Because Tridentine Masses are rare in my region — two or three times a year, thanks to traveling priests — I can sometimes feel depressed for some days as a result of the contrast between the heights of Catholic worship and… the opposite. Perhaps this is why I made the association that I will relate below.
The other day I watched the animated film Anastasia (1997), by 20th Century Fox. The film is based on the legend that Anastasia, the youngest daughter of the Romanovs, survived the murder of her family. In the plot, Anastasia gets separated from her grandmother during the escape from the revolution, hits her head, and loses her memory. Ten years later the young woman, still in the grips of that amnesia, enters the old family palace. The atmosphere is familiar to her; as she says, it seems like “memories of a dream…” This inspires her to sing a lullaby sung by her grandmother, which she has somehow retained in her memory. As she sings, the memories take shape like ghosts — images of a destroyed life, of a family that no longer exists. The song is extremely melancholy, as we are reminded of the sad history of the Russian imperial family.
Dancing bears, painted wings
Things I almost remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memory
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memory
Far away, long ago
Glowing dim as an ember
Things my heart used to know
Things it yearns to remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December
The scene where Anastasia enters the abandoned palace reminds me of Catholics after 1970. For those who were born before the Council, there are ghostly memories; for others, like me, not even that. In the few churches where the altars were kept and not torn down by revolutionaries, we can only imagine the Solemn Mass of old. The few signs of a glorious liturgical ceremony that remain are like ghosts of a great past. The Gregorian music available on the Internet provokes tears and longing for a time we do not know.
The villain of the film resembles modernist clergy, foaming with hatred at any manifestation of tradition. Their undead condition is reminiscent of a Council that, despite the resounding failure of its aggiornamento and “new Pentecost,” is still propagandized by the clergy as if it were superior to everything that has come before, regardless of its truth or quality or success.
And it was in the month of December that the Council closed.
Yet the memory of tradition has not been extinguished. In some places, like my region, it is almost gone, but in other regions — in France and in the United States, above all — it remained strong, it grows every year in distinctness and vividness, it spreads through families and vocations. In such places there never was a total rupture: for some clergy and families, the tradition remained alive, not a distant memory. Traditionalism today builds not upon nostalgia but upon an uninterrupted continuity of faith and prayer. Like the fire of candles held at the Easter vigil, this love of tradition is passed on from one member of the Body of Christ to another. The flame passes through the darkness, passes beyond borders and barriers, bringing light and warmth wherever it reaches.
I believe there will someday be regular traditional Masses near where I live, and I believe that the ghostly churches and chapels will come alive again in the present, with their youth renewed.
The other day I watched the animated film Anastasia (1997), by 20th Century Fox. The film is based on the legend that Anastasia, the youngest daughter of the Romanovs, survived the murder of her family. In the plot, Anastasia gets separated from her grandmother during the escape from the revolution, hits her head, and loses her memory. Ten years later the young woman, still in the grips of that amnesia, enters the old family palace. The atmosphere is familiar to her; as she says, it seems like “memories of a dream…” This inspires her to sing a lullaby sung by her grandmother, which she has somehow retained in her memory. As she sings, the memories take shape like ghosts — images of a destroyed life, of a family that no longer exists. The song is extremely melancholy, as we are reminded of the sad history of the Russian imperial family.
Dancing bears, painted wings
Things I almost remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memory
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memory
Far away, long ago
Glowing dim as an ember
Things my heart used to know
Things it yearns to remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December
The scene where Anastasia enters the abandoned palace reminds me of Catholics after 1970. For those who were born before the Council, there are ghostly memories; for others, like me, not even that. In the few churches where the altars were kept and not torn down by revolutionaries, we can only imagine the Solemn Mass of old. The few signs of a glorious liturgical ceremony that remain are like ghosts of a great past. The Gregorian music available on the Internet provokes tears and longing for a time we do not know.
The villain of the film resembles modernist clergy, foaming with hatred at any manifestation of tradition. Their undead condition is reminiscent of a Council that, despite the resounding failure of its aggiornamento and “new Pentecost,” is still propagandized by the clergy as if it were superior to everything that has come before, regardless of its truth or quality or success.
And it was in the month of December that the Council closed.
Yet the memory of tradition has not been extinguished. In some places, like my region, it is almost gone, but in other regions — in France and in the United States, above all — it remained strong, it grows every year in distinctness and vividness, it spreads through families and vocations. In such places there never was a total rupture: for some clergy and families, the tradition remained alive, not a distant memory. Traditionalism today builds not upon nostalgia but upon an uninterrupted continuity of faith and prayer. Like the fire of candles held at the Easter vigil, this love of tradition is passed on from one member of the Body of Christ to another. The flame passes through the darkness, passes beyond borders and barriers, bringing light and warmth wherever it reaches.
I believe there will someday be regular traditional Masses near where I live, and I believe that the ghostly churches and chapels will come alive again in the present, with their youth renewed.
