The Propers: striking terror into choristers' hearts since (at least) the 1920's

"Contrary to a fast-growing error, High Mass is the Mass which the Church would have us hear. Many Catholics ignorantly believe that Low Mass is the proper Mass, which has been expanded and embroidered into High Mass by Catholics who are too pious. On the contrary, the truth is rather that Low Mass is High Mass bleached and shorn for the sake of Catholics who are not pious enough. High Mass is Mass par excellence, and the singing of the Proper is part of it, by inexorable ordinance. Therefore, when the Proper is so dull or bungling as to hinder devotion, and to make people frequent Low instead of High Mass harm is done not only to the cause of the Liturgy but also to Catholic piety."

--fighting words from a column in The Tablet on November 22, 1924

Maestro Jeff Ostrowski has, once again, pointed his readers to the next great fascinating find from the annals of obscure publications from ages past (see his post on April 5 in Views From the Choir Loft). This latest offering is from a series of essays on how voluntary (i.e. volunteer or unpaid) choirs ought to approach and execute the Proper of the Mass. In the early 20th century, The Tablet was a premier journal in the British Catholic world and beyond for all kinds of scholarship. Today, it's... rather the opposite, with the archives being no doubt a source of embarrassment to any of their present-day editors who could be bothered to read any back-issues from the 1920's.

This particular series was the fruit of a contest that The Tablet held, which would give a modest monetary prize to whoever could present the best solution to a very real problem facing churches of the time: that most parishes frankly ignored the singing of the Mass Propers altogether. About twenty years prior, Pope Saint Pius X issued forth his monumental directive on sacred music, Tra le sollecitudini. Its chief aim, to restore Gregorian chant as the normative form of music in the western Church and cull profane, secular, or overly operatic pieces from church around the world, was met with a respectable degree of success; certainly with magnitudes more obedience than any papal document to come from Rome since Vatican II.

Nonetheless, while most parishes in England had succeeded in at least implementing something the Missa de Angelis for Sundays, they were overwhelmed with the demands of Rome that the Propers (the variable sung portions of Mass, such as the Introit and Offertory antiphons; sometimes called the "minor propers" to distinguish them from the variable parts used by the celebrating priest alone, such as the Collect and Preface) be sung from its approved Vatican Gradual: the primary source for the Proper chants which are found in the Liber Usualis and sung in many Latin Mass communities today. Musicians trained in the reading and interpretation of Gregorian chant were as few and far between in those days as now, but they also had no Internet to make up the difference, nor even chant CD's to know what plainsong might authentically sound like. The more faithful directors arranged to have the Propers sung according to psalm tones or in a monotone, but the rest just ignored them altogether.

At the end of the submission period, The Tablet determined that the received entries were all so unhelpful, off-topic, or downright bad that the title and prize simply could not be given out without diminishing the paper's good name. Still, the essays printed give a glimpse at the worries of the early 20th century church choir and the remedies they chose, and a few are amusing. One essay in particular is outstandingly funny and will be reposted in full at the bottom of this entry. But as you read through these, you see that the choirs' concerns from ages past are not so different from those who sing at Latin Masses today. Anyone who's sung in an intermediate or advanced schola knows well the "weekly grind": the hour, two hours, or even more required to rehearse the Propers for that Sunday alone, only to forget them until the same Sunday next year. Once your schola upgrades to full Propers, you find yourself with little time to ever learn new Ordinaries or anything else. But, do you dare revert to the bad old days of psalm-toning? Once you attain mastery of the full cycle of Propers, it's hard to go back to anything less.

On whether hired choristers are less devout than volunteers

"It must not be taken for granted that volunteers are necessarily and invariably more unselfish and high-minded than paid singers. Many a recipient of a quarterly cheque, which rarely covers more than his out-of-pocket expenses, is truly anxious that Almighty God shall be worthily praised in His temple. On the other hand, many a volunteer joins a choir because he takes pleasure in hearing himself sing; or because the choir-gallery is an informal part of the church, where you can be inattentive during the sermon ; or even (according to credible report) to dodge the collection." [MM: guilty as charged on this one. I remember a slight sense of indignation once when I sang at a church and saw an usher come up to pass the collection plate around the organ loft]

On the importance of training grown men to sing chant

"The difficulty of inducing certain grown-up Catholics, who describe themselves as 'passionately fond of music,' to content themselves with truly ecclesiastical music, even in Advent and Lent, has caused some earnest priests to drop ordinary mixed choirs of adults altogether, and to rely on picked bodies of children, who sing sweetly and chastely the Missa de Angelis and a plainchant Credo. This is good as far as it goes. [MM: Indeed, though I prefer adult or mixed boys'/men's voices, have sung the Missa de Angelis enough for a lifetime, and am rather skeptical of all the pre-conciliar romanticism around photos of "sweet altar boys", it's hard to picture a children's choir singing these chants as anything other than heavenly.] But although 'praise is perfected out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' it is clearly fitting that the voices of grown-up persons should swell the song. 

"We must not encourage the scoffer who says that Catholicism is mainly soprano—a religion for women and children and not for men in the fullness of their manhood." [MM: What a relief to hear someone saying this almost one hundred years ago.]

Choirmastering: an age-old balancing act

"It is extremely difficult to be level-headed on the subject of music; and when a question of ecclesiastical music and propriety is touched, the fire of controversy leaps high. A member of a church congregation tells you the choir is all awry and the music too operatic, while his friend in the next pew gives as many reasons as to why the music is too gloomy and lifeless, and so on. 

"In fact, I suppose the ideal musical director would be the man who could satisfy both extremes and who could steer his course without offence to either party. Indeed, since 'operatics' in church were authoritatively discouraged, and since the entrance of plainchant as a rival to modern musical tendencies, the choirmaster's task has been a severe and unenviable one. Popular prejudices in favour of the operatic style, hard and unwise insistence on the omission of anything except Gregorian chant, have greyed the hair of many a man before his time." 

--by H.W.R. Lillie, S.J. (Saint Mary's Hall, Stonyhurst)
October 18, 1924

Needed: a professor of plainchant

"Very often he [the choirmaster] is at a disadvantage on account of his business occupations, or else his knowledge of music is so scanty that it will not bear presuming upon. No one, too, will deny that to render the chant well demands great skill and patience both in those who undertake to sing it and in the conducting of it. 

"A possible solution would be the institution of summer schools in central districts where those Who are keen to begin could attend. This seems quite a practical way out of the difficulty. Self-sacrificing teachers would, I am sure, lend their assistance to the furtherance of the cause. If summer (or vacation) schools were formed in each diocese, the standard would assuredly be raised. 

"Another plan would be the setting aside in each diocese of a competent musician who could travel round and give instruction where it was needed. A time would come when the appointment of choirmasters could he regulated, and those only who had sufficient experience and knowledge would be appointed. 

"Perhaps we shall see the day when a 'Professor of Plainchant' will have a chair in our larger seminaries and colleges—to say nothing of a Catholic college of music!" 

--from the same column by Lillie above

The real Propers: too hard to even bother with

"Our Holy Mother the Church has most wisely decreed that Whenever a Mass is sung, then the choir shall not only sing those portions of the Mass called the Ordinary, but also the Proper parts which vary according to the feasts. By a large and well-trained choir, such a task as singing the Proper in the official melodies of the Church, i.e., the Vatican chant, can be easily and gracefully performed, and we all know how delightful it is to hear the Proper of the Mass as sung, for instance, at Westminster Cathedral, whilst there are numerous other churches in London and the Provinces where the Vatican proper is very meritoriously rendered. But for a small and voluntary choir to do likewise would be entirely out of the question and should not even be attempted."  

--by the Rev. R.J. Simpson (Domodossola, Italy)
October 25, 1924

Volunteer choirs are destroying the liturgy

"To begin with, the writer cannot help uttering a protest against the very existence of the volunteer choir, viewing it as a form of musical frightfulness which has done more than any other agency to relegate the splendour of the Catholic liturgy to a state of innocuous abeyance and wellnigh oblivion. Let me state with all possible emphasis that if our clergy desire singing which will be a fitting concomitant to the descent of our Divine Lord upon our altars, it must be bought and paid for just the same as are magnificent edifices, golden chalices, costly vestments, and indeed all the other appurtenances of the Divine Sacrifice." 

--by James P. Dunn, U.S.A.
November 8, 1924

Comments from a musically literate outsider looking in

"I am not a Catholic—not even an Anglo—but I frequently attend Catholic churches, and can find my place in the book better than some of the faithful. It may interest you to know that many choirs settle the problem of the Proper of the Mass by leaving it severely alone. Some of them give creditable performances of those parts of the Mass which are sung in the same words every Sunday, but they simply pass over the variable Proper. Perhaps there is a special dispensation for Great Britain, but nobody can refer inquirers to its date and scope. You, Sir, have stated without qualification that the Proper must never be omitted from a sung Mass. I could name the defaulting choirs but I don't want to play the informer—to have it on my conscience that choirmasters have been dragged in chains to Rome. Besides, I admit that the Proper, in a majority of churches, is a trial to musical hearers, and that, more often than not, I am glad when it is skipped. Excuse a heretic's intrusion." 
-by T.T.W.
November 8, 1924

No one cares about liturgy

"I think most priests will agree with me that the laity, taken as a whole, are not much interested in the Liturgy as such. Suggestions from the pulpit that the laity should follow the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass from the missal in the vernacular—opportunities for which are by no means lacking at the present day—are listened to but seldom acted upon. For some reason or other the beautiful simplicity and grandeur of the liturgical prayers is set aside, and the exaggerated complexity of most of our devotional books is preferred. After all, truth in all its beauty is to be found in the simple and straightforward. 

"This is a pity. An interest in the Liturgy leads to investigation and, eventually, to a correct interpretation of the mind of the Church. To give an example, the Introit of Midnight Mass at Christmas speaks of the eternal generation of the Son from the Father, and, be it noted, the chant corresponds perfectly with that idea. Compare with this the Introit of the third Mass, a few hours later, and note the contrast. In other words, the Proper of the Mass when understood in the vernacular by the laity reconciles them to the style of chant employed for a particular Sunday or feast. How often have we heard the remark: 'What an uninteresting Introit for Christmas!' It is clear that what is lacking is a true interpretation of the Liturgical Mind of the Church. Given an interest in and a fair grasp of the meaning of the liturgical words, the rendering of the Proper would be vastly different from what it has been."  

-by the Rev. Richard Arscott, Southsea
November 15, 1924

They've used psalm-tones so exclusively that the youngsters think this is all Gregorian chant really is

"On making inquiry, our colleague was informed that this method of executing the Proper [MM: that is, of psalm-toning everything, even the Easter and Pentecost sequences] had obtained at the church in question for very many years, without variation. Indeed, he computed that the same chant had been used over two thousand times, and he found that some of the younger people in the congregation regarded it as 'official' music, equal in authority to the strains associated with Sursum corda and the Paternoster. In short, this kind of Proper was looked upon as the thorns besetting the mystical roses of Holy Mass. A discreet investigation revealed the lamentable fact that, although the case above described was an exceptionally bad one, the Proper is not in a good way. There are many churches where, in flat disobedience to the command of the Church, the Proper was quietly dropped so long ago that hardly anyone remembers a time when it was sung. In certain other places it is voted a nuisance by choir and congregation alike, and is perfunctorily rattled off (monotone or chanted) at express speed. Where more conscientiousness prevails, the week-night preparation of the Proper is often a bugbear to the choir, and its Sunday execution is a torture to the congregation."
--from the "Summing Up" conclusion, leading up to the first excerpt I posted
November 22, 1924

One essay by a certain Canon Reginald Vaughan stands out for its sheer delightful absurdity. Vaughan was apparently a liturgical purist of the highest sort: if an all-male choir can't be had, then it's low Mass for you. (Though strangely, it's equally acceptable to use a gramophone for music at low Mass as it is to use female singers.) It's a textbook case of letting the great become the enemy of the good, but he argues so effectively and hilariously for it that you almost want to believe.

-------------------

"A voluntary choir is, I presume, the same as an amateur choir of people who sing, not because they are paid, but because they like it. A professional choir sings because other people like it, or they would not pay. Sometimes the other people like the singing of the amateur choir, but that is when they do not think they could do better themselves, and that is when time and trouble have been spent on music. Yet the choir must not sing to please. The people's likes and dislikes can be an indication of good and bad, but only when the people are musically wise. Nor should the choir sing to edify; that will take care of itself if they sing for the love of God and music, because He is honoured when they give their best. To offer one's best means taking trouble and spending time. It also means spending money for copies—not home-made copies of copyright music, for that is an injustice to composer and publisher, and cannot rightly be offered to God. Some schools and even convents seem to be without conscience in this matter. It would be a good thing to have one or two of the richer ones well prosecuted and heavily fined. [MM: perhaps GIA Publications should start up a canonization cause for this guy.] 

"Now where sung Mass is concerned, these amateurs must be men or boys, or both. I say must, because the Pope says so. 'Women cannot be admitted,' he says. [MM: Vaughan is merely quoting from Pius X's Tra le sollecitudini directly here.] The choir must be composed of clerics, or of those who are capable of being clerics. This has been perfectly clear for twenty-one years, and yet I believe there are places where Mass is sung, Proper and all, by 'mixed' choirs, in open defiance of the law. They plead 'necessity'; but, surely, a place where there are not enough men or boys is a place where 'necessity' should compel them to keep the law, and do without a sung Mass. 'Low Mass with music' is another thing; this music is not liturgical, and may perhaps be performed by women or gramophones.  [MM: or, in our century, perhaps chant played through an iPhone connected to speakers? I once visited an historic downtown church with just such an arrangement. I also heard the phone's ringtone echo throughout the nave when it started to receive an incoming call.] The matter rests with the celebrant. If he sings 'Dominus vobiscum,' the women must keep silence, for it is a Missa Cantata, and they are liturgically 'incapable' of singing 'Et cum spiritu tuo.' I do not know how nuns manage; but then, they are not voluntary choirs in the sense of this discussion. 

Besides, women almost invariably wobble. They have been spoken to very seriously by the highest authorities about this disgusting vice, and they have heard Dame Clara Butt. And yet, where there are women who profess to sing, you shall be driven half crazy by their everlasting 'vibrato' as they call it. And worse, they do it in church, and you cannot get away. They take an unfair advantage of your compulsory presence, and scarify your long-suffering ears with their horrible accomplishment, till you begin to think the deafness of Beethoven would be a blessing. Pius X knew a thing or two. This prohibition is the clearest thing in the whole 'Motu Proprio.' [MM: I read that Rome was issuing dispensations to allow female singers within days of the motu proprio's release.]

If sopranos are wanted, we must have boys. Now your boy, at his best, is peerless. But short of his best—even when he is not a mere squalling infant—is he worth the trouble? For he is the most difficult of all wind-instruments, and you have to get a new one every three years, and begin all over again. To get the best results out of boys, and perhaps the only results really worth having, you must run a choir-school--and then the choir is not voluntary. [MM: I don't understand why every Catholic cathedral on earth doesn't have a choir school attached to it. Actually, never mind; I do know why. I just don't like the answer.]

Singing is natural in men and birds. The man who cannot sing is defective, physically, mentally, or morally. [MM: Amen. Alleluia. It is written.]

He has no mouth, or is feeble in his wits, or is wanting in courage. Ask a man if he sings, and the answer is usually in the negative. But his wife has heard him in the bath room, and knows better. He means that he is not a drawingroom warbler—and a good thing, too. Your drawing-room warbler squeezes his wind-pipe and blocks his nose and does several other pachycephalous things under the delusion that it sounds nice. Sometimes he is so monumental an idiot that he tries to wobble. We do not want the drawing room voice in church. We want the bath-room voice. A man cannot add a cubit to his stature, an octave to his compass, or a Caruso-quality to his top note. But he can be a good man of his inches, and can use the voice God gave him without affectation, which is idolatry. An ugly voice, honestly used, is better for church-singing than a pretty one faked up to show off. However, very few men's voices are ugly, when they are allowed to work in their own natural simple unsophisticated way. [MM: All true. When your average American "dude" protests that he can't sing a lick, it's more of a cultural barrier or a lack of actually trying. I apply this to myself as well. I believe if I earnestly tried to study maths like my life depended on it, I could probably, eventually figure it out.]

Take the man who says he has never sung in his life, tell him to take a deep-sea diver's breath, open his mouth wide, and, while you play the chord of G major with all the stops out, let rip whatever comes. He will probably yell G or B or D, and be surprised at the music there is in him. He will soon learn, unless he be defective, to handle the joy-sticks of his vocal machinery, and let out notes of any pitch within his range, loud or soft. The less he thinks about quality of tone the better. Teach him to open his mouth, to avoid all sensation of tightness in the muscles of his head, to pronounce his vowels correctly and his consonants distinctly; warn him solemnly against Reginarangelorum and Hosannarinexcelsis, and the quality will take care of itself. As for reading, anyone who has mastered the mystery of deciphering The Tablet can learn to read a line of diatonic melody. It is not easy at first, of course, especially when others are singing different tunes, but few things are that are worth doing. 

Of accompaniment, the great thing is to be able to do without it. Who was the criminal lunatic who first said the organ was to 'lead the singing'? Surely he was a Protestant—probably a Lutheran. Yet God brings good out of evil, and we have the Big Organ and J. S. B. (By the way, cannot some one of our historical pundits put in some good work and find out that Bach was a Catholic? They have nearly done it for Shakespeare.) [MM: See Joseph Pearce's many recent books on this subject, such as The Quest for Shakespeare.] And I suppose that, as for this people that knoweth not the law, the Holy Instrument must condescend to lead their artless hymns. Most of them sing the 'treble'; women and children at correct pitch (when in tune), men an octave lower, as is natural and not wrong. Sometimes a woman, or a boy who thinks he is clever, will sing 'seconds,' which, I understand, is the tune three notes down the scale. Or a woman with a music-book (and a wobble) executes the tenor part higher up. The deeper-voiced men supply what they call 'bass,' instinctively following the progression of roots where it is obvious, and doing any old thing where it is not. Some, I have observed, reverting to the Hucbald type, sing in fourths or fifths, while others are like the late Dr. Benson, as recorded by his son: 'He produced a buzzing noise that bore no relation to any known melody.' And occasions are not unknown when three versions of the same tune, each with its own set of variations as above, may be heard simultaneously. Under such conditions it is not a sin to try to bring unity out of multiplicity, order out of chaos, by using the organ for a purpose for which it was not originally intended. But popular hymn-roaring is not Liturgy. The choir that cannot sing without its organ is not worthy to be called a choir. At certain times the organ is supposed to be silent. If the Church allows it then to be played softly to 'support the voices' it is a concession to human weakness of which Englishmen should be ashamed to avail themselves. A pitch-pipe is all the organ they should need. 

But so wedded are we to the organ and so dependent upon it that, if on a Sunday the wind should fail, either the choir goes all to pieces, or, if it has been properly taught and continues as if nothing had happened, the people gape with astonishment at the marvel.
In places where they cannot afford an organ there is never any question but they must spend good money on some nasty substitute, perhaps one of the things called harmoniums—a dismal piece of furniture from the interior of which one squeezes gruesome sounds suggestive of pain in the abdomen. Unclean though it is, however, there is a certain blatant honesty about the thing that renders it less utterly loathsome than the horrible contraption known as 'American organ.' [MM: Many Americans have come to terms with these abominations by simply allowing them to fall into disrepair and disuse permanently. In Philadelphia, we have churches whose organs have been busted for decades! Unfortunately, they've done just the same to the good organs, too.] One of the mysteries of our complex life is to account for the unblushing presence in Catholic churches of this meretricious abomination, that pretends to be a big thing on a small scale, and panders to corrupt taste with its vulgar 'grand' effects, and flaunts its painted pipe-top in front of an altar built of soap-boxes. Were I a Bishop-----! [MM: God knows how many times I've said "were I a bishop" in my short lifetime.] One row of good diapasons is better for all church purposes than the largest 'reed-organ' ever made, and would cost less. 

Now what Proper of the Mass shall our men sing? I will say at once and boldly—not the Vatican Gradual. They will inevitably spoil it. It is much too difficult for any but experts in that style. It is a wonderful collection of oneline songs, and this kind of music, perhaps more than any other, is either very good or very bad, according to the way it is done—Corruptio optimi pessima. Compare 'Home, Sweet Home,' as Patti used to sing it, with the same simple melody rendered by a gang of Chinese coolies. Most Englishmen, though able to sing modern 'figured' music very well, would extract a din quite as hideous out of the Vatican Gradual. I have heard plainchant that, if it were broadcasted without introduction, might be taken for steers waiting to be bulldogged. And we wonder why there are people to whom plainchant 'does not appeal,' and why England does not get converted. Is it a great wonder, when we show them the noise of a cow-yard, and say, 'This, my brethren, is the Church's own music'? There is a vulgar notion that plainchant is easy, because it is in unison. Of course, it is easier to read one line than two, but you might as well say that, for this reason, it is easy to play the cello. Try I can well believe that it takes ten years to train a monk to sing, though he may practise every day. But our men are business men with families in potentia if not in actu, and it means much to come out of an evening after a day's work. 

They will, however, if they are interested. And they will be interested if something worth singing is put before them, something not too foreign to their taste, something that needs work to make it go well. Also, if their attention is not distracted, and their valuable time wasted by the presence of a bevy of ladies or a cage of boys. 

And they will be more than interested if they realize the dignity of their office, which places them next in official importance to the clergy themselves. 

We must, then, find something worth singing well that can be got up in a short time. It would do many choirs a great deal of good to practise monotone. A 'reciting note' is by no means easy to do neatly. You get this kind of thing :—Dodomiminominussssfofortitityoudoodopleplebississyouay. 

Your men may be excellent as individuals, but they are not a good choir till they can sing all together on one note :— Dominus fortitudo plebis suae, like one large man. 

The Proper can be set to the conventional psalm-tunes. It is not very interesting, but quite good when well done, i.e., when they 'recite' as above, when every man knows what tune is going to be sung, where the inflexions are to occur, and which commas are to be observed.

[MM: I've removed some of Vaughan's more technical commentary here on method, but you can see it, with the musical notation, in the original scan of the article on The Tablet's website.] 

But we can do better. Dr. Tozer published a book of Propers for mixed voices. He has used the 'recitingnote' freely, and, especially at the ends of phrases, divided the text into regular measures. The result is often pleasing, not unlike an 'Anglican Chant' without its woodenness. For men's voices, of course, these pieces have to be adapted. And here, if space permit, I would digress a little on the surprising ignorance of many who 'do the singing' in church. They do not seem to know that when a man sings 'treble' he sings an octave below what is written. Consequently, if two tenor-men and two bass-men sing something written for soprano, alto, tenor and bass, the tenor will frequently get above the soprano, and the bass above the alto. Chords get inverted, and there may be consecutive fifths. Thus: the most practical Propers for voluntary choirs will probably be on lines somewhat similar to those followed by Dr. Tozer. [MM: Jeff Ostrowski posted a scan of the Tozer Propers online for the first time ever, I believe, in 2014. They were first published in 1905, a couple years after Pius X's motu proprio, to allow choirs unfamiliar with chant to comply with the requirement of singing the Propers by setting them to harmony, sort of like Anglican chant. You can view them here.] 

Some of the texts are very refractory, but art thrives under restriction. It is an opportunity for our musicians to show their mettle, a test of musicianship worthy of the greatest composers. What, for example, would Sir Edward Elgar make of the Offertory for the 21st Sunday after Pentecost? 

These pieces must be less difficult to sing well than the Vatican Gradual. They may be with or without accompaniment, for 'mixed' (boys' and men's) or for 'equal' voices; for one voice, or two, or more. There must be no undue repetitions, and, as the Frog tactlessly remarked when asking Mrs. Mouse to sing (did she wobble?), 'Let it be something that's not very long.' Let our music-makers, then, get first to prayer, and then to work and compose Propers. The monks of St. Gall did it, and we also have gifts of music by the same Spirit, together with larger resources and more science. Let them design musical miniatures, joyous vignettes of contrapuntal tracery, or strong gems of harmony, like the chasing and the jewels that adorn the chalice. With prayer and work, perseverance and a pure intention, our Parochial High Mass will become a source of interest and reasonable pride for choir and people, and a joy in Heaven." 

--by the Rev. Reginald Vaughan, C.R.L.
October 11, 1924

The Annunciation and the cycles of life

Window of the Annunciation, designed by Augustus Welby Pugin for Bolton Priory, 1851.

As you may know, the feast of the Annunciation, celebrating the conception of the Lord in the Virgin's womb, was transferred to the first day after Easter week because its usual date; the 25th of March, precisely nine months before Christmas; happened to be Good Friday this year. It will not happen again until we are all but ashes and dust: AD 2157.

The Annunciation, like most other feast days, enjoyed a much higher degree of observance in the medieval world and remained a holy day of obligation until the 1800's. In England, it was Mary Day, reckoned as the first day of the civil year all the way up until Great Britain (and the American colonies) adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1752. Though we in the West moved the feast to the first available day so it wouldn't conflict with Holy Week and the octave of Easter, I'm told that the Eastern churches observe both Good Friday and the Annunciation together whenever they coincide. There is a beauty to this: the Lord's earthly life beginning the same day it ends. To the modern imagination, it's another piece of medieval macabre, but I like to think it enforces our teaching that life begins at conception. Furthermore, it was long part of our tradition, extending even before the Middle Ages, that March 25 was the "historical" date of the Crucifixion. I don't care to test the truth of the claim now because the message is more important: Christ is the Alpha and Omega, beginning and end. The poet John Donne knew as much and wrote, on this phenomenon in 1609:

"All this, and all between, this day hath shown,
The abridgement of Christ’s story, which makes one
(As in plain maps, the furthest west is east)
Of the Angels’ Ave and Consummatum est."

I was privileged to observe yesterday's feast by attending and singing some of the proper chants at a solemn high Mass in the traditional Latin rite last night. (The Communion antiphon, Ecce virgo concipiet, has been stuck in my head for years thanks to its appearance in a chant CD that I listened to in my car for years.) 

There's a special significance I just realized about the venue chosen for this Mass. This parish hosted one of the "Anglican" Ordinariate communities for some time following their exodus out of the Episcopal Church. Though they merged with another Ordinariate community closer to Philadelphia and acquired a church property to call their own this past Advent (and of which I'm now a member), that fledgling group of converts used this church as a refuge, "baking" like the infant Jesus in Mary's womb following the angel's annunciation, until they were ready to come forth and take their place as a proper parish in the life of the greater Church. And now, the pastor who celebrated this Annunciation Mass pictured above will be attending our Ordinariate community's first solemn Evensong with Bishop Lopes when he arrives this Friday for a visitation.

It seems this life is a pilgrimage in which the liturgical year allows us to live over and over again in cycles, but not in an infinite circle like that imagined by the pagans of old; rather, loops in a spiral that extends ever higher until, we may hope, we find peace in the everlasting kingdom upon which the sun never sets.

Ecce virgo concipiet, et pariet filium: et vocabitur nomen ejus Emmanuel. (tempore Paschali) Alleluia.  

Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bring forth a son: and his name shall be called Emmanuel. (in Eastertide) Alleluia.

Quasimodo Sunday and the eyes of Notre-Dame

I have a semi-frequently observed tradition of watching Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame every year on the first Sunday after Easter (also called Low Sunday, the second Sunday of Easter, the Octave Day of Easter, Dominica in albis, etc., etc.). What on earth does Easter have to do with a Disney cartoon, you may ask? The answer lies in the traditional Introit chant for this day, also called Quasimodo Sunday:

Quasimodo geniti infantes, alleluia: rationabiles, sine dolo lac concupiscite, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. 

As newborn babes, alleluia: desire the rational milk without guile, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. (1 Peter 2:2)

Today's header picture, featuring the text of today's Introit in a finely illuminated form on a manuscript, was taken from the video recording below.

That incipit, a compound of the Latin quasi and modo, has been reduced to as mere "as" in the English translation; but a more literal take might be "as if, in a way" or "almost the standard of measure". Thus, in Victor Hugo's 1831 novel Notre-Dame de Paris ("The Hunchback of Notre Dame"), when Claude Frollo discovers a misshapen baby abandoned on the steps of the cathedral, he bestows the name Quasimodo with a twofold meaning: first for having been found on the Sunday after Easter, but also for appearing "as if, in a way", a human being...

The opening sequence of the Disney version, like the rest of the film, is so different from the book that there's barely any resemblance, but that in no way stops it from being a masterpiece of song and animation. In the movie, Frollo is not the archdeacon but a secular magistrate, while the archdeacon is made into a separate, more benevolent character. This Frollo slays a Gypsy woman on the steps of the cathedral in pursuit and is about to toss her baby into a nearby well until:

"for one time in his life of power and control,
Frollo felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul."

When Hugo wrote the novel, his readers, unless they were very old, had to imagine what the "eyes of Notre Dame" looked like because most of the statues had been destroyed by the plebeian vandals of the French Revolution. Indeed, this was precisely the reason the book was written in the first place: to bring a sense of cultural awareness to Notre-Dame's value at a time when the civil authorities were thinking of having the grand old (disrepaired) edifice torn down entirely. The statues we see resting on the western facade today are, thanks in part to Hugo's efforts, restorations made by Viollet-le-Duc, the famed restorer of the Sainte-Chapelle.

Some of the statues, refashioned in the mid-19th century by Gothic revivalist Eugene Viollet-le-Duc, will be shown in Disneyfied form below....

"You can lie to yourself and your minions; you can claim that you haven't a qualm.
But you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes: the very eyes of Notre Dame" (Kyrie eleison)

These are from the Gallery of Kings: 28 kings of Israel and Judah, representing Christ's and our Lady's royal ancestors through the line of David. They were commonly assumed by the people, however, to be ancient kings of France, so they were all decapitated and buried during the Revolution.

One of many representations of the Virgin and Child throughout the cathedral. This one stands outside in front of the rose window.

An excellent photo of the Viollet-le-Duc restoration as found on this site.

And, of course, you owe this post a viewing of the film's opening sequence, if you've never seen it before....

Simnel cakes

At my local Ordinariate parish for Laetare Sunday, the priest blessed the "simnel cake", which apparently has some traditional associations with mid-Lent in England. The whole thing drew a blank on me until I looked it up on the Internet afterward, but the custom seems to have grown out of Victoriana. The eleven balls stand for the Apostles (minus Judas). Unfortunately, I forgot to grab a piece on the way out, so I can't tell you if it was any good....

The importance of singing the Mass

I just watched the whole funeral broadcast for Justice Scalia and have to say, that was the most reverent Mass of burial anyone could reasonably expect out of the National Shrine, given the circumstances. I could nag about certain details like the use of white instead of black vestments, or the (entirely-expected) lack of the Dies Irae, but let's face it: we will probably never again witness such a high-profile Mass with the Vice President and so many other notable persons in attendance where the Introit Requiem Aeternam is sung and the priest uses the Roman Canon, much less preaches a homily so explicitly Catholic and mindful of the four last things as what just happened this morning in Washington. Has Biden ever sat through a funeral oration where the priest began:

"We are gathered here because of one man. A man known personally to many of us. Known only by reputation to even more. A man loved by many. Scorned by others. A man known for great controversy. And for great compassion.

That man, of course, is Jesus of Nazareth." 

Talk about a bait-and-switch to remember!

Here, though, I'd like to focus on a smaller detail that no other blog is likely to mention: the fact that Father Paul Scalia went so far as to sing the collects, the Preface, and a great deal of the other parts of Mass. One of the potential geniuses of the pre-conciliar rite was how it required a priest to sing the entire liturgy if there was to be any sung or solemn Mass at all. Of course, in the last couple of centuries or more, security turned to folly, and clerical laziness meant that low Mass would be the most well-trod path. With the 1970 Missal abolishing the hard distinctions between low, sung, and solemn Mass, the vast majority of priests naturally opt not to sing any of the Mass at all (except, oddly, the "by him, and with him, and in him" at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer; a phenomenon which I hope someone will explain to me some day).

Why does it matter, you might ask? Quite simply, because it takes the man's personality out of the liturgy and gives him the voice of the saints throughout the ages. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, of all men, has said he would have traded all of the music he ever composed in exchange for having the credit for composing the Gregorian Preface. But when a priest or other reader in the liturgy merely recites a text, he inevitably gives it his own voice; he impresses the liturgy with his own personality. As glad as I was to see Justice Clarence Thomas read the Epistle, and as dignified as his voice is, it's still distinctly Clarence Thomas reading the word of the Lord. When a lector or subdeacon chants the text in the traditional tone, it's much harder to think of its words emanating from another mere mortal's mouth. Above all, when a deacon sings the Gospel in the midst of the assembly, I think not of the man reading it, but of the words as though they were coming from Christ Himself.

The deacon singing the Gospel at our nuptial Mass

Honoring and praying for the dead: then and now

A few of the 180 clerks that have worked for Justice Antonin Scalia lined up at the steps to the US Supreme Court. At the head, in cassock and surplice, is the late Justice's son, Father Paul Scalia of the Diocese of Arlington.

As I type this, the body of Justice Antonin Scalia lies in repose at the United States Supreme Court. I'm not generally a political blogger and it's not my intention to canonize the man here, but from what I know of him, Justice Scalia was an exemplary Catholic with a great heart and a Morean sense of humor, and was committed to a consistent interpretation of the Constitution over any political or party loyalties. I've learned at least one fascinating fact about Scalia every day this past week from articles shared by friends. For instance, on one occasion, he walked into a Catholic church that had been remodeled after Vatican II and loudly exclaimed, "where the hell is the tabernacle!?" It's still hard to believe he's gone; Scalia sat on the Court since before I was even born and will be, most likely, the highest-ranking US public official to ever have frequently attended the traditional Latin Mass for the rest of my life (indeed, a handful of traddies find it highly suspicious that one of "their own" was able to make it so far up without soiling his immortal soul in the process).

There was probably some heated debate behind closed doors between Scalia's son, Father Paul (a regular celebrant of the traditional Latin Mass), and the powers-that-be in the Archdiocese of Washington over what form of Mass the Requiem for the late Justice would take, but it was decided that it would be the Ordinary Form. Whatever Scalia's wishes might have been, it was surely determined that a Requiem in the old rite would have been just too bizarre and even embarrassing to cast before the whole nation's gaze. It could have been the most-watched Latin Mass in history since John F. Kennedy's funeral, but alas. It's a twofold shame; first, in that Catholics have near-completely abandoned the practice of praying for the dead, and second that they, like the rest of the developed world, have little concern for respecting the dead's wishes or honoring them in fitting ceremony.

The old Requiem Mass with its solemn, somber chants was the finest jewel in a crown of prayers and special rites developed by our medieval forebears to remember and pray for their deceased loved ones, even in a world where death lurked behind the corner for every man, woman, and child with no respect to age, status, or wealth. The Ordo Commendationis Animae (Order for Commending a Soul to God) began with prayers over the just-deceased person, then a procession bearing the corpse directly to the church. This was a communal event in every village, whereby even those who didn't know the deceased could join. From 1389 on, an indulgence of one hundred days was attached to joining a funeral procession on the way to the church.

There were, of course, no funeral homes in those many centuries, so bodies were cleaned and prepared on-site (perhaps in the crypt), then laid out in the chancel on a platform encompassed by a "herse" (a framework to support candles over and around the body) as the clerks or monks began Vespers from the Office of the Dead. This vigil of prayer is, as far as I know, only kept today by very devout associations such as the Knights of Columbus, who are committed to praying the Rosary on the night before any deceased member's Mass of burial.

Illustration of a herse by Gothic revivalist Augustus Welby Pugin, a "patron" of this blog.

The Office of the Dead continues the following morning with Matins and Lauds. Although these were sung chiefly by the clergy and monastics, evidence abounds that these services were held nearly and dearly by the lay faithful. Every book of hours (those prayer books, often richly illuminated, used by the more well-to-do laymen of the medieval world) contained, usually toward the end, a full order of service for the Office of the Dead. Unlike the other hours and devotions, which tended to be abbreviated forms of the ones used by the clergy, the layman's book of hours contained the whole Office of the Dead, unabridged. We can see from surviving last wills and testaments that nobles would leave very specific instructions for how these offices would be executed upon their deaths, indicating their preferences for the Placebo (the opening of the psalm Placebo Domino from Vespers) or Dirige (from Matins, Dirige Domine) just as anyone today might call for "Amazing Grace" or "On Eagle's Wings".

An illustration of the Office of the Dead from the Llangattock Hours

Even before the main funeral Mass, other Requiem Masses might be offered the day before or the same day upon receiving news of the death. A testator might have even requested one or more of his favorite (non-Requiem) Masses to be offered for his soul. Imagine, then, a priest vested in white or red to offer the votive Mass of the Holy Ghost or a deceased's patron like Saint John the Baptist, complete with Glorias and Alleluias, before then changing to black to begin the Requiem!

We come, at last, to the Requiem Mass itself: the Mass with prayers and chants dedicated entirely to the eternal rest of the deceased. The whole liturgy is directed for the departed soul: the Roman liturgy eventually even modified the Agnus Dei to end with "grant him (her, them) rest" rather than the communal "have mercy upon us". The most famous of all these chants, and the one most likely to appear in a film touching upon anything related to the danse macabre is the Dies Irae: the Day of Wrath. This sequence, at least six minutes of chanting about God as the just and terrible Judge on the last day, remains an option for Ordinary Form funerals in theory, but is so rare now that we can call it effectively suppressed. No other single aspect of the traditional Requiem was so memorable, nor so despised and vilified by liturgical authors during and after the Second Vatican Council, as the Dies Irae. The four last things (death, judgment, heaven, and hell) have never been so out of fashion.

In the earliest stages of the Requiem Mass's development, say the seventh or eighth centuries, monks were wont to keep the practice of offering Requiems to themselves, judging the laity unworthy of having a special Mass offered just for themselves. This quickly gave way to the opposite approach; that every Christian, no matter how sinful, was entitled not just to their own Requiem, but an exsequial high Mass; a spirit of charity to the dead that lasted right up to the Reformation.

Illustration of a Requiem Mass by A.W. Pugin

At the end of the Requiem, the priest approaches the body to incense it and pray the absolutions, imploring God to spare the soul the temporal punishments earned in purgatory for sins forgiven in life. Modern Catholic funerals no longer require the presence of a body, but in the medieval world, it was essential to even have a Requiem at all. If a body couldn't be had, then a mock-up of an empty casket, called a catafalque, was erected to represent the body. This was especially needed during the Crusades and the Hundred Years' War, when men regularly died in battle many miles away from home. Even then, great efforts were made to mark exactly where a body was buried, so that years or even decades later, a family could dig it out and reinter it in their family chapel. Catafalques, likewise, were erected even for memorial Requiems for groups of persons, or for commemorating all the souls of the faithful departed on All Souls' Day.

A catafalque erected for an anniversary Requiem for King Louis XVI of France, who was beheaded during the French Revolution

Time will tell if anything remotely resembling the traditional exequies will take place for Justice Scalia at the National Shrine tomorrow. EWTN will begin broadcasting at 11am. I've read that Scalia's son, Father Paul, will preach the homily, but don't know if he will be the celebrant. In any case, I'll be watching, thinking, and praying.

Father Paul prays Psalm 129 (130), de Profundis, beside his father's casket in the Supreme Court building.

Candlemas

February 2 was, like so many other feasts that have fallen by the wayside in modern times, one of the great Christian festivals of the medieval world. It commemorates the fortieth day after Christmas, when the Blessed Mother presented the infant Christ at the Temple of Jerusalem and submitted herself for ritual purification according to the law of Moses. At Christendom's height, a lengthy service prior to Mass developed which involved the blessing and distribution of candles, and a procession of lights around the church or even the village. We may or may not have inherited this love of walking about with candles from our pagan forefathers, but its Christian significance lies in the words of Simeon, the elderly Jew to whom the Holy Ghost promised he would not die until he had seen the Messiah with his own eyes. Simeon was present at the Temple during the presentation of Jesus, and said:

"mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people;To be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of Thy people Israel."

Last Tuesday, I was privileged to partake in these traditions in a small but special way. Solemn high Mass in the old rite was celebrated at the Cathedral-Basilica in Philadelphia. I joined some servers of varying ages from the various Latin Mass communities across the city, as well as three diocesan seminarians, to walk in the procession around the church and sit "in choir" for the Mass. As the candles were being distributed to the congregation, the choir sang the words Simeon spoke all those centuries ago, the Nunc dimittis.

Lumen ad revelationem gentium. "A light to enlighten the Gentiles."

Small as my role was, this Mass was a life-changing experience for me. Perhaps not a Damascene conversion or fodder for a column in a vocations magazine, but I couldn't help but feel a stronger pull toward an ongoing discernment I've had for years toward the so-called "permanent" diaconate. It's very rare for lay servers these days to be able to attend Mass in the sanctuary, but without all the distractions of multiple duties. When you sit "in choir", though, you enjoy being not only very close to the altar, but some freedom to simply watch and pray the Mass, or read from a hand missal when seated. I even fulfilled the "choir" part of being "in choir" by singing the Credo from my Liber Usualis (the rest of the Mass Ordinary was polyphonic). It was amusing to watch the young boys in front of me awkwardly exchanging the kiss of peace, to the second MC's dismay. I hope they continue to foster a love for the altar and consider a vocation to the priesthood.

And to think: all this taking place in the very same sanctuary where the Pope himself celebrated Mass  for the clergy of Philadelphia just a few months ago!

Some of our Knights and Dames of Malta joined in this procession as well.

The vestments selected for this Mass were splendid Gothics with fleur-de-lis.