On the Sanctification of Time

In “Processing through the Courts of the Great King,” I spoke of how the many courtyards and chambers of the King’s palace prior to his throne room, or the many precincts and rooms of the Temple leading up to the Holy of Holies, could be a metaphor of a healthy Catholic spiritual life that culminates in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, but surrounds it with concentric layers of other kinds of prayer, devotion, and piety. The Eucharistic Sacrifice is the fons et culmen (font and apex) of the Christian life, but it is not the sum total of it — nor can it bear the weight of every need. I concluded the article thus:

We owe it to our King to prepare ourselves for His royal banquet, His wedding feast, and the Church has given us an abundance of ways in which we can do that: the Divine Office; Eucharistic Adoration; Lectio Divina; Confession; the Rosary; and so forth. The Mass is the crown jewel, to be sure, but it is not the entire crown; indeed, the jewel is given its appropriate place by the other materials that hold it and complement it.

The Divine Office

After the Mass, the most important public prayer offered by the Catholic Church is the Divine Office, a “sacrifice of praise” consisting of psalms, prayers, canticles, hymns, and readings divided into particular “hours” such as Lauds (morning prayer), Vespers (evening prayer), and Compline (night prayer). The shape and content of these magnificent liturgies come down to us from the monks of antiquity — in the West, above all from St. Benedict and the monastic empire inspired by his example and his Rule.

Characteristic of the Benedictine way of life is the sanctification of time through a calmly recurring cycle of prayer that permeates the day and night. In addition to the celebration of the Mass, the traditional Benedictine monk or nun prays communally seven times a day and once in the middle of the night, with the long office called Matins. In this way they fulfill what is said in the Book of Psalms: “Seven times a day I praise you” (118, 164), “I rose at midnight to give praise to thee” (118, 62), and “the just man meditates on the law day and night” (1, 2).

How beautiful is this patient, persevering dedication to set times of prayer, in order that the whole of time — the whole span of the day and stretch of the week, the month’s reach and the cycle of seasons, the passing years and decades and centuries, all of this human time — may be divinized, offered up to its unchanging Lord, penetrated with His grace, pregnant with sacred meaning and fruitful with a host of virtues!

This is the monastic life, this is the angelic life (says the Byzantine tradition), and we lay people are called to imitate it in some fashion, according to our ways and means. While the schedule of most modern lay people does not make it particularly easy to pray the Divine Office, it is often possible to find enough time in the morning for a short office like Prime, or in the evening for Vespers, or before bedtime for Compline. In fact, I am given to understand that before the Council, some used the expression “Prime and Compline Catholics” to refer to laity who made these two short hours the bookends of their day.

Being composed almost entirely from Scripture, the Divine Office is the most natural way to become intimately familiar with the Word of God, which will form our minds and hearts as Catholics. Lectio divina and the Divine Office fit together like hand in glove.

Sacred Conception of Time

It has struck me over the years how infrequently Catholics reflect on, or are even aware of, the difference between the secular conception of time and the sacred conception of time. Isaac Newton introduced the notion of absolute space and time, where space is seen as a giant grid of Cartesian coordinates, and time is seen as an equable ticking of a clock, all seconds, minutes, and hours being equal. This may be called temporal egalitarianism.

The premodern notion of time, in contrast, sees it as hierarchical, organic, and malleable. The day is understood to have a spiritually significant rhythm from dawn to noon to dusk to night, and each one of these parts has its own character, its own “weight” and role in the spiritual life, not to mention its function as a sign. The week has an internal dynamism emanating from the Sunday past and straining towards the Sunday to come, with certain days connected customarily to certain mysteries or saints, above all Friday’s connection to the Passion (hence, the rule of abstinence from flesh meat on the day when the flesh of God was crucified). Into the seasons of the year the great mysteries of the Catholic faith are woven, so that the cycle of nature mysteriously symbolizes the cycle of grace, each providing a key to the other. In short, the Catholic mind sees time as differentiated by days and seasons of feasting and fasting, by Sundays and Solemnities, by memorials, novenas, and processions.

As individuals and as communities, we should strive in big and little ways to live out a properly Catholic sense of time, understanding the calendar of days, weeks, and months as a recurrent cycle of celebrations of different persons—especially Our Lord and His Mother, but also the saints and angels. We should try to be aware of the Church calendar. “Whose feast is it today?” ought to be a question we ask every morning. Do we know when it is a major feast, e.g., the Nativity or Birthday of Our Lady, or the Exaltation of the Holy Cross? On the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, one might choose to pray the Stations of the Cross or the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary. If it’s the feast day of a saint, we should invoke that saint in our prayer, think about him or her, and congratulate a fellow Catholic who shares the saint’s name.
 

The traditional Roman calendar

Levels of Time: (1) The Year

At the level of the year, numerous and profound are the differences between ecclesial time and secular time, especially in an explicitly secular country like the United States. For example, our secular year begins on January 1st, but the Western Church’s year begins with the First Sunday of Advent, while the Eastern Church’s begins in September.

The weeks before Christmas are a time of quiet expectancy (even called by the Eastern tradition “little Lent”), whereas they are an orgy of fake Christmas music and commercialism in the surrounding secular culture. Americans celebrate a Puritan Thanksgiving once a year, whereas Catholics celebrate thanks­giving every day with the Eucharistia, a Greek word that means “Thanksgiving.” Nowadays there are witches who dance around on the summer and winter solstices, but we have always celebrated these astronomical events by our own feasts: the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ in December and the Nativity of St. John the Baptist in June. As St. John himself said: “He must increase, I must decrease.” John’s birthday is observed right around the time when daylight begins to lessen; Jesus is born right around the time when daylight begins to lengthen. Easter, for us, lasts two months, whereas in the secular world it lasts for one weekend of bunny rabbits and chocolate.

The United States gives days off for things like dead presidents, dead soldiers, and labor; we Catholics celebrate the living saints who are at rest in heaven. When you start to think about it, the whole mentality is different. We need to be spiritually attuned to the universal Church calendar rather than taking our bearings from the secular and American. Not that we should disdain our secular holidays, but they are not holydays, and our own true and proper holydays should take precedence.

Levels of Time: (2) The Week

The week has a kind of sacred rhythm, beginning from and culminating in Sunday, the “Little Easter.” The secular world’s week is five days of work and two days of rest and relaxation to kick back and do whatever you feel like doing (which usually means taking it easy on Saturday and mowing the grass or doing other forbidden manual labor on Sunday).

The Christian perspective is different. There are six days of work, and one day of genuine rest—a rest of worship and prayer, of feasting and rejoicing with one’s family and friends. That is more than, and better than, mere “R&R.” We resist the reduction of the Lord’s Day to mere “time off” when we make Sunday Mass the pinnacle not only of Sunday but of the entire week. We get dressed up. We take time to prepare before Mass and make a thanksgiving afterwards, circumstances permitting. Perhaps one can come back to the chapel later on in the day to pray. In any event, one should not be thinking “what’s the most convenient way to get Mass over with so that I can get back to work or get out to play.” Sunday is not merely a means to something else; it is an image or echo of the ultimate end itself. In fact, for the Church Fathers, Sunday is a symbol of heaven and eternal life, so the way we treat Sunday is a bit like telling God what we think of the end or goal of our lives.

Levels of Time: (3) The Day

The day has its own internal rhythm. Not all hours are equal.

The morning, upon first waking, is the best time to consecrate our day to the Lord. When we retire for bed is the best time to examine our conscience, express sorrow for our sins, and commend our day’s work and our soul to God before entering the “little death” of sleep.

The source and summit of the day should be the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. The Eucharist is the sun from which all grace radiates, so if we want to be in the sun, we have to put ourselves in its direct rays. If one goes to morning Mass, one is establishing the day on its foundation, and the rest of the day flows from it. If one goes to Mass at or around noon, one is approaching it as a kind of peak or summit towards which the morning rises and from which the afternoon descends, a centerpoint on which the day is poised. If one goes to Mass in the evening, one is gathering up the day’s work into an offering to be made to the Lord.

It’s good for us to be consciously aware of the meaning that belongs to the choices we make and the actions we perform, so that we can leverage that awareness for our spiritual benefit. Moreover, it is highly praiseworthy to form a specific intention for each Mass one attends: “Lord, I desire to offer up this Holy Sacrifice with you for [X, Y, or Z].” By doing this, you have invested yourself in the Mass—something is at stake for you.

Holiness Above All

A last word about holiness. Blessed Ildefons Schuster, Cardinal Archbishop of Milan until his death in 1954, said this to his seminarians a few days before his death:

I have no memento to give you apart from an invitation to holiness. It would seem that people are no longer convinced by our preaching; but faced with holiness, they still believe, they still fall to their knees and pray. People seem to live ignorant of supernatural realities, indifferent to the problems of salvation. But when an authentic saint, living or dead, passes by, all run to be there…. Do not forget that the devil is not afraid of our [parish] sports fields and of our movie halls: he is afraid, on the other hand, of our holiness.

In the battle for souls that is raging in the world around us (and within us), holiness will always take precedence over any other weapon we can fight with. If we want to make the kingdom of God present in time, our holiness, which is inseparably linked with our life of prayer, is truly what comes first and last. Without it, we do not make God’s kingdom present, no matter how much we build, how much we persuade, how much we campaign and conquer the field. With God’s grace in our souls, however, even the smallest things we do gain inestimable value, while the great things we attempt are blessed—not necessarily with success as the world understands it, but with a fruitfulness that touches many souls. In the words of Blaise Pascal:

Do the little things as though they were great things, remembering that the majesty of Christ within us works them and lives our life; and do the great things as though they were no more than little things easily done, remembering the power of Christ within us. 

“Now About the Midst of the Feast” - Christ the Teacher in the Liturgy of Lent

Today’s Gospel in the Roman Rite, John 7, 14-31, begins with the words “Now about the midst of the feast”, referring to the feast of Tabernacles, which St John had previously mentioned in verse 2 of the same chapter. And indeed, the whole of this chapter is set within the context of this feast.

The Expulsion of the Money-Changers from the Temple, the Gospel of yesterday’s Mass, John 2, 13-25; part of the St Wolfgang Altarpiece, by the Tyrolean painter Michael Pacher (1435 ca. - 1498), made in 1471-79. (Image from Wikimedia Commons by Uoaei1, CC BY-SA 4.0.)

In the Byzantine Rite, this same Gospel, minus the last verse, is read on the very ancient feast of Mid-Pentecost, exactly half-way between Easter and Pentecost, a custom which was formerly also found in the Ambrosian Rite. In the Mozarabic Rite (which is an outlier among liturgies in many ways), the opening words seem to have been taken instead to mean something like, “When the feast was half-way arrived,” meaning the feast of Easter. The same Gospel is therefore read on the 4th Sunday of Lent, and the words “Mediante die festo” are used as that Sunday’s nickname, as Romans say, “Laetare Sunday.” The Roman Rite, on the other hand, seems to have ignored the timing given by the Evangelist as a detail of no particular importance, and places this Gospel on a day that isn’t halfway between anything noteworthy.

The beginning of the Mass of the Fourth Sunday of Lent in a Mozarabic Missal printed in 1804, with the subtitle, ‘Mediante die festo.’

Most of this text is taken up with a dispute over Our Lord’s authority to teach, since He “had not studied”, which is to say, He had not been formally trained as a rabbi. This dispute ends with Him saying, “He is true, who sent me, whom ye know not. I know Him, because I am from Him, and He sent me”, at which they sought to seize Him, but “no one laid a hand on Him, because His hour had not yet come.” Like the Gospel of the preceding day, St John’s account of the cleansing of the temple (2, 13-25), this reading begins to set the stage for the following week, when the Church shifts the focus of the liturgy to the Lord’s Passion.

The introits of these Masses, which are taken from two psalms in sequence, 53 and 54, also hint at this in their verses: on Monday, “For strangers have risen up against me; and the mighty have sought after my soul”, and on Tuesday, “I am grieved in my exercise, and am troubled at the voice of the enemy.” At Tenebrae of Holy Thursday, the lessons of the second nocturn are taken from St Augustine’s explanation of the latter verse as a prophecy of the Passion, in his great commentary on the Exposition of the Psalms.

A motet by Orlando de Lassus of the words of today’s Introit, the beginning of Psalm 54: “Exaudi, Deus, oratiónem meam, et ne despéxeris deprecatiónem meam: intende in me et exaudi me.” (Hearken, o God, to my prayer; and despise not my pleading; give heed to me, and hearken unto me.)

The epistle for this Mass is Exodus 32, 7-14, in which Moses is told by God to come down from the mountain, where he has been for forty days and nights, so that he may see that the people have rebelled against the Lord and made the golden calf. God offers to destroy them and raise up a new and great nation from Moses himself, but the prophet intercedes for them, “and the Lord was appeased from doing the evil which he had spoken against his people.” This lesson is clearly chosen in reference to Christ’s words in the Gospel (vs. 19), “Did not Moses give you the Law? and none of you keepeth the law.”

In the oldest lectionaries of the Roman Rite, a shorter version of this same reading, beginning at verse 11, was the fifth Old Testament lesson on the Ember Saturday of September, which falls near the beginning of the range of dates for the feast of Tabernacles. As I have described elsewhere, this reading is paired with an epistle from the Letter to the Hebrews (9, 2-12), which says that the Tabernacle of the Covenant was but “a parable of the time present… but Christ, being come as a high priest of the good things to come, by a greater and more perfect tabernacle not made by hand, that is, not of this creation: neither by the blood of goats, or of calves, but by his own blood, entered once into the holies, having obtained eternal redemption.”

In the article linked above, I postulated that these readings were paired thus for the sake of those among the early Christians in Rome who still felt themselves to be close to their Jewish roots, and remembered mid-September as the time of the High Holy Days. These people may well have seen the refusal of their former coreligionists to accept Jesus of Nazareth as the Messiah as a rebellion against God, similar to that of the golden calf episode. The reading from Exodus would thus serve to remind them that God had been merciful at the appeal of Moses, and suggest that He would be similarly merciful through the appeal of Christ, “the high priest of the good things to come, who by His own blood obtained eternal redemption by a greater and more perfect tabernacle.” And indeed, the Gospel for today in the Roman version includes the first part of verse 31, which is not read in either the Byzantine Rite, or the oldest lectionaries of the Mozarabic Rite, “But of the people many believed in him,” a reminder that many Jews did in fact accept the Messiah when He came.

The Worship of the Golden Calf, 1518-19, painted by Raphael and assistants in the loggia of the papal palace of the Vatican. (Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons.)

This idea seems also to have determined the texts of the other chants of the Mass. The Gradual includes the first verse of Psalm 43, “We have heard, o God, with our ears: our fathers have declared to us the work which thou hast wrought in their days, and in the days of old.” As St Paul says at the very beginning of Hebrews, God “spoke at sundry times and in divers manners to our fathers by the prophets, (and) last of all, in these days hath spoken to us by his Son.” This would therefore profess that some of the Jews had in fact heard what God said by His Son when He was sent in the fulness of time.

The Offertory chant is taken from Psalm 39, and in this context, speaks of the longing of the Jewish people for their redemption: “Eagerly did I await the Lord, and He looked upon me and heard my prayers”, i.e. prayers for the coming of the Messiah. The next words, “And He put into my mouth a new song”, therefore refer to the establishment of a new people, a new Israel, and a new manner of worship. And thus the Communio is sung from Psalm 19, “We will rejoice in thy salvation, and in the name of our God we shall be exalted”, “salvation” being the meaning of the Holy Name of Jesus.

The Offertory Exspectans exspectavi, which is also sung on the 15th Sunday after Pentecost: “Exspectans exspectávi Dóminum, et respexit me, et exaudívit deprecatiónem meam, et immísit in os meum cánticum novum, hymnum Deo nostro. ~ Eagerly did I await the Lord, and He looked upon me, and put into my mouth a new song, a hymn to our God.”

The Communio Laetabimur in salutari tuo, recorded by the mighty brothers of OP Chant. “Laetábimur in salutári tuo, et in nómine Dómini, Dei nostri, magnificábimur. ~ We shall rejoice in Thy salvation, and in the name of the Lord, our God, we shall be glorified.”

In the oldest surviving sacramentary of the Roman Rite, known as the Old Gelasian Sacramentary (ca. 700 AD), the prayer “over the people” at the end of this Mass is as follows: “Pópuli tui, Deus, institútor et rector, peccáta, quibus impugnátur, expelle: ut semper tibi placátus, et tuo munímine sit secúrus. – O God, founder (or ‘teacher’) and ruler of Thy people, cast out the sins by which it is assailed, that being ever reconciled to Thee, it may also be secure in Thy protection.”

“Placatus” is one of the most commonly used words in the prayers of the Roman Rite, occurring nearly 60 times in the Gelasian Sacramentary, and more than 80 in the recent editions of the Missal of St Pius V. (In the former, many of these are within variable texts of the Hanc igitur for special occasions.) Ordinarily it refers to God, and means “placated” or “appeased.” However, in this one prayer, it refers to the people, for which reason, I have translated it as “reconciled” instead. [note]

This same word is used in the last sentence of the Epistle of this Mass, “and the Lord was appeased from doing the evil which he had spoken against his people.” In the context of this Mass, this expresses the hope that the Jewish people will indeed be reconciled to their teacher and ruler, Jesus of Nazareth, the Messiah, whose hour has not yet come, but draws nigh.

“I am the light of the world”. Apsidal mosaic in the cathedral of Pisa, Italy, begun by Cimabue in 1302, completed by Vicino da Pistoia in 1321.

[note] At the end of the 8th century, this prayer was moved by the Gregorian Sacramentary, one of the ancestor texts of the modern missal, to the Mass of the following Thursday. The anomalous use of the word “placatus” described here was either felt to be inappropriate, or perhaps simply misunderstood, and is already found changed to “placitus – pleasing” in the Sacramentary of Hildoard (Cambrai, Bibl. Mun. 164) in 811-12. This latter reading is found in the majority of the early manuscripts, and carries through to the Missal of St Pius V.

The Apple of Her Eye

“The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, which is in the east, and there he put the man he had fashioned. From the soil, the Lord God caused to grow every kind of tree, enticing to look at and good to eat, with the tree of life in the middle of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” (Gen. 2, 8-9) 

This 17th century painting by an anonymous follower of the Flemish artist Ambrosius Benson (1490-1550) portrays the Madonna and Child with the soft gaze of loving maternal devotion. Mary’s facial features are idealised in the manner of ancient Greek sculptures of goddesses such as Venus, by the convention of artists in the Renaissance period to draw inspiration from classical forms. The idealisation of Mary was not done to present her as a goddess, but rather to emphasize that she is a person of great beauty and holiness who is worthy of our veneration.

The white swaddling clothes that envelop Christ remind us of his future burial shroud, linking his infancy to his ultimate sacrifice through his passion and death before the Resurrection. As is common in oil paintings of this period, the sharp contrast between the luminous figures and the dark background emphasises that Christ is the Light that overcomes the darkness (cf. John 1, 5).

The painting shows two fruits: Mary holds a pear, while Christ has an apple. The juxtaposition of the pear and apple suggests that the fruits’ symbolism relates to the different trees of Eden described in the book of Genesis, and referred to in the quoted passage above.

First, the apple alludes to the forbidden fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. This is the fruit that Adam and Eve ate, although God had forbidden them to do so. Scripture does not name the fruit as an apple, but the connection arose because the Latin word malum means both “apple” and “evil”; it therefore became a symbol of the fruit of this tree, and hence of the Fall. The Church Fathers suggest that this malum - bad fruit - was presented by God as a test of obedience for Adam and Eve, which, of course, they failed spectacularly. Their disobedience in eating the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil brought about the Fall, subjecting mankind to the effects of sin and evil thereafter.

When the apple is in the hand of Christ, the New Adam, it is transformed into the fruit of salvation. This additional interpretation is based on a passage from the Canticle of Canticles 2, 3:

“As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my love among young men. In his delightful shade, I sit, and his fruit is sweet to my taste.”

In Christian tradition, the pear as a sweet fruit symbolizes divine love. In this context, in juxtaposition with the apple, it might also be considered the sweet fruit of the Tree of Life. Mary holds the pear in her left hand and supports Jesus, connecting the two in our minds. As members of the Church, we eat the fruit of the Tree of Life, which is Jesus, present in the Eucharist, and are, as a result, promised eternal life.

Church Fathers such as Ephraim the Syrian speculated that Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden to prevent them from eating the fruit of eternal life, which, after the Fall, would have condemned man to eternal misery:

“For if he [Adam] had the audacity to eat of the Tree of which he was commanded not to eat, how much then more would he make a dash for the Tree concerning which he had received no command? Lest therefore he eat of it after having transgressed and live forever bearing the shame of the transgression, God expelled him from Paradise.”— (Commentary on Genesis, Section II, 31).

Through his Church, God now invites all people to enter the life initially intended for Adam and Eve, but from which they were initially barred. Thus, humanity has gained more than Original Paradise. God offers us the path to eternal life in heaven, representing not just the redemption of man but also the elevation of human nature to something higher. The naturally sweet pear and the redeemed or, one might say, supernaturally ripened apple can be allusions to the Eucharist, perhaps indicating that through the Church, we are offered both what would have been without the Fall and what came from the Fall through Christ’s intervention.