(This article was originally written for Pastoral Music, written in November 2009. I forgot which issue, but let's say early 2010!)
Those
who wish to meaningfully assist after a disaster apply a strategy defined
during the Great War by French battlefield physicians called triage. As many know, especially fans of
the 70s sitcom M*A*S*H, medics group the wounded into three categories: those
who will die with or without treatment, those who will survive with or without
treatment, and those for whom treatment will matter the most in creating a
positive outcome for survival and health. It is these who are attended to
immediately, and whom doctors and other medical personnel attempt to evaluate
in expeditious ways.
For
anyone who, like me, thinks that the all-but-approved new translation of the
liturgy is a disaster, this analog offers a compass for the next steps we
should take, if we want to be helpful. A disciplined silence under the rubric primum non nocere, energized by
life-giving principle of kenosis will
be a good first step, and clearly not an easy one as we deal with the
indignation of the unconsulted millions of priestly people who make new
translations financially possible by the irrevocable placement of an hour or
two of their lives in the collection plate and appeal envelopes every week or
so. Maybe the furor will end with a whimper, but that doesn’t seem likely.
Much
ink has already been spilled both in defense of Vox Clara and ICEL and in
repudiation of their work. If Comme le
prevoit, Paul VI’s translation mandate that with cultural respect
authorized dynamic equivalence with the Latin editio typica as the model for vernacular versions, was the
document of entente that put flesh on
the spirit of aggiornamento and
global Catholicism, then LIturgiam
Authenticam, demanding formal equivalence with the Latin edition, was the
ecclesiastical equivalent of eminent domain, a taking back of land once ceded
to and owned by the people, and a pious declaration of war on our pathetically perceived ability to pray in
our own language. The suggestion that the English translation had to be reined
in because it is the de facto
international language used to translate the Roman rite into other languages
has been countered by the sane suggestion that a scholarly formal translation
be used for such cases, and that a pastorally sensitive, poetic and musical,
dynamic equivalent translation be used for Anglophone worship. The suggestion
has fallen on the mitered deaf ears of the plenipotentiaries of the appropriate
dicastery. The run-on sentence and embedded conditional clause are about to
make a big comeback in American worship.
As
I see it, the issue that remains to be resolved in the United States, however,
is not whether the folks in the pews, us folks, will adapt to the elephantine
lilt of the new old English, but whether bishops and priests will. Let’s just
say “priests,” because, let’s face it, bishops can do whatever they want, for
better or worse, in their own dioceses. But this submission to the rite,
however ill-conceived the new transliteration is, by those specifically charged
with its implementation, is an important issue of justice. Let me just make a
few observations about the liturgical dialogues under the ancien régime of the 1973 version, the catechetical and therefore
ecclesiological repercussions of those, and let you draw your own conclusions.
Luckily, blessedly for us, there is also good news, because we’re neither the
beginning nor the end of the story. I’ll finish up, briefly, with an appeal
both to Sacrosanctum Concilium and
the New Testament, which, again, luckily, blessedly, are not covered by any
anathemas or those chilling words, “anything prior to the contrary
notwithstanding.”
Among
the functions of ritual, particularly those of important initiation rituals
like the Eucharist, two important ones for this discussion are that ritual
defines the boundaries of a group’s identity and that it establishes
relationships among the group’s members. My last parish, St. Jerome’s in
Phoenix, was among the top 5% of Boy Scout troops in the United States in
producing Eagle Scouts, and during my years there, I attended dozens of courts
of honor. Within those evening celebrations, one witnessed the core values of
scouting made visible: love of the outdoors, good citizenship, respect for
elders, what one might call civil virtue. At the same time, all the various
rankings of scouts were present in the emblems of their rank and participation,
including many adult Eagle Scouts who had long before added that status, and
all that it represents, to their résumé. The ritual of becoming an Eagle Scout
vividly and robustly demonstrates the values of scouting and the relationships
among its leaders, members, and their families.
The
Eucharist, and really, all the sacraments, being of the anthropological genus
“rite,” have analogous dynamics of identity and relationship. Both in what we
do and in how we do it, we express our nature as baptized children of God,
resident aliens in another empire, incorporated by the gift of the Holy Spirit
into the living Christ who, in pouring self out for the life of the world,
offers a perfect sacrifice of agape
that adoringly, mimetically, mirrors the nature of Abba, the One from whom he is sent. At the same time, the liturgy
incarnates the diversity of the Holy Spirit’s gifts and the myriad ways we are
sent into the world as its foot-washers and meal hosts. There are church orders
within the liturgy: bishops, priests and deacons, the faithful, and
catechumens. There are different ministries among the faithful. We interact
with one another in the act of worship in which we are caught up with Jesus in
offering praise and thanksgiving to God.
But
among these orders and ministries, within the carrying out of our rites,
certain aspects of our faith are never forgotten or misrepresented. Primarily,
there is the faith that God is God and we are not; that Jesus, dead and risen,
has handed his Spirit over to us from the cross so that the messianic mission
might continue; that God is agape, “world-making
love” that is at once the fullness of life and the complete giving-away of it,
the paschal mystery. Also among these is the conviction that “poder es servir,” or as Scripture has
it, “those who would be first among you must serve the rest.” Another is that,
among the children of God, “there is no Greek nor Jew, servant or free, woman
or man,” that there is a universal equality in the human race that is
ontological, by virtue of creation, but explicitly embraced by the baptized.
Because
this equality shines through the rite in the important dialogues between the
presider and the assembly, it matters
that the priest sings, “The Lord be with you,” and we respond, “And with your
spirit” (or “And also with you,” or “Back atcha,” or whatever ICEL concocts in
the future.) While the language matters, it is more important that the dialogue
be exchanged with ritual integrity. When we make that exchange of faith which proclaims the Lord’s presence, we are
acting as equals, as partners, all of us equally submitting to the discipline
of the rite as a means of acknowledging our common bond as the children of God. No one is free to fudge the syntax (for
instance, for the priest to change the subjunctive verb in his greeting to an
indicative one, “The Lord is with
you.”) Nor are we free to improvise or riff on the text: “The Lord be with each
and every one of you”. This is not because one or the other is truer to the
Latin, however, which is verbless and of unknown origin. It is because the rite interprets us, and not the other
way around. We submit to the rite’s discipline so that we learn its relentless
incarnate message of equality. If Father can improvise, we can all improvise,
and instead of a body, we have a mob. What is the right response to, “ The God
of Jesus is with each one of you”? Those who have experienced this at Sunday
worship, and we are legion, know the kind of ritual confusion this improvisation
begets. Change the scene to a mixed congregation at a funeral or wedding of
people from various communities unaccustomed to the personal quirks of the
parish’s priest, and the simplest of responses (“Amen?” “Glory to you, O
Lord?”) become anemic and inaudible. We don’t know, in fact, whether we should say Amen! It is quite possible,
in the archdiocese in which I live, at least, to attend a mass where hardly a
sentence of the rite is delivered integrally until well into the Eucharistic
prayer. Everything is riffed. Prayers, even the Eucharistic prayers, are fudged
to reflect the homiletic bons mots of
the priest. If the priest can take these kinds of liberties, why shouldn’t
everyone else? And the real question is, if priests don’t take the current
translation and its connection to authentic ecclesial rite seriously, why on
earth will they do so with a more arcane, Harry-Potteresque semantic field?
Only
if everyone submits to the new rite
will it demonstrate the ecclesial equality of the children of God. The ritual
of the Eucharist is a roadmap and rehearsal script of service and gospel life,
in which all receive the life of the Spirit as God's gift and, as the body of
Christ, render back to God the "perfect sacrifice of praise" (or however
the groovy new translations puts it.) But in order for the equality to be
apparent in the ritual, everyone has to play by the rules. If one person (the
presider) is improvising, riffing on the texts as so many are doing with the
1973 text, being less formal, and not
more so, as one would expect from the structuralist rhetoric of the formalists,
then we're not equal. If I'm stuck with, "and with your spirit", but
the priest can say, "the Lord is with you" or "the Lord be with
each and every one of you" or "good morning," and then says
"thank you" when we reply, well, we don't have ritual equality. That
very priest might imagine himself to be a champion of lay leadership and
collegiality, but in fact every ritual word he speaks undermines the foundation
of the ecclesia.
The
new translation itself is a problem because it confuses archaism with reverence
and opacity with mystery. The
Sacramentary and its General Instruction are overweighted toward maleness,
toward the sanctifying (rather than diaconal) role of the priest, and emphasize
courtly-imperial obeisance (rather than diakonia)
as reverence. But it is the fact that priests aren't going to submit to it any
more than they are to the current translation that is the greater problem.
My
only entry point into this new translation, which goes against every instinct I
have and my religious and catechetical experience of being a Catholic for
nearly six decades, is that when all is said and done, it’s only liturgy. As important as liturgy is
for keeping us together and focused on the truths mentioned above (God is God,
we are not, the Holy Spirit dwelling in the Church, &c),”the sacred liturgy
does not exhaust the entire activity of the Church.” (SC, 9). This salvific
sentence at the very source of liturgical renewal hearkens back to the language
of the prophets, serving to remind us that sacraments, even the Eucharist, even
the meals of Jesus himself, are symbols of the rest of life, and for there to
be truth in the symbols, life has to be lived well. As Sing to the Lord further explains, “The Paschal hymn, of course,
does not cease when a liturgical celebration ends. Christ, whose praises we
have sung, remains with us and leads us through church doors to the whole
world, with its joys and hopes, griefs and anxieties...Charity, justice, and
evangelization are thus the normal consequences of liturgical celebration.”
(SttL, 8-9) It will thus continue to be true that the quality of the
translation, as well as the efficacy of the liturgy itself, will be judged not
on how well we sing it, say it, or abuse it, but how the neighborhoods are
being changed, how we are voting, and whether or not the “poor are filled with
good things.” Neither we, nor this new translation, are God’s last chance.
Here’s
how the triage metaphor plays out, then: the old translation, and all the music
and authentic worship it engendered, is going to die. For it to survive will
take an act of God, so I’m out of that picture. The Church is going to survive
no matter what, especially that vast majority of folks who don’t really care
whose side wins the translation war, or even know that there was a battle on,
or that there was anything at stake worth fighting about. God will see that
that Church survives, thrives, in fact, so I’m out of that picture, except,
fortunately, to be on the receiving end of grace. What I have some control
over, what I can attend to, is the making explicit of this link between
submitting to the rite and the ecclesiology that underlies it. “The word of God
is not chained,” writes St. Paul to Timothy, and it is not chained even in the
golden prison of the liturgy. The only true orthodoxy is unity; unity comes
from understanding, dialogue, and finally the service of the other, especially
the stranger, especially enemies, that flows from agape. Everything else is ideology.
Over
the years, as I’ve reflected on my life as a human being, husband, father, and
Catholic, I’ve come to the gradual conclusion that “being right”, that most
prized of Catholic virtues, is overrated. I have learned this from Jesus
Christ, who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God
something to be grasped.” You can’t be more “right” than being God, and yet
Christ laid all that aside, and “became sin” for us (2 Cor. 5: 21). What
matters most is not being right, but being one. When we get to the place where
conscience conflicts with the prevailing wind, where “rights” begin to clash,
the Christian must try to act in agape
like the Master. Focus on the gospel. Change the neighborhood. When the Latinate
syntax swirls in incomprehensible churchspeak, it will be of some comfort to
know that our actions speak louder than words, more beautifully and
convincingly than our music. At least, that is, until the parousia, when word and deed will be reconciled, and all will be
one.
