learned man, yet accessible enough to a common spiritual rube like myself. There was no need to build an elevator to ascend the ivory tower of scholastic wisdom, for which I was most grateful. One point that struck me was how, early in the very first sermon, Fisher spoke of the adultery of King David and Bathsheba: "David immediately forgot the goodness of almighty God and again fell into the sin of pride, being proud of the great number and multitude of his people against the commandment of the law of God." It seemed prophetic in light of Henry VIII's great matter with Katherine of Aragon many years later.
|The library in the guesthouse is filled with books rebound in handsome hardcovers by the monks themselves.|
The rest of the evening from Vespers to bedtime proceeded exactly as it did the previous night, except that this time, several hours of tossing and turning had passed before I could fall asleep. This usually happens when I sleep a lot the prior night and then try to go to bed early the following evening.
The third day: Saturday
By the time I could pry myself out from the covers and withstand the chill air of my cell, Prime had already commenced in the crypt. It was almost over when I stumbled in, but not to fear: I had ample opportunity to catch up on missed prayer a couple hours later when I attended the day's conventual Mass, opened a hand missal I grabbed from the table outside, opened it to the day's readings and realized it was an Ember Saturday. For those who meet the phrase "ember day" with a blank stare, these days mark the beginning of one of the four seasons with intense prayer and fasting. In ancient times, the Senate and people of Rome implored their gods for a successful seeding or harvesting, depending on the time of year. After the ascendancy of the Christian faith, the Church saw fit to keep the days of prayer, and for many centuries, they were observed as part of western Europe's agricultural cycle. Unfortunately, our path to industrialism has taken away this sense of unity with the land, so the Ember days declined in observance until at last, with the issuing of the new Mass in 1970, the Church effectively abolished them entirely. For the monks of Clear Creek, this last point is irrelevant since they happily use the 1962 order. But what all this means in the context of my account here is that Mass was going to take a lot longer than I thought. See, on an Ember Saturday in the old Mass, the Scripture readings appointed for that day number not only the usual Epistle and Gospel, but five readings from the Old Testament.
To tell you true, one of the few "reforms" I appreciate about the new Mass is how it restored lessons from the Old Testament to common use (in the traditional rite, they had been mostly phased out during the High Middle Ages with a handful of exceptions, this day being among them). Nonetheless, five lessons at once made today feel like a marathon of prayer. For each lesson, a different monk emerged from his place in the stalls to chant the full reading in the traditional tone. Between each lesson, the schola formed a circle to chant the full gradual. After that followed a genuflection and collect prayed by the priest-celebrant. Oh, and don't forget the canticle of the three children. It was beautiful, but brutal for a man of the world. And imagine, in the Church's young days, this Mass would actually begin on Saturday evening as a vigil and run all the way to Sunday morning. With seven readings, each would be punctuated by men being ordained to one of the seven orders (porter, then exorcist, then lector, and so on up to the order of priest after the gospel, which was read by one of the newly ordained deacons), for ordinations were once restricted to one of the four Ember Saturdays of the year. (On that note, though it seems even traditionalist seminaries today seldom hold ordinations on the Ember days, I did learn later that the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter had diaconal ordinations at their seminary in Lincoln, Nebraska that same day. I can only imagine that their Mass took forever.) As for us in the pews at Clear Creek, I almost felt a bit sorry for the old church ladies who had come out to the abbey, thinking they were just attending another daily Mass as usual.... almost, but not quite.
After the liturgy, we were most eager to get outside and take a walk. One group returned to Weathertop to seek out either transfiguration or a good cell phone signal; another split off in the opposite direction, downhill toward a stream. I was in this latter group, where we chased a badger to his hiding hole for no reason whatsoever, then held an impromptu stone-skipping contest at the stream by a bridge. At three good skips, I was about to win until, with one last "okay, this is really the last one" parting shot, J.S. made a miraculous five and took home the nonexistent trophy.
From here, I can only hazily recall a smoke break, feelings of famishment, and anticipation for the next exciting episode of Great River: The Rio Grande in American History as told by Brother Anonymous. The endless collecting of rocks resumed after None, though several more guests were assigned this time around. After our penance/peon roleplaying session ended, I went to the gift shop to continue another medieval tradition: "buying" a Mass, or more properly speaking, making a donation to the abbey for one of the priests to offer Mass for a specific intention of mine. Some of the priests were hearing confession for the guests, but as irrational as it is, I was too intimidated to go myself.
|Our rock-picking adventures took place in the clearing in the upper portion of this photo.|
The rest of the evening proceeded as before. I resolved to go to bed as early as possible so that, on the last day of my visit, I could catch at least the latter part of Matins.
The fourth day: Sunday
I arose at around 6am, feeling the coldest yet. It was still completely dark outside, and raining to boot. Matins had proceeded for about an hour already. I bundled up with several layers, a scarf, and gloves, and power-walked to the crypt. Only a handful of laity were present this early. Given Matins's length, there was no simple booklet to follow along with. I used a hardbound breviary left on the table outside, but without an English translation on the opposite column, my understanding was sketchy at best. I endured the tail end of Matins and Lauds, after which it was time for the low Masses.
What took place at this moment is hard to put in words and almost certainly alien to any Catholic born after 1962, if not even earlier. Ten of the abbey priests retreated briefly to the vestry, then emerged in vestments and fanned out to each of the ten altars positioned around the crypt: four four positioned against the wall within alcoves on either side, the main freestanding altar, and another final one behind it against the wall of the apse, where the tabernacle rested. Each began celebrating their own private Mass all at the same time. By now, even though it was still only about 7am, the crypt was teeming with locals coming in to fulfill their Sunday Mass obligation. Old church ladies, families with ten children (all of whom inexplicably are boys and all sporting the exact same haircut), and marriageable young women sent by the devil to tempt novices from their vocation. I decided to break away from the pews and beelined to the priest saying Mass in the alcove on the far right and back of the crypt: first, because he was wearing a chasuble clearly based on a Pugin design and pattern, and second, because he seemed lonely, his Mass only attended by B.R., my seminarian friend. When I knelt beside him, the alcove was at capacity. This entire experience was truly the epitome of a missa privata: imagine being so close, you could reach out and touch the priest's chasuble at any given moment of the whole Mass. Unlike your standard low Mass, all the priests in the crypt whispered the entire liturgy, not just the Canon and so on. My priest in particular, I noticed, beat his chest with a resounding thud at mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Altogether, "my" Mass took about 20 or 25 minutes. I then mused about why the locals didn't mind coming so early in the morning: their Sunday obligation was fulfilled in record time, with no sermon to worry about and no pesky hymns. I can understand why this sort of Sunday experience could have been abused in the preconciliar era by Catholics with a punchcard mentality, but in its proper place, as I experienced it this day, that was by far the most edifying low Mass I have ever attended. After it was over, I inadvertently broke the great silence before Prime to remark to my companions just how surreal it all was, being so intimately close to the action on the altar as a mere layman in the pew, as well as witnessing all the other Masses being offered at the same time, in the same place, for undoubtedly a wide variety of intentions.
We resolved to depart the abbey immediately after high Mass, so we packed up our bags and cleaned up our rooms after breakfast. I thought nothing could top what I had already seen in the three and a half days I had spent at the abbey; I was wrong. The monks chose to hold high Mass in the upper church, despite its cavernous nave being unbearably cold. Just after Terce, Father Guestmaster approached the altar rail and invited the men and boys in the pews to join the monks in a procession around the cloister, in the area normally forbidden to visitors. We stood behind the monks, who formed two columns. I was fortunate to be only a few paces behind the abbot. We processed very slowly around the square, with the wind blowing rain under the walkway and causing the monks' cloaks to flap in dramatic fashion behind them. Combined with the somber, unfamiliar chants they were singing, and the fact that my knuckles were turning purple as I tightly gripped my hand missal, I actually found myself thoroughly relishing how miserable and "English" the weather was; the atmosphere wouldn't have been the same if the day had been sunny. In a moment frozen in time, I united my prayer with the brothers, and with those of all the monks of the past two thousand years that had implored God with those very same chants to help raise up a sturdy foundation in the face of Viking invasions, plagues, famines, rapacious kings, bloodthirsty revolutions, and all other manner of terrors and tribulations more frightening than our own. I was at once a small speck in the great march of time from the cross to the final judgement.... and yet larger than life, speaking with one voice in an army larger than any empire's or proletariat's in the history of man. For a moment, I shed a tear for the beauty of what I had witnessed, for all we had lost, and for what these monks could build for themselves and future generations in the new world.
The procession returned to to the upper church and everyone filed back into their places for the conventual Mass, a solemn high Mass with the priest assisted by a deacon and subdeacon. The wind and rain battered the sides of the church and caused a great noise, as though we were riding deep the hull of Noah's ark, or but the monks paid it no heed and kept chanting the propers of Mass as though nothing were disturbing them at all. The Gospel reading was the same as yesterday's: the account of Christ transfigured before His closest disciples, with Moses and Elijah appearing beside Him. In some small way, I had climbed Mount Tabor as well; like Peter, stirred from some strange slumber. I was able to pray the Nicene Creed with a renewed belief in its words. During the offertory, I stepped aside from my pew to a shrine of the Virgin Mary and left a blessed candle, which had been gifted to me by a companion, in a candelabrium by her feet. The candle, which has probably run its course by now, was burned to offer the sacrifice of that solemn high Mass for my deceased stepfather, whose fifth anniversary of death was to pass three days hence.
There was still no sermon, despite it being the main Sunday Mass. It was just as well; oratory was unnecessary. I was content to leave that procession and high Mass as the summit of my weekend. I received a blessing from one of the priests in the gift shop, and we started the drive back to normalcy.
I had hoped to post this article in time for the feast of Saint Benedict last Friday, but it took longer than I expected to gather my thoughts. I don't have a great story of Damascus-like enlightenment to wrap up this account of my visit with, other than what I already wrote above. But I came away with a greater appreciation of the monk's role in civilization and the work they contribute to the society of Christians. It would be better to end this entry not with anything I could say, as a mere observer, but with the words of the abbot himself, Dom Philip Anderson, who was interviewed shortly before we ventured forth to the abbey. (Just ignore Father Mitchell's hokey intro before the interview itself.)
Also, some photos from Clear Creek's website....
|Detailwork of a sculpture in progress.|
|One monk's solemn profession, in the crypt church.|
|The monks in procession around the cloister.|
|The Easter fire during the Vigil.|
|A view of the upper church during Cardinal Burke's visit.|
|Cardinal Burke again, celebrating Mass in the upper church.|
|One of the tiny alcoves where low Mass is celebrated.|
|And best of all, sheepdogs in winter.|
Appendix for the liturgy nerds
Early on in the article, I mentioned some divergences in the way the monks observe the 1962 Missal compared to what you might usually see in Latin Mass communities. My friends and I talked about them at various points during the trip, so I endeavored to do some research to find out more. This last section, then, is for those of you who are armchair liturgists and find minor differences in the way Mass is celebrated from place to place genuinely interesting, rather than tedious.
The following differences I noticed, by the way, all apply only to the conventual Masses (sung or solemn Masses after Terce). As far as I could tell, their low Masses were celebrated "as usual", with the exception of them being entirely whispered.
-The priest and ministers omitted the prayers at the foot of the altar (when Mass immediately follows Terce. It's possible that they pray it privately in the sacristy beforehand, but I can't say for sure).
-The priest led the entire Mass of the Catechumens from the sedilia (similar to the Novus Ordo, or in the old rite when a bishop celebrates from the throne), not the altar. The acolyte or MC held the missal open against his chest for the priest to read from. This had the interesting effect of effectively not being able to see the priest for most of the first half of the Mass, since at Clear Creek, the sedilia is tucked in an area obscured by the choir stalls.
-The priest didn't appear to privately recite anything sung by the choir, such as the Kyrie, Gloria, or Credo; he chanted them in unison with the choir instead.
-The Scripture readings were proclaimed versus populum (facing the people).
-The priest chanted the "secret" prayer at the end of the Offertory rite aloud.
-The priest chanted the doxology of the Canon (from per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso...), as a lot of priests do in the Novus Ordo.
-The Pater noster was chanted by all the monks in unison with the priest.
-The kiss of peace was exchanged between all the monks in attendance, even at "sung low Mass".
-The priest chanted even the words which are normally said in a spoken tone at high Mass (ecce Agnus Dei and the blessing after Mass).
-And finally, the priest omitted the Last Gospel.
After doing some reading, I learned that, in the early years of Vatican II, the Benedictines of Fontgombault had adopted some of the early reforms given in the 1965 Missal, even though they may have had the 1962 book on the altar. A letter from the Pontifical Commission Ecclesia Dei in 1997 had confirmed that these were legitimate and licit uses within the 1962 Missal still; some for all Masses in general, others specifically for conventual Masses in Benedictine communities. There were further permissions granted to the Benedictines for using bidding prayers before the Offertory (after Oremus), and even for using prefaces from the 1970 Missal, though I didn't see them used at Clear Creek during my visit. For more information, you can see scans of the letter I mentioned on this entry in the Saint Bede Studio's blog.