Pontificalia III: the pontifical vestments

Thomas Becket, following his consecration as archbishop of Canterbury, gives the final blessing (Becket, 1964). Under his chasuble, you can see the pontifical dalmatic.

Previously in this series....

Pontificalia I: what is pontifical Mass?

Pontificalia II: the Mitre and crozier

Today, we look at the special vestments that a bishop wears for Mass. What's the thing that a bishop wears under the chasuble? Why don't bishops wear gloves anymore? What are "buskins"? Does a bishop put his vestments on differently than a priest?

What's the thing that a bishop wears under the chasuble?

Cardinal Burke with pontifical dalmatic and tunicle under a Gothic chasuble

Sometimes, you might notice another vestment peeking out from underneath the bishop's chasuble. We all know that the chasuble is the outer vestment that all priests wear for Mass--not so well known is the fact that, at a pontifical Mass, bishops traditionally wore not just the chasuble, but even the deacon's dalmatic and the subdeacon's tunicle underneath. By wearing all the vestments, cumbersome as they may be, the bishop teaches the faithful that he alone possesses the fullness of the sacrament of Holy Orders, with the authority to confer the various degrees of ordained ministry upon others. The Extraordinary Form still requires the bishop to wear the under-dalmatic and tunicle for pontifical Mass. If he's conferring holy orders, he must wear them even if it's in the middle of a low Mass. The modern Ceremonial of Bishops no longer mentions the tunicle, but still recommends the pontifical dalmatic on major feasts. I've never seen a photo of Pope Benedict XVI celebrating a major Mass without one.

The prayer when vesting with the tunicle: "May the Lord cloth me in the tunicle of delight, and the garment of rejoicing."

For the dalmatic: "Cloth me, Lord, with the garment of salvation, and the raiment of joy; and ever place upon me the dalmatic of justice."

Both the above prayers may, of course, also be used by deacons and subdeacons when vesting.

By the way, the first time I ever noticed that the under-dalmatic was a "thing" was by watching the film Becket, which I've featured in the top photo and elsewhere in this series. Notice that the dalmatic in that scene is richly detailed enough to be worn on its own! I actually did a search for this very garment online, and it appears to have been sold by auction, together with the chasuble, in 2011 (as a "tunic, cape, and collar" set) for $5,500.

The clip above should start at the blessing scene. You'll even see the tunicle under the dalmatic. 

Why don't bishops wear gloves anymore?

Pontifical gloves of the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg: 1588

From about the 10th century on, bishops, starting in France, wore gloves in the color of the day at pontifical Mass. The practice soon spread to Rome, then to bishops everywhere, and then to even the mitred abbots. Later, the openings were enlarged to appear like the cuffs of a gauntlet (similar, in my imagination, to the epimanikia--the bracers worn by the Eastern rite clergy).

In the old Mass, the bishop wore the gloves until the Offertory. The ring was worn over them, and so whenever he took the gloves off (such as to wash his hands), it was the job of the assistant-priest to hold on to the ring. The perceived fussiness of taking the gloves off and putting them back on is undoubtedly part of the reason why they're not mentioned in the post-conciliar Ceremonial of Bishops. For 99% of the world's bishops, it would seem that once the gloves disappeared from the rubrics, they also disappeared from the sacristies. Force of custom held no argument, save perhaps your London Oratory types. That said, there was an awkward period spanning over a decade (1970-1984) when the mainstream Latin Church was using the new Mass but the old Caeremoniale Episcoporum, with all its "Carolingian court ritual", was still in force. I wonder if any of you experts out there could comment on just how much of the pontificalia was actually retained at the average cathedral during these years.

The vesting prayer for the gloves is a long one: "Place upon my hands, Lord, the cleanliness of the new man, that came down from heaven; that, just as Jacob Thy beloved, covering his hands with the skins of goats, and offering to his father most pleasing food and drink, obtained his father’s blessing, so also may the saving victim offered by our hands, merit the blessing of Thy grace. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, Thy Son, Who in the likeness of sinful flesh offered Himself for us."

Then-Cardinal Ratzinger wearing a pontifical dalmatic and even gloves at what I assume is an Ordinary Form Mass.
(Edited to add: after I posted this article, I was informed by several readers that this photo was actually at an FSSP ordination in 1990, and thus an EF Mass. Well, never mind, then!)

Abbess Benedicta von Spiegel with crozier and gloves. I mentioned the mitred abbesses in a previous entry.

What are "buskins"?

Buskins for every occasion except black. The old rite omitted them for Requiems.

I often get these mixed up with another thing: the pontifical sandals. The buskins are liturgical stockings in the color of the day which, indeed, have their own prayer to accompany them. Mercifully for both the bishop and his MC's, the usual practice at a pontifical Mass (and only Mass--like the maniple, these aren't worn at Vespers, for instance) in the old rite is for the bishop to vest with them on his own even before arriving at the church.These days, they're just worn over his regular socks.

The buskins, in turn, go under pontifical sandals. Yes, the bishop even had to wear liturgical shoes in the old days. In the first millennium, even ordinary priests and deacons wore special shoes at Mass, but by the 10th century, this became restricted to bishops and other prelates with pontifical privileges. The original form of the sandals appears to have been just what you might imagine from ancient Roman times... but by the time the Baroque era got its hands on them, they had morphed into something more like court slippers, complete with a heel and even a bow on some. 

Pontifical sandals

It probably goes without saying that the buskins and sandals are basically never seen anywhere except in the Extraordinary Form, where they remain a requirement for pontifical Mass (excepting Requiems).

The prayer for the buskins: "Shod my feet, Lord, unto the preparation of the gospel of peace, and protect me under the cover of thy wings."

The Archbishop of Cebu (Philippines) vesting with the buskins. One of my friends, a former FSSP seminarian, fondly recalled his service in pontifical Masses by comparing the vesting of the bishop to "assembling Voltron".

Does a bishop put his vestments on differently than a priest?

Yes, he does! Or at least, he has the option. While a bishop has the right to process to the altar already vested like an ordinary priest, the ancient tradition runs the bishop through a gauntlet of ceremonies from the moment he darkens the front door.

First, the bishop arrives in his choir dress (the purple cassock, rochet, mozzetta or mantelletta, and perhaps the cappa magna) and is greeted by the canons or senior clergy at the door. The rector or pastor of the church, wearing a cope, offers the bishop a crucifix to kiss and holy water to sprinkle everyone in the area. The bishop then walks at the head of the procession down the church as the choir sings the responsory Ecce Sacerdos Magnus. He's taken to the altar where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved to pray for a moment. A lot of traditional Catholics are perplexed and even a little scandalized when I say that cathedrals weren't supposed to reserve the Blessed Sacrament over the high altar; and that if a bishop was celebrating Mass at a parish, the pastor was supposed to move the Sacrament to a side chapel.

Solemn reception of Bishop Lopes at the Ordinariate of the Chair of Saint Peter's cathedral in Houston

After praying, the bishop may go to the sacristy to vest in private, or he may go to his faldstool in the sanctuary and vest ceremonially in view of the faithful. The vestments are laid atop the high altar and brought to him one by one, while his ministers assist him in putting on each item. Finally, if the bishop is celebrating from the throne, the full rite supposes that he vests in a special side chapel prepared for him, called the secretarium. Here, surrounded by his clergy, the bishop vests while leading the minor hour of Terce. Then he returns in procession to the sanctuary. This format can be seen to some extent in the recording of the grand pontifical Mass with Bishop Slattery at the National Shrine in DC in 2010.

The video above should skip right to when the bishop enters the secretarium.

The prayer for removing the cappa before vesting is potent with meaning: "Take off of me, Lord, the old man with his manners and deeds: and put on me the new man, who according to God is created in justice, and the holiness of truth."

Surprisingly, with the exception of Terce, pretty much everything mentioned above is still explicitly mentioned as options for the bishop in the Ordinary Form. The modern Ceremonial of Bishops also still directs the Blessed Sacrament to be moved away from the high altar if normally reserved there, though this is routinely ignored.

I hope my readers have enjoyed this series so far. By the time I post the next one, I'll probably be able to incorporate some photos from a very special Mass that I'll be assisting (and had a hand in organizing): a gargantuan celebration of the 10th anniversary of Summorum Pontificum on September 14, 2017 at the Cathedral Basilica in Philadelphia. By permission of the archbishop of Philadelphia, our visiting bishop, +Joseph Perry, will celebrate from the throne.

If you're local, I hope to see you there! Otherwise, please tune in to EWTN, where it'll be broadcast live, or check their Facebook page around 7pm eastern time for the livestream (no account needed).

Pontificalia II: the mitre and crozier

A mitre made by Augustus Welby Pugin for Cardinal Wiseman, 1848. The blog of Westminster Cathedral described it as, "by far the most splendid thing of its kind that had been made by English craftsmen since the Reformation".

"We, O Lord, place on the head of this Thy bishop and champion, the helmet of protection and salvation, so that his face being adorned and his head armed with the horns of both testaments, he may seem terrible to the opponents of truth, and through the indulgence of Thy grace may be their sturdy adversary, Thou Who didst mark with the brightest rays of Thy splendor and truth the countenance of Moses Thy servant, ornamented from his fellowship with Thy word : and didst order the tiara to be placed on the head of Aaron thy high priest. Through Christ Our Lord.
R. Amen."

(The bestowal of the mitre, according to the old Roman Pontifical's Rite of Consecration of a Bishop)

Click here for Pontificalia I: What is pontifical Mass?

I'd like to believe that if more people had been familiar with this beautiful prayer as dramatized to great effect in the movie Becket, they would never have consented to its vandalism by the revisions of Bugnini. The reform of the rites of ordination and consecration of bishops, and especially of priests, been written about to death, so there's no need for me to rehash the arguments here. I'll just instead point out that the bestowal of the mitre, once a prominent part of the ceremonies culminating in the enthronement of the bishop in the old rite of consecration, was one of many casualties of the year 1968. The investiture of the bishop with the ring and mitre was moved from its former place after the end of Mass to before the Offertory. Strangely, it called for the mitre to be placed on the new bishop's head saying nothing at all! 

This awkward moment of silence is, thankfully, faintly remembered as it was reversed by the 1989 tweaks to the Pontifical under Pope John Paul II. The new wording, though it pales in compare to the old, at least ascribes symbolic significance to the mitre beyond some ostentatious headgear which the "experts" deigned to retain solely to appease the simple layfolk. The current formula has the consecrator say:

"Receive the mitre, and may the splendor of holiness shine forth in you, so that when the chief shepherd appears you may deserve to receive from him an unfading crown of glory."

What does the mitre signify? When did bishops start wearing them? Why are there different kinds and shapes of mitres? Why are some Anglicans objecting to the mitre today?

Raymond Cardinal Burke wearing a precious mitre

What does the mitre signify?

The mitre is, of course, the "tall pointy hat" worn by bishops and certain other prelates in the liturgy. Every bishop has a right to wear it by virtue of his order. Today, two kinds of priests are also allowed their use: abbots of religious houses, and the monsignori of the "Anglican" Personal Ordinariates (who, though merely in the presbyterate, previously served as bishops of Anglican bodies and now enjoy Ordinary status in the Catholic Church). Both these types of priests can only wear the mitre within their jurisdiction. So, while a bishop might wear his mitre anywhere he celebrates Mass, a Benedictine abbot would only wear it within his own monastery. Before Vatican II, certain other classes of monsignori were also allowed to wear the mitre, and there were complex distinctions between mitred and non-mitred abbots. Of course, any cardinal could wear one even if he isn't a bishop, but this is extremely rare today.

It's commonly held today that the mitre symbolizes the flaming tongues of the Holy Ghost, as they were seen above the heads of the Apostles at Pentecost. It's certainly fitting since the bishops are the successors of the Apostles, from whose hands flow the gift of Holy Orders. For the historian's sake, though, we must admit that this wasn't always what the mitre signified. 

When did bishops start wearing them?

Mitres as we know them today originated in Rome. Their first recorded use was by the Pope and cardinals in the 10th century, though of course they might be older. They were first a soft cap over a diadem with two lappets (strips of fabric hanging down the back), worn only for processions. Later, the Popes started to wear them even during the liturgy. Bishops of the 10th century were quick to imitate the Roman practice, so by the 1100's, they were in standard use throughout the western Church. 

As I said before, it's important to note that the mitre didn't always signify episcopal or even mere priestly authority because the privilege to wear one was granted, on rare occasion, to kings and abbesses. A king was, after all, anointed to a certain type of priesthood and, like it or not, had a say in the nomination of bishops and various other ecclesiastical affairs. An abbess could command vast tracts of land and resources, and even the obedience of the lesser clergy in her domain. The distinction between clergy and laity was well understood, but their roles in the governance of the Church were blurred by today's standards.

Some illustrations by Pugin

Why are there different kinds and shapes of mitres?

Archbishop Fulton Sheen lived
 during the age of ultra-tall mitres.

The height of the mitre roughly corresponds with the style of the age it was made. What began as squat, short points in the Gothic age grew taller by the centuries until they reached their apex in the years immediately before Vatican II. There was a sharp reaction against the 2-foot tall mitres of Pius XII's day, so the heights came down by half everywhere outside of Rome.

Unlike the height and shape, which are governed more by fashion, the color and material are actually governed by rubric and occasion. The Caeremoniale Episcoporum of the Tridentine age had settled on three kinds:

-Simple mitre (simplex): plain white linen or silk. The simple mitre was worn on penitential days, or at any gathering in the presence of the Pope.

-Golden mitre (auriphrygiata): gold fabric with some decorative trim. This was the mitre most commonly in use; specifically, on all days when the Gloria in excelsis was to be said at Mass or Te Deum at the Office.

-Precious mitre (pretiosa): like the golden mitre, but further embellished with precious stones or plates of gold and silver. These are the ones that tend to survive from the Middle Ages to the present as works of art. 

On days when the precious mitre was used, the Caeremoniale actually had the bishop switch between the precious and golden mitres during the same Mass. The precious mitre was worn for the procession, then replaced with the golden mitre for the Mass of the Catechumens. The bishop then resumed the precious mitre for the end of Mass and recession. Perhaps the rationale was that by the time the bishop was in the sanctuary, the faithful in the cathedral couldn't see the embellishments of the precious mitre from such a distance anyway, so the bishop would use a less valuable mitre in the middle of Mass to reduce wear-and-tear. The modern Ceremonial of Bishops only allows one mitre to be used by the bishop per Mass in the Ordinary Form, though.

Important: the dominant color of the mitre is always either gold or white. It was never the tradition to wear a mitre that matched the liturgical color of the day. Red, green, or purple mitres are all of very recent invention and still against the rubrics of the Ordinary Form liturgy!

The Anglican archbishops of Canterbury and York. Note York's incorrect (by Roman standards) green mitre.

Why are some Anglicans objecting to the mitre today?

There've been a few op-eds, of late, from members of the Anglican Communion calling on their bishops to put away their mitres. See Ian Paul's article, "Why bishops should throw away their mitres", or the Anglican Bishop of Croydon saying things like, “The mitre, as a symbol of power and authority, emphasises exactly the wrong things about ministry.” 

It might be a low blow to throw my Anglo-Catholic friends still in the Episcopal Church under the bus here, but the nay-sayers aren't entirely wrong. While Paul's article has some historical whoppers, it's true that the Church of England abandoned the mitre, and most other vestments, as trappings of popery. While it may be true that the first Episcopal bishop in the US, Samuel Seabury, wore a mitre, they weren't mainstream headgear for Anglican bishops until the 20th century, generations after the pioneers of the Oxford Movement. If their successors today are uncomfortable with wearing a piece of regalia that suggests being a "prince of the Church", they're right to do so. The mitre is a manifestation of Christendom: even if they don't sit in the king's council anymore, the bishops are still major landlords and, effectively, the overlords of the lower clergy. Pontificalia is the only thing visually separating the bishops from looking like the CEO's of a clerical corporation. If their idea of adapting to modernity is by taking on the dress of mainstream culture, then they deserve the ridicule and ruination that's sure to follow.

And now, a brief word on the second most distinct piece of pontificalia....

A superb example of medieval craftsmanship in this crozier's head.

What is the crozier? What does it signify?

The crozier as a symbol of the Good Shepherd, or of Moses, is too obvious to elaborate upon. But beyond that, the crozier is a symbol of jurisdiction. While a bishop can wear his mitre anywhere, he can only carry the crozier within his own diocese. Auxiliary and visiting bishops still need permission from the Ordinary to use it, although most Ordinaries give it freely, especially on major occasions. One exception is if an auxiliary or visiting bishop is giving confirmations or clerical ordinations. In this case, he's officially representing the Ordinary in the latter's absence and bears the crozier by right. Further, if multiple bishops are attending the same Mass, usually only the (principal) celebrant carries the crozier. The Church has long determined it to be gauche for many bishops to all process with the croziers at once.

An abbess's crozier at Saint Walburga's Abbey, Colorado.

As with the mitre, which is now a standard part of the rite for the blessing of abbots, the crozier is now given to all abbots as well; like before, the abbot who is merely a priest may only use mitre and crozier within his own abbey. The crozier was also formerly given to abbesses on rare occasions. This is no longer done as a matter of rite, but some abbesses may still carry the crozier on account of long-standing tradition. 

In the eastern churches, croziers take the shape not of the shepherd's crook, but either of a tau-shaped cross or something akin to the bronze serpent of the Exodus, with twin serpents surrounding a cross.

What about the Pope's staff? Is that a crozier, or something else?

You'll notice that the Pope is never seen with a crozier in the shape of a shepherd's crook. With a handful of exceptions, the popes haven't used croziers in nearly a thousand years. Because croziers imply a limited jurisdiction, popes since at least the time of Innocent III have been using a ferula instead: a staff surmounted with a cross. Medieval and Renaissance illustrations of the papal staff will usually show a cross with three bars--three being the number of completion and ranking above the mere two of an archbishop's cross. The ugly ferula with the low-hanging arms so often seen in our current day was, predictably, a product of the 1960's for Pope Paul VI. I had hoped that we would see the end of it after Pope Benedict XVI put it away in favor of an older staff used by Pius IX, but the ugly ferula has come back into vogue with the current pontiff.

A medieval pope's ferula with three bars.

Next time, we'll look at the uniquely pontifical vestments: the under-dalmatic and tunicle, gloves, stockings, and slippers.

Pontificalia III: the pontifical vestments

Pontificalia I: what is pontifical Mass?

John Ruskin, the eminent art critic of the Victorian age and contemporary Gothicist to Augustus Welby Pugin, allegedly wrote once that, 

the apex of western civilization was pontifical high Mass in a Gothic cathedral. 

Having spent the past weeks with my eyes affixed on upcoming events (I'll be assisting a major pontifical Mass at my hometown parish for the Assumption in the Ordinariate Use, followed by an historic pontifical EF celebration of the 10th anniversary of Summorum Pontificum at the Cathedral Basilica in Philadelphia on the feast of the Holy Cross) I can see where Ruskin was coming from! The rites of Mass involving a bishop in his cathedral are so painstakingly detailed, with layer upon layer grown over like bark on a thousand-year old tree, that one can be forgiven for imagining that pontifical Mass was the axis around which the entire epoch of the Middle Ages and all it stood for revolved.... because, frankly, that's not far from the truth.

Today I start a new mini-series of posts which I'll call Pontificalia. I'll dedicate a post every few days or so on one or two miscellaneous items of pontificalia: starting with the obvious ones like the mitre and crozier and then working our way down to obscure details like the bugia (the hand-candle) and the praegustatio (the "pre-tasting" ceremony for spoiled bread and wine or, perhaps, poison).

But first, what is this all really about? What are "pontificals"? What exactly does it mean for a Mass to be "pontifical"? What did pontifical Mass look like in the Middle Ages? Why weren't bishops allowed to say Mass like an ordinary priest? And, is there even such a thing as pontifical Mass in the Ordinary Form?

What are "pontificals"?

Pontificals are things related to a pontifex. If you're lucky enough to even find someone who's familiar with that word, they tend to think that refers specifically to the Pope. Of course, the Pope is a pontifex (pontifex maximus, often translated as "Supreme Pontiff"), but the word more literally translates from Latin to "bridge-builder" and can refer to any bishop, or even some priests who have been granted pontifical privileges (more on that later). 

The two most iconic pontificals throughout the ages in the western Church are the mitre and crozier. These, thank God, are held onto dearly by even the most snake-belly-low church bishops in the present-day Church. Most bishops are also still comfortable with retaining the episcopal "bling": the ring and pectoral cross. Less known are the pontifical dalmatic and tunicle, gloves, and slippers; as well as smaller instruments like the bugia, the bishop's hand-candle. More broadly, pontificals can also refer to furnishings like the cathedra (throne) and faldstool or ceremonial privileges like being attended by two deacons at the throne, or an assistant-priest in cope. We'll go into detail about some of these later on.

What exactly does it mean for a Mass to be "pontifical"?

Most people would call any Mass said by a bishop to be a "pontifical Mass", but I don't think this is quite accurate. Traditionally, a pontifical Mass is really one that's celebrated by a bishop with all of the symbols or "trappings" of his office.... or a priest who has the privilege of using pontificals, like a mitred abbot or monsignor. In this understanding, phrases like "pontifical solemn Mass" or "pontifical high Mass", while descriptive for the average layman, are redundant because all pontifical Masses are solemn. Conversely, there's not really any such thing as "pontifical low Mass". Fortescue actually calls the latter "low Mass said by a bishop" since it's mostly the same as how a priest says Mass, with a few distinctions tacked on.

The Roman Rite prior to Vatican II had developed two kinds of pontifical Mass: "Mass at the Faldstool" and "Mass at the Throne". Any bishop could celebrate from the faldstool (a special folding-chair placed in the sanctuary), but only the Ordinary of the diocese could preside from a throne when within his own territory--unless he gave that permission to a visiting bishop. Cardinals alone had the right to celebrate from the throne anywhere outside of Rome without asking for permission. 

Pontifical Mass at the Throne was the supreme model from which all other forms of Mass were derived, but it was the hardest to organize because it assumed the Ordinary of the diocese was at his cathedral with all his canons and attendants: 2 deacons-of-honor at the throne, plus 4 chaplain-bearers in copes, train-bearer, and of course, his valet in addition to the assistant-priest, deacon and subdeacon of the Mass that were expected as a minimum for Mass at the Faldstool. The stringest requirements for Mass at the Throne meant that the diocesan bishop rarely pontificated at parish churches, and didn't even pontificate in his own cathedral all that often. If the bishop was making his annual rounds at the local parish for confirmations, he would have more likely just attended the pastor's Mass in choir dress or given confirmation as a standalone ceremony. A typical Sunday Mass at the cathedral, meanwhile, was celebrated by the dean or rector even if the bishop was around.

What did pontifical Mass look like in the Middle Ages?

We have abundant evidence for what pontifical Mass was supposed to look like in the "Tridentine" centuries because the ceremonial books after the Council of Trent (the Pontificale Romanum and Caeremoniale Episcoporum) were standardized and upheld even beyond Vatican II... but what about the "pre-Tridentine" Mass? 

Nearly all descriptions of the liturgy in the earliest centuries of the Church referred to pontifical Mass because that was the norm in practice as well as on paper. At first, the bishop was the usual celebrant of a single Mass for all the Christians in each city. As numbers grew, bishops then ordained priests to serve the needs of satellite communities outside of his own reach. The bishop's Mass, however, remained normative for written accounts of the liturgy. They must have been large affairs even at the time of the Council of Nicaea because canon 18 is spent ruling on the seating of deacons and priests in the church. The deacons had gotten so uppity that, according to the text, they were receiving Communion even before the bishops in some places. 

The oldest surviving books for pontifical ceremonies that I know of are the Ordines Romani (plural of Ordo Romanus, of which there are 15 in all), a series of texts going back to the age of Charlemagne and beyond, dealing with ceremonies for the church of the city of Rome. The model is naturally the papal Mass at the Throne, with the next level down being the Mass of an ordinary bishop at the Faldstool (where, in Rome, he would never dare preside at the Throne), then Masses for ordinary priests. So we can see that the basic distinctions for different kinds of Mass are hardly the elaborations of a decadent Baroque age, but go back to the early Middle Ages, when everyone from lord to peasant was struggling to survive.

The 10th-13th centuries gave rise to several major books, culminating in the Pontifical by Guillaume Durand, Bishop of Mende (d. 1296), aka Durandus. Durand's Pontifical drew from earlier works like the Germano-Roman Pontifical and the Pontifical of Innocent III's court, but was divided neatly into 3 sections, uncluttered by anything that didn't pertain directly to bishops or was exclusive to the Pope. It was a successful formula that became the basis for the first typical Pontificale Romanum in 1485, which was adapted by Burckhard (a famous papal MC) for the Roman Curia... and then, at last, the Pontifical of the Council of Trent (1595), which went further than Quo Primum by suppressing all other local pontificals throughout the Latin Rite, with no grandfather clauses for ancient rites. That means even if you could make a case for celebrating a Sarum Mass in England according to the exceptions of Quo Primum, you couldn't do the same for a Sarum ordination rite. 

The traditional Pontificale Romanum was last edited in 1961, during the pontificate of John XXIII. Still, since even at this time, the Pontificale was substantially the same as Burckhard's, which was likewise the same as Durand's, we can safely say that a pontifical Mass in the year 1960 was carried out more-or-less the same way as a pontifical Mass in the year 1260--allowing for differences in styles of vestments and church architecture, of course. This staggering continuity is as impressive for all of my dear readers as it was horrifyingly in need of a total makeover in the eyes of Bugnini and company.

Why weren't bishops allowed to say Mass like an ordinary priest?

Quite simply, because he isn't one. A bishop, upon his elevation to the episcopacy, was held to have surrendered his former identity and, in some sense, his ability to have a private life. (To this day, eastern bishops show this by ceasing entirely to use their family surnames.) This problem came up last week when the Pontifical Commission Ecclesia Dei confirmed that a bishop isn't allowed to celebrate a "pontifical missa cantata" because the option just wasn't there in 1962. At that time, a bishop could celebrate Mass pontifically according to his station, or say a low Mass as though he were in his private chapel. That was it! The old restrictions proved to be the only things capable of preserving the medieval pontifical Mass into the 20th century. Once they were gone, the casual approach to liturgy in general did the rest.

Is there even such a thing as pontifical Mass in the Ordinary Form?

Ordinary Form Mass with Cardinal Sarah at the London Oratory, complete with assistant-priest in cope

I know it doesn't feel like there is! I can count on one hand the number of OF Masses I've been to which were ever billed as "pontifical". The phrase "pontifical Mass" appears just once, I believe, in the entire new Missal (para. 143, in reference to the pontifical blessing at the end of Mass). Ever since the new Ceremonial of Bishops came out in 1984, the preferred expression became the "Stational Mass of the Bishop". The phrase "Stational Mass" was pulled from the Church of late antiquity in reference to the church of Rome, when the Pope celebrated Mass at one of the great basilicas or shrines of the martyrs.

A Stational Mass, in the Ordinary Form, surprisingly still calls for two deacons at the throne in addition to the deacon of the Mass (though, as with most things, not an absolute requirement). You'll notice I didn't say anything about Mass at the Faldstool; all Stational Masses are now "Throne Masses" because even ordinary priests usually celebrate the fore-Mass from thrones (or "presidential chairs"). I assume the only time a distinction is made is that, perhaps, an auxiliary bishop might use a different chair other than the Ordinary's cathedra when celebrating at the cathedral.

There is, of course, no subdeacon, but there can be two deacons of the Mass to divide roles amongst each other. Oddly, a deacon who serves as MC is permitted to wear the dalmatic. Priests are forbidden from serving in the role of deacon or wearing the dalmatic, though, even in the absence of any deacons. They are instead to either concelebrate, attend in-choir, or serve as MC only. The rule against priests "dressing down" as deacons (in imitation of the eastern churches' prohibitions) seems to have only applied only to pontifical Mass at first, but is now a given for all Masses in the Ordinary Form these days.

The new Ceremonial of Bishops still explicitly mentions the pontifical dalmatic and even the cappa magna (for the solemn entrance) as options, but most of the other pontificalia are no longer mentioned. While a rare few communities like the London Oratory have preserved the use of the pontifical gloves and so on as a matter of custom, their omission in the new books has been interpreted by the Church at large to mean that they're practically abolished. Still, the new Ceremonial only gives one strict prohibition regarding pontificalia here, namely that a bishop is only allowed to wear one kind of mitre per Mass. (The old rite usually has him switch between two types at various points in the liturgy: precious and golden.)

Next time, we'll look more closely at the bishop's most distinctive apparel: the mitre, how it developed into its current shape, and why a bishop used different types even at the same Mass.

Pontificalia II: the mitre and crozier

Pontificalia III: the pontifical vestments

"Your Humble and Obedient Servant": the ars dictaminis

Earlier this week, I was a guest at the 23rd Street Armory for dinner amidst the company of the First Troop Philadelphia City Cavalry: the oldest United States military unit in unbroken service, going back to 1774 and still fulfilling its role as a mounted cavalry company as recently as this past January's presidential inaugural parade in Washington, DC. They asked to fill out a form letter stating my interest in being presented for membership; for unlike other units of our armed forces today, membership in the Troop is by election of the members on the rolls. Even the selection of officers is, recognized by US law as ancient and honorable privilege going back to the colonial era, by election from amongst the enlisted ranks.

The end of the form letter is printed with a valediction which has not been used in military correspondence since, probably, the 1950's and now seems thoroughly antiquated:

"I am, Sirs,
Your most Obedient Servant,"

I paused, smiled, and affixed my signature underneath. In that moment of reflection, my mind went back to my visit last November to the New York Historical Society in Manhattan. Among several artifacts on display there was a writing desk, pictured above, belonging to the city's famous Founding Son by adoption, Alexander Hamilton. That secretary, upon which many (hundreds? thousands?) nation-changing letters must have been scribbled by, stares back accusingly at me whenever I go more than a month without writing a post. Sitting at the desk's edge, there's a reproduction of a letter which was likely penned on that surface. It's one of the many heated letters between Hamilton and Aaron Burr which escalated into the infamous duel. This one reads:

To Aaron Burr        New York June 22d. 1804 

Sir 

Your first letter, in a style too peremptory, made a demand, in my opinion, unprecedented and unwarrantable. My answer, pointing out the embarrassment, gave you an opportunity to take a less exceptionable course. You have not chosen to do it, but by your last letter, received this day, containing expressions indecorous and improper, you have increased the difficulties to explanation, intrinsically incident to the nature of your application.
If by a “definite reply” you mean the direct avowal or disavowal required in your first letter, I have no other answer to give than that which has already been given. If you mean any thing different admitting of greater latitude, it is requisite you should explain. 

I have the honor to be   Sir   Your obed servt.
A Hamilton

Today, we find it tickling, if not pretentious and wholly insincere, to label oneself "your obedient servant" to a mortal enemy. This valediction was especially popular during the American Civil War, even in letters between opposing generals demanding the unconditional surrender of the other. And yet, these closings were but brusque, vestigial remains of the truly purple prose of former ages. Compare this to the close of a letter from the 16th century to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V:

"Your Sacred Catholic Caesarean Majesty's faithful servant who kisses your Majesty's imperial feet..."

Or even this complete valediction for a letter to a cardinal which was still in common usage into the 20th century:

"Be pleased to accept the homage of profound respect with which I have the honor to offer you as,
The humble and dedicated servant of Your Eminence,"

Such an ending makes "Your obed servt" seem curt by contrast! From the end of the Civil War to the present, salutations and valedictions have been clipped and trimmed again and again. "Your faithful and obedient servant" became "Yours faithfully, &tc", then "Your faithfully", then just "Yours". "Dear worshipful master" became "Dear Sir", then "Dear". Today, even "Dear" is beginning to seem antiquated!

The men and women of past ages would fall back on these conventions in their correspondence, regardless of their actual sentiments or familiarity with the person being addressed, because it was the product of a tradition centuries in the making. The western world's ars dictaminis, the art of written composition, was established by the institutional Church of the Middle Ages, particularly by the archdeacons and other chancery officials tasked with the business of preparing letters for the bishops. It was these men; clerks; who filled that void left in western Europe by the collapse of the ancient Roman bureaucracy. (And which, incidentally, I keep alive in my current occupation as a clerk in a Church institution. The drafting of legal military correspondence was also a large part of my job as an Army paralegal.)

When men of the warrior classes finally took it upon themselves to study the art of letters; perhaps inspired by the example of Charlemagne who made efforts late in his life to learn rhetoric at the hand of the Anglo-Saxon monk Alcuin; they learned these skills from the ecclesiastics and undoubtedly copied their formulaic methods. The rhetoricians of the 10th century onward standardized but one way of composing a letter to the Pope, one way to write to a cardinal, one way to write to a bishop not a cardinal, and on down the line.

Into the Commercial Revolution, merchants of Florence, Venice, and Bruges found the art of letters eminently useful in petitioning for a loan or collecting a debt. These generations refined the business letter to something like what we're now familiar with today:

[Boilerplate salutation according to social status]
[Warm and fuzzy expressions of regard, however insincere]
[Paragraph that gets to the point of the letter]
[Well wishes until we meet again, or at least until demands are satisfied]
[Boilerplate valediction]
[Signature]

There are still people alive in France today who can remember using such florid but standard closures as,

"Veuillez agréer, Monsieur, l'expression de mes sentiments distingués"
"Please accept, Sir, the expression of my distinguished sentiments"

By the 18th century in the American colonies, middle-class sensibilities pared these down into a small handful of variations. "Your obedient servant" had a two-fold meaning. For a social inferior or subordinate officer in the military, it was a true sign of deference. For an equal, a gesture of friendship. For a social superior, even someone like George Washington, to convey himself to a man of lower rank was a form of gracious condescension which is too easily dismissed in our times as "patronizing". Ironically, the only class of people who were unlikely to ever close a letter with "Your obedient servant" were slaves or poor working-class whites. Chances were low that they could write to begin with, but even if they could, to address themselves as "servant" would have been considered to be stating the obvious.

All this thinking about correspondence has reinvigorated my on-again, off-again interest in old-fashioned letter writing (outside of work). Alas, since I never much developed my cursive, I have to stick with typed letters on stationery.

Until next time, I remain, as ever,
The Modern Medievalist


PS. Just for fun, there's a song along this theme....

Appearance on Radio Maria tonight

If you can, please tune in to Radio Maria tonight at 6pm central time. I've been invited to speak on a program called The Shield of Faith for an hour on the subject of lay piety in the Middle Ages. I hope you're excited. I've never been on a radio program before!

To listen, go to this website, select your region, then find the live stream.

Henpecked husbands in medieval Europe

Some things never change. 

The image of a wife beating her husband with a cudgel is a common sight in medieval English cathedrals. You won't see them on the windows, or in the nave in plain sight of the faithful who poured in for daily worship. No, these were carved onto the misericords (literally, "mercy seats") that the canons of the cathedral leaned against or sat upon while praying the Hours through the course of the day. Because entry into this space of the church, called the chancel, was restricted to the clergy alone, the images on these misericords were only ever seen by them. They were rarely of explicitly religious scenes, as it was surely considered perverse to carve a holy image for the sole purpose of directly pressing one's buttocks against it. And so, the carvings tended to be flights of the artist's imagination, even inside jokes to help the priests get through the rigorous hours of prayer through the day. 

We can easily imagine the solace a priest took in his celibacy when looking upon this image, and perhaps, a reverently made sign of the cross in thanks for God's merciful deliverance from a life of henpecked husbandry.

An Unlikely Saint: summary/review of John Guy's "Thomas Becket: Warrior, Priest, Rebel", part IV

Part I: the early years

Part II: in Theobald's service

Part III: The King's right hand

Part IV: Primate of England

The news of Theobald's death turned the gears in Henry's mind toward new plots. His idea to nominate Thomas as successor to Canterbury was not a sudden stroke of genius, but the natural conclusion of a master plan to consolidate all power in the Angevin empire under royal rule. Thomas wasn't a bishop, true, but he had knowledge of every aspect of the job from his years in Theobald's service. Furthermore, he had gained the king's trust over seven years as his right hand; Henry went so far as to have his eldest son and heir, also named Henry, fostered at Thomas's house. It took a year for Henry to formally announce the nomination, during which time Canterbury's revenues were sent to the royal coffers. Thomas did not object this time because he knew the see of Canterbury, as well as the chancery, would both be in his hands regardless. He did, however, have his reservations about assuming the office at first. John of Salisbury: "He had by now learned to understand the king's character and the wickedness and rapacity of his officials." We know that Thomas hesitated because his delay caused one of Henry's early schemes to derail. Ever anxious about the fate of his empire after his death, Henry intended for Thomas to quickly assume the primacy and use its ancient privileges to crown his son within his lifetime, thereby guaranteeing a succession without the threat of rival sons rising up to stake their own claims. But, as the bishops would not accept any substitute for the right to crown and anoint a king of England, the entire affair was downgraded into a mere investiture ceremony, with Thomas presiding as the lords and bishops made their oaths. It was a far cry from what Henry had planned, but for now, he had to live with disappointment.

Today's Roman church is led by bishops appointed directly by the pope. In medieval England, the final say over the successor to Saint Augustine was in the monks of Christ Church. Henry sent a number of commissioners to campaign on Thomas's behalf, including Richard de Lucy, Abbot Walter of Battle, and Bishop Hilary of Chichester. The monks' case against: that Thomas was not a monk (all but two of the previous archbishops had been from religious orders) nor even a priest, had sullied his hands in warfare, and, of course, was feared to be a mere puppet of an avaricious king. The commissioners brought them around, however, and at a council in Westminster Abbey, the Christ Church monks unanimously gave their assent to Thomas. Only one man voiced his opposition during the entire proceedings: Gilbert Foliot, bishop of Hereford. At the time, Foliot must have appeared to have the perfect résumé for the primacy: a son of the Norman aristocracy, a prior of Cluny (which he held at only 25 years of age), an abbot of Gloucester, a supporter of the Angevin dynasty since the Anarchy, an orator, even a "strict vegetarian". Foliot probably sought the primacy for himself; he certainly resented seeing it fall into the hands of an extravagant, baseborn whelp ten years his junior. As his character in the film says, in the end, he bowed before the royal will. Thomas Becket would become the next archbishop of Canterbury.

Thomas and his followers set out for their new home, as Guy says, "following the same road that he had first taken as a young man of twenty-four on his way to join Theobald's household." Though he was greeted by crowds along the streets to great ceremony and fanfare, he dismounted and proceeded on foot once he entered the walls. Guy writes, "first impressions matter, and he was eager to create the right one." One June 2, Thomas was ordained a priest by an old patron, Walter of Rochester, but the privilege of consecrating him as archbishop was hotly contested by him, Roger of Pont l'Évêque, and other senior bishops. The honor eventually settled on King Stephen's brother, Henry of Winchester. The following day, Trinity Sunday, the rite of consecration took place.

The director of the 1964 film purposefully shot the consecration scene with, if not reverence, then respect in accurately portraying ancient Catholic rites. Every word pronounced by Donald Wolfit's Foliot is uttered with the utmost seriousness, despite his jealousy and loathing of the man he's consecrating. Of course, in history, the prayers were said by Henry of Winchester, as Foliot was given the bishopric of London as a "consolation prize" by Thomas after the election, but not in time to properly assume that see and claim any seniority. The rite may have actually gone more smoothly on the silver screen than in real life, if Foliot is to be believed. In those days, the rite of consecration was spiced with a dash of bibliomancy; after the consecrator prayed over the new bishop with a book of the Gospels laid open upon his head and neck, it would be flipped to a random page and the consecrator would utter aloud whatever he first set his eyes upon. According to Foliot in a later attack, Thomas was initiated into the hierarchy of the Church with an ill omen: "Never shall fruit be born of thee throughout eternity; and it was forthwith cast into the fire." Whether it was a lie born from Foliot's envy, a warning from heaven, or just bad luck, the new archbishop would not let a bad prognostic keep him from turning the king's machinations asunder, for as Guy says of the day Thomas received his pallium from the pope two months hence, "he can only felt he stared God directly in the face." What events transpired that summer of 1162 that transformed Thomas Becket into the man we know today? Was it an outpouring of divine grace given to him by the conferral of holy orders? Or the sudden realization that, with no one directly above him save a distant pontiff, he had become a truly powerful man in his own right? Whatever was the true cause of his conversion, it was sudden and slighting. A few months following the consecration, Thomas resigned the chancellorship. Even though such an office was routinely held by bishops elsewhere in Christendom, Thomas saw a conflict of time and interest. This would have earned Henry's wrath regardless, but especially because Thomas did so without speaking to him about it first; indeed, while Henry wasn't even in England at the time. When he learned the news, the king exclaimed "by God's eyes!" From that day forward, the battle of royal and ecclesiastical wills was on.

An Unlikely Saint: summary/review of John Guy's "Thomas Becket: Warrior, Priest, Rebel", part III

Part I: the early years

Part II: in Theobald's service

Part III: The King's right hand

Theobald briefly assumed power as regent until Henry and Empress Matilda landed from Normandy. Thomas, naturally, was present at the coronation in Westminster Abbey, presided by his master. And, to ensure that Henry would keep the terms of the Treaty and the Church's interests at heart, Theobald nominated Thomas to serve as Henry's chancellor, even sending two bishops from Normandy to make the case. The office of chancellor was usually filled by a bishop, but given his extensive involvement in royal affairs thus far, Thomas's rank in the Church was no obstacle. Henry confirmed the nomination and brought Thomas into his inner circle.

Now, whether Thomas and Henry were quite the bosom buddies they're portrayed as in the Anouilh play/film is up for debate. William fitz Stephen, the new chancellor's clerk, wrote that "never... in the whole epoch of Christian history were two men more of one mind or better friends." However, Guy observes that William gives precious little evidence to back up the assertion, opining instead that William played up the idea of a past friendship to castigate the king even more for his role in the murder; for as Dante showed us, if any sin is greater than murder in the medieval mind, it's betrayal. What we do know from history is that, at least in the first years of his term, Thomas enjoyed the king's unbound trust over the royal treasury. A common-born Londoner in a court where virtually all high offices, both secular and sacred, were held by sons of the landed gentry, Thomas was obliged to outspend his rivals in every way to assert his authority. This is completely counter-intuitive to our modern attitudes toward world leaders. Where we today are enamored with "people's popes" and presidents that pretend to have something in common with the working class, a public official in the Middle Ages that didn't enter a city in grand procession, didn't feed his guests the finest dishes available in the kingdom, or refused to appropriately dress the part, would be seen by his inferiors as weak, stingy, or both. Hospitality, or what would be known in later codes of chivalry as largesse, was a virtue that measured one's worth as a man and a Christian. There's truth to King Henry's line early in the 1964 film, "on gold plate? I am your king, and I eat off silver". Guy mentions how Thomas once served a dish of eels rumored to cost £180, "enough to keep whole families of laborers in comfort for a lifetime." When traveling to Paris on a mission to secure a marriage between Henry's son and King Louis VII's daughter, Thomas rode with over two hundred mounted followers. In Paris, he went through twenty-four changes of clothes, most being worn once or twice before being given away to Louis's courtiers as gifts, or to charity. Free beer was distributed at every village they passed on the way. Villagers are reported to have said, "if this is the chancellor and he travels in such great state, how much greater must the king himself be!"

And if people really did say such things in the streets of France, then the king could not ask for a better servant. But when the barons and bishops at home whispered that Thomas's consumption outdid the king's, it set the stage for the quarrel they would wage in later years. For now, though, Henry never seemed to mind, and was an uncouth sort in any case. Secure in his birthright, he came to court in his riding clothes and served days-old meat at his table. His hands, unlike Thomas's, were weathered as he never wore gloves save for hawking. Standing four inches shorter than Thomas, he even cut a less royal figure, so it's no surprise if visitors confused the chancellor for the king or outright preferred to dine at the chancellor's house. Thomas's popularity may have worked to Henry's advantage in the end, since he never cared for his own. From the beginning of the reign, Henry established himself as a philanderer, an imp (literally, an impious person), and worst of all, an oathbreaker, such as when he violated the terms of the Treaty of Westminster by seizing William's (Stephen's younger son's) castles and lands. This is not to say that Henry had no interest in governing the kingdom. On the contrary, he embarked on a long-term plan to restore the "ancestral customs" of grandfather, Henry I, and his great-grandfather, the Conqueror; some of which were genuine, others which sprang from the young king's imagination. 

If Theobald banked on his former protégé keeping the Church's interests at heart, he was most probably disappointed, since Thomas showed himself a king's man. The play touches on one of these instances, when Thomas, at Henry's behest, levied a tax on church landowners to pay for the military campaign in France in lieu of providing knights. The wealthier bishops and abbots found themselves paying six times as much in dona ("gifts") as they did before. And Thomas's incursions against the Church were not strictly financial, either. Guy devotes several pages to a case Thomas judged in the Exchequer alongside lords Robert de Beaumont and Richard de Lucy. In 1157, a long-lasting feud between Battle Abbey and the diocese of Chichester came to a head. Walter, abbot of Battle, had aspired to the bishopric of London, but the local bishop, Hilary, refused to give a recommendation. Instead, Hilary chose to assert "supervision over the morals and discipline of the abbey", which the monks resisted all the way until Walter was excommunicated. Fortunately for the monks, they had friends in high places that they could count on to reverse the decision. Battle Abbey drew its name from its founding, built over the site of the Battle of Hastings as William the Conqueror's atonement for the blood spilt for the English throne. The abbey, therefore, was sponsored by and intimately associated with the Norman kings; it even had charters in pristine condition which proved their royal exemption from local diocesan authority. The charters were not denounced as forgeries until nearly a century later, so in Becket's time, the issue at hand was strictly on whether a king had any authority to declare a religious community exempt from a bishop's rule in the first place. When Hilary pleaded his case before the judges, he not only defended his rights to all the souls within the boundary of his see, but went so far as to assert the bishops' autonomy from all powers save for the successor of Peter in Rome. The king, who was present at the hearing, smarted: "Very true... a bishop may not be deposed, but see (and at this he gave a violent shove with his hands), with a really good push, he could be thrown out!" Once Henry's blood was up, there was no stopping him from imposing his will. According to the abbey's chronicler, Thomas sided with the king: "You have forgotten your allegiance to the king, to whom you have, we know, taken an oath of fealty. You should therefore be prudent." In the end, for affronting the king's majesty, Hilary was forced to drop all charges and offer surrender before the entire court, much to Theobald's shame.

The ruins of Battle Abbey. The high altar is supposed to have been built over the very spot where King Harold was slain with an arrow in his eye.

The summer following the Battle case, Henry and Thomas turned their attentions westward with a mind to pacify the insolent Welsh, where Dwain of Gwynedd's men were raiding English settlers. Thomas served as capably a general as he did a treasurer and judge. Despite being formally forbidden from bearing arms by virtue of his ordination as a deacon, he personally took to the field in both Wales and later in France, often leading his men at the vanguard of the force and no doubt slaying the enemy by his own hand. In one instance, during the French campaign to reconquer territory that belonged to Eleanor of Aquitaine (Henry's wife), Thomas was left with the unenviable task of defending the fortress of Cahors while Henry retreated with the tattered remains of his army back to Normandy. All the barons had "excused themselves" from the command, but again, the London merchant's son allowed himself no such leeway. Not content with merely holding the fort, he sallied forth at the head of his men and stormed three nearby castles at great personal risk, without adequate protection in the rear, but nonetheless pushing the French to the far side of the Garonne.

Can we conclude from all this, then, that Thomas the chancellor plunged a dagger into the Church's bosom in exchange for a life of warmongering and carousing with the king? Not entirely, it seems, for even in those years, there were times when Thomas felt the need to draw a line. For instance, one of Henry's favorite ways of boosting his income was by allowing the seats of bishoprics and abbeys to go vacant for years since he was entitled to collect their revenues until a successor was found. Perhaps Thomas's experience at Canterbury illuminated him to the Church's need for good shepherds, so he used his influence to fill vacancies with haste where he could, often with worthy candidates from Theobald's inner circle of former clerks. In one case, Henry attempted to appoint a baron's illegitimate, illiterate son to the bishopric of Exeter as a favor to the father. Somehow, Thomas managed to subvert the king's will and have Theobald's favored candidate, Bartholomew, appointed instead. Another instance that pricked the chancellor's conscience was Henry's plan to have King Stephen's daughter, Mary of Blois, married off to a cousin he trusted, thereby nipping any chance at a future insurrection in the bud. The trouble was that Mary was not only an avowed nun, but abbess of Romsey. The arrangement was enough for Thomas to call "profane" and "abominable", but though he put his relationship with Henry at risk to block the marriage, his influence wasn't enough, and Mary was dragged out of the nunnery for reasons of state.

Thomas's occasional pangs of conscience at this stage in his life weren't enough to answer Theobald's summons when the archbishop was on his deathbed. To the king, he wrote, " since the evils of these days deny us your bodily presence, you would at least allow our archdeacon to return to us... He ought to have come even without our summons and would have been convicted of disobedience before the eyes of God and men did not your needs excuse him." But Thomas, for reasons unknown, never came, and in 1161, Theobald surrendered his ghost to God and left his see at Canterbury for the ravenous king to determine his successor.