Christmas Midnight Mass returned to St. Mary’s after a long absence. (In my lector capacity in the past decade or so I would get a chuckle announcing “The Midnight Mass will begin at 9 PM.”).

Each time I step foot in my home parish a flood of memories sweeps over me, and it was no different tonight.

In addition to our regular duties serving Mass during the week, back in the early to mid 60’s ALL of the altar boys would gather at the 11 am Mass on Sunday at which point we were transposed into the Altar Boy Choir, a musical ensemble of little range and short attention span, under the firm direction of the Good Sisters. We each were responsible for our own cassock and surplice, and for Sunday we each had our own heavily starched “Eton Collar”, purchased at a downtown Men’s store (when we still had such things). The nuns carefully guarded the black satin ties, and only they were allowed to touch and tie them for us and believe me, thou shalt not fidget.

But Christmas Midnight Mass was special, a Solemn High affair in the old manner, now called he Extraordinary Rite. There would be a Priest celebrant, a Priest Deacon and a Priest Subdeacon, incense, bells and the bright red satin ties which only came out once a year for the forty or so yawning lads (covering grades 4 through 8, as I recall). The High school Girls choir sang from the choir loft accompanied by Miss Augusta Canale. The High School Boys — well, they couldn’t sing worth mentioning, so they were the altar servers, acolytes, censors, etc. The cream of the crop would be the Master, rhythmically slapping his missal so that we all stood, sat and kneeled when appropriate in complete unison, theoretically.

We were provided with wooden single-use benches and were strictly instructed to keep our backs straight and not slumped over like football players. With such a sizable supporting cast, the church was packed and it was all very very reverent and special.

We didn’t need no stinkin’ hymnals. We had our hymns memorized and besides, none of us could read music anyway. We were doing our duty as best we could until our voices changed. (The eighth graders were generally told to mouth the words and not let a noise escape).

As I say , we were not particularly gifted, but somehow it always came off and if we had been allowed to glance at the congregation we would have seen a sea of beaming parents. Once in a while a genuine talent came along, however, and the rest of us would exhibit suitably disdainful jealousy. Thus it was that John Bintz, year after year, soloed that lovely yet seldom heard, Birthday of a King, just the right type of hymn, really, for an altar boy choir.

In the little village of Bethlehem there lay child one day
And the sky was bright with a holy light o’er the place where Jesus lay.
Alleluia! O how the angels sang.
Alleluia! How it rang!
And the sky was bright with a holy light–
‘Twas the birthday of a king.

The Altar Boy Choir has long since been disbanded, the extraordinary rite placed in limbo; the High School Girls Choir disappeared with the High School in 1966. We do have a few dedicated altar servers, however, and wonderful and pious priests.

We also have a well-seasoned adult choir. We arrived a half hour early tonight to listen to them sing a selection of Christmas carols.

Just before the end came a very familiar (and complex) organ introduction to a simple melody, and the sound of a familiar voice, accompanied by a choir with far more depth than the altar boys of 46 or 47years ago could ever have mustered. I drifted along in my reverie.

‘Twas a humble birthplace, but oh how much
God gave to us that day.
From the manger bed, what a path has led-
What a perfect holy way.
Alleluia! O how the angels sang.
Alleluia! How it rang!
And the sky was bright with a holy light–
‘Twas the birthday of a king.

Today is the feast day of Padre Pio, the beloved and remarkable 20th century saint and mystic (much background here).

Last year I read a story about a young Bishop Karol Wojtyla writing to him through diplomatic channels to pray for a particular person’s health. When Pio learned of the author of the letter he told the bearer to preserve it, because it would be important one day, as of course it was when the bishop became Pope John Paul the Great. There was a remarkable news wirephoto from John Paul’s last hospital stay, clearly showing the unmistakeable reflection of Padre Pio in the window glass of the pope’s hospital room several stories up.

For fifty years he bore the wounds of Christ. My late pastor, Monsignor Glavin, told me of having served Mass for Padre Pio when he (Glavin) was a young seminarian at the North American College in Rome.

“His hands were all bundled in bandages, and when he pronounced the words of consecration they began to bleed, which was only visible to those of us closely attending him.”

Monsignor, who bore many infirmities of his own in his last years, had learned from the master to bear them gracefully.

Gracefully.

Growing up Catholic pre-Vatican II we had a multitude of learning aids at our disposal (though the “cheat cards” for the Latin responses at Mass were never to be used by altar boys except in case of dire emergency). 

One of the most wonderful for the middle grades was a comic book called Treasure Chest which educated us twice monthly on the finer points of the Catholic religion, its history and tradition, and the application of the principles thereof to the modern world.

Happily a great many years of this magazine are now on-line and I was able today to relive some of those long-forgotten gems.  The home page is here.

One of the recurring features concerned the fictional  Chuck White and his friends.  At random I came across this episode which would drive the eco-nuts crazy today.  Take a glimpse back to the not so distant past when ridding the land of swamps and mosquitoes and disease seemed more important than “protecting our wetlands”.  I have renamed it Chuck White Fails to File an Environmental Impact Statement.

And, at random, an episode of This Godless Communism.

Those were the days, by God.

I have previously written about the beautiful Eucharistic hymn of Thomas Aquinas, Pange Lingua Gloriosi, its origins and meaning.  I have since heard that Aquinas wrote this hymn at the request of the Pope for the Office celebrating the feast of Corpus Christi, and that he threw in O Salutaris Hostia and Panis Angelicus for good measure in a burst of genius I don’t think the world has ever seen since.

Once I realized that I was getting a fair number of hits on the original post, I began to fear that my limited knowledge on the subject might contain error which could be repeated, so I decided to ASK THE EXPERT and imposed upon Father George Rutler for additional information, which he very kindly provided, and which I pass along on this Holy Thursday evening:

Dear Mr. Going,   St. Thomas Aquinas did indeed write Pange Lingua – and much more. He based it on a sixth century hymn of Fortunatus.  It is part of a longer sequence “Lauda Sion” which is amply explained on the website “New Advent” – look up under L for Lauda Sion.  The following (see below) is from the Cath Encylc. -  I also mention this in my book “Brightest and Best.”

Fr. George Rutler
___________________________________

Pange Lingua Gloriosi

The opening words of two hymns celebrating respectively the Passion and the Blessed Sacrament. The former, in unrhymed verse, is generally credited to St. Venantius Fortunatus (6 cent.), and the latter, in rhymed accentual rhythm, was composed by St. Thomas Aquinas (13 cent.).

I. THE HYMN OF FORTUNATUS

The hymn has been ascribed to Claudianus Mamertus (5 cent.) by Gerbert in his “Musica sacra”, Bähr in his “Die christl. Dichter,” and many others. Pimont, who cites many other authorities in his support, is especially urgent in his ascription of the hymn to Mamertus, answers at great length the critics of the ascription in his Note sur l’auteur du Pange … prœlium certaminis (Hymnes du brév. rom. III, 70-76), so that it seems hardly correct to say with Mearns (Dict. of Hymnol. 2nd ed., 880), that “it has been sometimes, apparently without reason, ascribed to Claudianus Mamertus.” Excluding the closing stanza or doxology, the hymn comprises ten stanzas, which appear in the manuscripts and in some editions of the “Roman Missal” in the form:

Pange lingua gloriosi prœlium certaminis
Et super crucis tropæo dic triumphum nobilem,
Qualiter Redemptor orbis immolatus vicerit.

The stanza is thus seen to comprise three tetrameter trochaic catalectic verses. In the “Roman Breviary” the hymn is assigned to Passion Sunday and the ferial Offices following it down to and including Wednesday in Holy Week, and also to the feasts of the Finding of the Holy Cross, the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the Five Wounds. In this breviary use, the hymn is divided into two, the first five stanzas being said at Matins, the second five (beginning with the words “Lustra sex qui jam peregit”) at Lauds; and each line is divided into two, forming a stanza of six lines, e.g.:

Pange lingua gloriosi
Lauream certaminis,
Et super crucis trophæo
Dic triumphum nobilem:
Qualiter Redemptor orbis
Immolatus vicerit.

The whole hymn is sung during the ceremony of the Adoration of the Cross on Good Friday, immediately after the Improperia or “Reproaches”, but in a peculiar manner, the hymn being preceded by the eighth stanza (Crux fidelis) while the stanzas are followed alternately by the first four and the last two lines of the (divided) eighth stanza.

It will have been noticed that in the six-lined stanza quoted above, “lauream” has not commended itself to hymnologists, who declare that no pleonasm is involved, since “prœlium” refers to the battle and “certamen” to the occasion or cause of it; so that “prœlium certaminis” means the battle for the souls of men (see Kayser, “Beiträge zur Gesch. und Erklärung der ältesten Kirchenhym.”, Paderborn, 1881, p. 417). He very aptly instances St. Cyprian (ep. ad Ant., 4): “Prælium gloriosi certaminis in persecutione ferveret”, and adds that “certamen” reveals the importance and length of the strife and renders salient the master thought of the whole poem. In the hands of the correctors the hymn suffered many emendations in the interest of classical exactness of phrase and metre. The corrected form is that found today in the Roman Breviary. The older form, with various manuscript readings, will be found in March (Latin Hymns, 64; with grammatical and other notes, 252), Pimont (Les Hymnes etc., III, 47-70, with a note on the authorship, 70-76), etc. The Commission on Plain Chant established by order of Pius X in many cases restored older forms of the liturgical texts. In the Gradual (the Antiphonary has not appeared as yet) the older form of the “Pange lingua” is now given, so that it can be compared with the form still used in our Breviary. For the variant readings of manuscripts see “Analecta Hymnica” (Leipzig, 1907), 71-73. Dreves ascribes the hymn to Fortunatus. See also the “Hymnarium Sarisburiense” (London, 1851), 84.

It will be of interest to give here some specimens of Catholic translations of some stanzas of the hymn.

i
Sing loud the conflict, O my tongue,
   The victory that repaired our loss;
Exalt the triumph of thy song
   To the bright trophy of the cross;
Tell how the Lord laid down his life
   To conquer in the glorious strife.
(J. T. Aylward, O. P.)
ii
Eating of the Tree forbidden,
   Man had sunk in Satan’s snare,
When his pitying Creator
   Did this second Tree prepare;
Destined, many ages later,
   That first evil to repair.
(Father Caswall.)
v
Thus God made Man an Infant lies,
   And in the manger weeping cries;
His sacred limbs by Mary bound,
   The poorest tattered rags surround;
And God’s incarnate feet and hands
   Are closely bound with swathing-bands.
(Divine Office, 1763.)
vi
Soon the sweetest blossom wasting,
   Droops its head and withered lies;
Early thus to Calvary hasting,
   On the cross the Saviour dies;
Freely death for all men tasting,
   There behold our sacrifice.
(R. Campbell.)
ix Bend, O noble Tree, thy branches;
   Let thy fibres yielding be,
Let the rigid strength be softened
   Which in birth was given thee.
That the limbs of my dear Jesus
   May be stretched most tenderly.
Amer. Eccl. Rev., 1891.)

     The selected stanzas do not exhaust the examples of Catholic versions, but offer some variety in metre and in rhyming schemes. They represent neither the best nor the worst work of their authors in the translations of this hymn. In the preface to his “annus Sanctus” Orby Shipley declared that “the love of Catholics for their hymns is no recent … fancy … and that the results achieved are not less wide in extent, not less worthy in merit than attempts of Protestant translators, facts overlooked even by Catholic translators.” His thought is worthy of much consideration in view of the fact that the English version in the Marquess of Bute’s translation of the Roman Breviary (I, 409), in the (Baltimore) “Manual of Prayers” (614), and Tozer’s “Catholic Church Hymnal” (p. 48), was the work of an Anglican

It may well be doubted if any translator has expressed better in English verse the strength and nobility of the original Latin than did the unknown Catholic author of the version found in the Divine Office of 1763 (given in stanza v above). Daniel gives the following stanza (Thes. Hymnol., I, 168):

Quando judex orbis alto vectus ave veneris,
Et crucis tuæ tropæum inter astra fulserit,
O sis anxius asylum et salutis aurora.

which Neale translates (Medieval Hymns, 3rd ed., p. 5) and thinks ancient though not original; but Daniel’s source is the “Corolla Hymnorum” (Cologne, 1806). The text reads “salutis anchora”. Daniel also gives (IV, 68) four stanzas which Mone thought might be of the seventh century; but they would add nothing to the beauty or neat perfection of the hymn. For first lines, authors, dates of translation, etc., see Julian, “Dict. of Hymnol.”, 880- 881, 1685. For Latin text and translation with comment, see “Amer. Eccles. Review”, March, 1891, 187-194, and “H. A. and M., Historical Edition” (London, 1909, No. 107).

II. THE HYMN OF ST. THOMAS AQUINAS

Composed by the saint (see LAUDA SION) for the Office of Corpus Christi (see CORPUS CHRISTI, FEAST OF). Including the last stanza (which borrows the words “Genitori Genitoque”–Procedenti ab utroque, Compar” from the first two strophes of the second sequence of Adam of St. Victor for Pentecost) the hymn comprises six stanzas appearing in the manuscripts

Pange, lingua, gloriosi corporis mysterium,
Sanguinisque pretiosi quem in mundi pretium
Fructus ventris generosi Rex effudit gentium.

Written in accentual rhythm, it imitates the triumphant march of the hymn of Fortunatus, and like it is divided in the Roman Breviary into stanzas of six lines whose alternating triple rhyming is declared by Pimont to be a new feature in medieval hymnody. In the Roman Breviary the hymn is assigned to both Vespers, but of old the Church of Salisbury placed it in Matins, that of Toulouse in First Vespers only, that of Saint-Germain- des-Prés at Second Vespers only, and that of Strasburg at Compline. It is sung in the procession to the repository on Holy Thursday and also in the procession of Corpus Christi and in that of the Forty Hours’ Adoration.

With respect to the metre, M. de Marcellus, quoted in Migne’s “Littérature”, remarks that the hymn is composed in the long trochaic verses such as are found in Catullus, Seneca, Sophocles, and Euripides. In addition to the felicitous rhythm chosen bySt. Thomas, critics recognize its poetical and hymnodal values (thus Neale: “This hymn contests the second place among those of the Western Church with the Vexilla Regis, the Stabat Mater, the Jesu dulcis memoria, the Ad Regias Agni Dapes, the Ad Supernam, and one or two others …”) and “its peculiar qualities, its logical neatness, dogmatic precision, and force of almost argumentative statement” (Duffield, “Latin Hymns“, 269), in which qualities “it excels all these mentioned” by Neale.

The translations have not been many nor felicitous. Generosi in the first stanza is not “generous” (as in Neale’s version) but “noble” (as in Caswall’s). But, as Neale truly says, “the great crux of the translator is the fourth verse” (i.e., “Verbum caro panem verum, etc.”), so full is it of verbal and real antitheses. To illustrate the question of translation we select from the specimen versions the fourth stanza, since its very peculiar condensation of thought and phrase, dogmatic precision and illuminating antitheses, have made it “a bow of Ulysses to translators”. Its text is:

Verbum caro panem verum
     Verbo carnem efficit;
Fitque sanguis Christi merum;
     Et si sensus deficit,
Ad firmandum cor sincerum
     Sola fides sufficit.

A literal translation would be: “The Word-(made)-Flesh makes by (His) word true bread into flesh; and wine becomes Christ’s blood; and if the (unassisted) intellect fails (to recognize all this), faith alone suffices to assure the pure heart”. Sensus (singular) is taken here to indicate the inner sense, as distinguished from sensuum (plural) of the following stanza, where the word directly refers to the external senses. Perhaps the word has the same implication in both stanzas. “Sincere” (in its modern meaning) may be a better word than “pure”. Taking first the old versions found in books of Catholic devotion, we find in the “Primer” of 1604:

The word now being flesh become,
     So very bread flesh by the word,
And wine the blood of Christ is made,
     Though our sense it not afford,
But this in heart sincere to fix
     Faith sufficeth to accord.

It is not in the rhythm of the Latin, and contains but three monosyllabic rhymes instead of the six double rhymes of the Latin. The “Primer” of 1619 makes an advance to six monosyllabic rhymes; and the “Primer” of 1685 arranges the rhymes in couplets. The “Primer” of 1706 retains the rhythm and the rhymic scheme, but is somewhat more flowing and less heavy:

The Word made flesh for love of man,
With words of bread made flesh again;
Turned wine to blood unseen of sense,
By virtue of omnipotence;
And here the faithful rest secure,
Whilst God can vouch and faith ensure.

A distinct advance in rhythmic and rhymic correspondence was made in more recent times by Catholic writers like Wackerbarth, Father Caswall, and Judge D.J. Donahoe.

At the incarnate Word’s high bidding
     Bread to very flesh doth turn.
Wine becometh Christ’s blood-shedding
     And if sense cannot discern,
Guileless spirits never dreading
     May from faith sufficient learn.
(Wackerbarth, 1842)
Word made flesh, the bread of nature
     By his word to flesh he turns;
Wine into his blood he changes:–
     What though sense no change discerns?
Only be the heart in earnest,
     Faith her lesson quickly learns.
(Caswall, 1849)

Neale criticizes the version of Wackerbarth: “Here the antithesis is utterly lost, by the substitution of Incarnate for made flesh, and bidding for word, to say nothing of Blood-shedding for Blood”; and declares that Caswall “has given, as from his freedom on rhyme might be expected, the best version”. He remarks, however, that Caswall has not given the “panem verum” of St. Thomas.

By his word the bread he breaketh
     To his very flesh he turns;
In the chalice which he taketh,
     Man the cleansing blood discerns.–
Faith to loving bosoms maketh
     Clear the mystic truth she learns.
(D. J. Donahoe, 1908)

Some of the more recent translations take little account of the nice discriminations of antithesis pointed out by Dr. Neale, who when he attempted in his day a new version, modestly wrote that it “claims no other merit than an attempt to unite the best portions of the four best translations with which I am acquainted–Mr. Wackerbarth’s, Dr. Pusey’s, that of the Leeds book, and Mr. Caswall’s“. His version is:

Word made Flesh, by Word He maketh
     very bread his flesh to be;
Man in wine Christ’s Blood partaketh,
     And if senses fail to see,
Faith alone the true heart waketh
     To behold the mystery.

The present writer rendered the stanza in the “Amer. Eccles. Review” (March, 1890), 208, as follows:

Into Flesh the true bread turneth
     By His word, the Word made Flesh;
Wine to Blood: while sense discerneth
     Nought beyond the sense’s mesh,
Faith an awful mystery learneth,
     And must teach the soul afresh.

Neale’s version is given in the Marquess of Bute’s “Roman Breviary“. The Anglican hymnal, “Hymns Ancient and Modern”, declares its version “based on tr. from Latin by E. Caswall“; but, as Julian points out, most of it is based on Neale, four of whose stanzas it rewrites, while a fifth is rewritten from Caswall (i.e. the third stanza), and the fourth stanza is by the compilers. The arrangement found in the Anglican hymnal is taken bodily into the (Baltimore) “Manual of Prayers”–a rather infelicitous procedure, as the fourth stanza is not faithful to the original (Neale, “Medieval Hymns and Sequences,” 181). The last stanza and the doxology form a special hymn (see TANTUM ERGO) prescribed for Benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. The Vatican edition of the Graduale gives its plain-song melody in two forms, both of great beauty.

Publication information

Written by H.T. Henry. Transcribed by WGKofron. With thanks to Fr. John Hilkert and St. Mary’s Church, Akron, Ohio

The Catholic Encyclopedia, Volume XI. Published 1911. New York: Robert Appleton Company. Nihil Obstat, February 1, 1911. Remy Lafort, S.T.D., Censor. Imprimatur. +John Cardinal Farley, Archbishop of New York

Bibliography

JULIAN, Dict. of Hymnol., 2nd ed., s. v., 878 and 1085, for first lines of translations; HENRY in Amer. Cath. Quarterly Review (April, 1893), 288-292, for difficulties of translation; IDEM in Amer. Eccles. Review (March, 1890), 206-213, for text, verse-translation, comment, and notes; PIMONT, Hymnes du bréviare romain, III (Paris, 1884), 164-176. A list of hymns beginning with the words “Pange lingua” is given in the Analecta Hymnica, IV, 70; IV, 257; and indexes passim.

Copyright © 2007 by  Kevin Knight (EMAIL).

Week two of my impromptu EWTN Groupie Tour began Friday evening when Mary and I arrived at the Lowell (MA) Memorial Auditorium to take in a weekend of presentations by Father John Corapi, SOLT.

We are big fans of his, dating back to his series on the Catechism on EWTN which began playing in 1996 and has never been off the air.  We also have a certain affinity for him.  His conversion took place at the Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, NY, only about six miles from our house, where he not only returned to the church after many wild years of decadent living, but decided to become a priest as well.

He hails from Hudson, New York, a city much like Amsterdam and about the same distance south of Albany as we are west.  In the 1940’s, 50’s and 60’s, St. Mary’s of Hudson were the arch rivals of St. Mary’s of Amsterdam in basketball.  Rocky McCune remembers Father Corapi’s father as being one of the star players of his era.  What we didn’t know is that Father Corapi had two aunts who lived in Amsterdam, one a Sister of St. Joseph who worked in the operating room of St. Mary’s Hospital for about forty years and another who he mentioned in one of his addresses as the person who reconciled him to his father after a twenty year estrangement. 

After the lectures he chatted with Mary and I far longer than he should have considering the long line behind us and autographed Mary’s copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

If Father Rutler, my host last weekend, represents the cerebral and the scholarly approach to passing on the teachings of the Church, with his perfect erudite references to Aristotle and Aquinas and his total immersion  into sacred music and forms, Father Corapi  presents more as a  blue collar rock star, and so he was welcomed as he walked onto the stage on Friday night.

The warm-up act was a contemporary Christian music chorale and band.  I confess it didn’t do much for me, though later at benediction they handled O Salutaris Hostia and Tantun Ergo Sacramentum and Holy God We Praise Thy Name with exceptional skill.

But all those jumpy-clappy middle aged and later women scattered around the hall failed to enrich me, though I’m sure they felt quite spiritually involved themselves as they grabbed their tambourines and skipped up the center aisle in a sort of impromptu ecclesial Conga Line.

*******

Father Corapi is a mesmerizing speaker and every moment of his six-plus hours over two days was memorable.  This new series, Easy Prayer for Hard Times was taped a few weeks ago and will be broadcast on EWTN sometime in the future.  Particularly useful was the segment “Offer It Up”, the substance of which most Catholics over the age of 50 should recognize immediately.

“Johhny, take the garbage out.”

“But Grandma, it’s snowing!”

“Offer it up.”

He did his doctoral thesis on the theology of suffering, later published as a 333 page book.  He gave a copy to his father.

“Dad, did you read the book?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes, I liked it a lot.”

“Did you understand it?”

“Not much.  Just the part where you said, ‘Offer it up.’”

The simplicity of prayer.  The simplicity of joining your sufferings to Christ.

A good message.

And one Father Corapi won’t be giving before crowds of thousands any more.  For after traveling millions of miles since his ministry began, more miles than Pope John Paul II flew in his entire pontificate, Father Corapi announced that we were witnessing his last public performance, at least until 2009.  He is concentrating on books, television and his web site, where he will be giving weekly homilies soon.

Pray for him.  Pray hard.  He needs the strength of our prayers.

**********

Personal to Dawn Eden: The lecture on the first night primarily concerned  making yourself receptive to the power of prayer, and mentioned seven virtues to strengthen yourself as part of the process, including the essential virtue of chastity.

Dawn Eden’s faith journey continues to amaze.

Her latest contribution relates the evolution of her relationship with Mary of Nazareth, from the off-putting arguments of well-meaning Catholics (from her protestant days) to an astoundingly deep and profound theological discussion of the union of Mary and the Holy Spirit.

We snagged a good one.

[This was one of my very first blog entries, April 2, 2005]

Our church bell tolled 84 times. We draped the front door in purple and black. A framed action photo of the Holy Father was on display in the sanctuary, surrounded by the Easter flowers, propped between the new Paschal Candle and the baptismal font used only last week to welcome and sanctify the new members of our parish.

The mourning came twice: first yesterday, prematurely, when the false announcement came, then this afternoon when I was alone and Mary was teaching the new altar servers. An angel-weeping drizzle had been falling all day. I wiped some tears.

I turned on EWTN. That marvelous female voice with the British accent reading the text while appropriate photos and film from the life of John Paul the Great flashed on the screen:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil falsely against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.

Well, that did it for me. The pent-up emotion burst forth.

It was the second time this week I had seen those familiar words. The first had come from the written testimony of “Rachel Rose”, Dawn Eden’s mom, and the story of her theophany. (The whole story can be found in that peculiar backward blog way here.):

On the fifth day of reading The Great News, I came to Matthew 5, The Beatitudes. Standing on the Mount, Jesus looked out at the large gathering of people, and said: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” That got my attention. I had mourned for myself all my life. I read on: “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.” (Well, didn’t I hunger and thirst? Didn’t I seek to be righteous, even though I was so far from it?) I kept reading: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness…” (I was persecuted, wasn’t I? But I wasn’t righteous. Maybe that didn’t pertain to me.) Then I read the last one: “And blessed are YOU [My name jumped off the page. He was talking to ME.], when they shall reproach you, and persecute you, and say every evil word against you, lying, on account of me. Rejoice and be glad, for great is your reward in heaven.” REJOICE and BE GLAD. I began to cry. I began to sob. I fell in love. Jesus, I don’t know you. But you are the first one to understand. You are the only person who ever lived who could know my pain. Jesus, I will follow you anywhere. I’ll go to church. How do I follow you? Show me, show me, show me… The tears flowed and washed me clean.

After communion I wandered into the family room (where families with rambunctious kids can watch Mass through a plate-glass window overlooking the sanctuary; it is usually occupied more by middle-aged to elderly people) and knelt with my old high school Polish-American buddy, Brother Alex.

After Mass we reminisced briefly about our incredible and saintly Latin teacher, Sister Anna Roberta, CSJ, gone now to her eternal reward.

We looked out at the action photo of the young Pope, and the baptismal waters.

“What would Sister Anna say today?”

“I think,” I said, “that she would first say, ’sunt lacrimae rerum’ ["there are tears for things", from the Aeneid].

I paused.

“And then she would say, ‘Fiat‘.”

Yes.

Fiat.

Fiat voluntas tua.

Uncle Sy was born at home on December 4, 1922. His birth certificate says December 5th, but that’s the day they got around to registering it, I guess. Things were not quite so formal and legalistic back then.

There were ultimately 13 children born to Bronislaw and Anna Raczkowski Foltman and Sy was on the down side of the group, so potential names had already gotten scarce. So, it was potluck based on the feast day of the Saint of his baptismal day, December 31.

“So that’s how I got named Sylvester and I’ve hated it all my life,” he told me once.

Just out of curiosity, I pulled out my pre-Vatican II volume of feast days of the Church and thumbed through it.

“You know,” I said, “You should consider yourself lucky. If you’d been baptized the next day your name would be Circumcision.”

I had the blessed fortune of attending a good Catholic parochial school in a working class multi-ethnic town before Vatican II. It was the era of the baby-boomers and the classes were huge, something like 43 in a room when I started in fourth grade in 1960.

I am reminded of that wonderful song in The King and I: “When I was a lad/World was better spot/What was so was so/What was not was not/Now I am a man/Things have changed a lot/Some things nearly so/Others nearly not.”

No such problem as a young Catholic. The rules were all laid out neatly for us. We knew, for example, that our parents were pretty much destined for hell if they didn’t vote for Jack Kennedy that year. (I was, even then, something of a contrarian. There were exactly six Nixon supporters out of the 43.)

On Friday, January 20, 1961, the father of one of our classmates delivered a table-top 19″ black and white television up the three flights of stairs to our classroom so we could watch the historical moment of the inauguration of the first Catholic president.

“The President-elect began his day with a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs.”

We all turned instinctively to Sister, who had gasped and was holding her hand over her mouth. She made a quick recovery.

“I’m sure he received a special dispensation, boys and girls. The Archbishop is empowered to waive the no meat on Friday rule for special occasions, and what could be more special than this?”

This nine-year-old contrarian chuckled to himself but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

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We engaged, as a matter of habit, in what are now described as “the pious practices of the faithful”, non-liturgical but spiritually enriching exercises. Like Bishop Sheen, we placed at the top of each paper the letters “J.M.J.” with a cross beneath, a quiet invocation of the guidance of the Holy Family. Years later, in Sister Anna Roberta’s Latin class we wrote instead “A.M.D.G.” for Ad Maiorum Dei Gloriam, “To the greater glory of God”. We learned and recited the Angelus prayers every day after lunch, sang the old hymns, took part in the May crownings of statues of the Virgin Mary.

It was a great honor to be an altar boy. We needed to be able to recite all the responses in Latin from memory. Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat iuventutem meum. “I will go to the altar of God, the God who gives joy to my youth.”

We’d be assigned a week at a time of daily masses. I always got the early one, seven a.m., which meant that I had to be out the door by 6:30 to walk the mile or so to the church with my cassock and surplice dragging over my back, in order to arrive in time to light the candles and otherwise prepare for the Mass. There used to be a short-cut through the City Hall grounds where I now work, dumping out on High Street. I remember one cold, pitch-dark winter morning when I was ten or eleven, taking that turn on High Street when a gray-haired, roughly-dressed woman emerged from the shadows.

“Boy!” she called.

I stopped. “Yes ma’am?”

She stumbled a bit.

“Boy. Say a prayer for me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

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Saying prayers for people was something we did a lot. On All Souls’ Day, we were told, if we made a visit to the Blessed Sacrament and said three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and three Glory Be’s we could release a soul from Purgatory to Heaven for all eternity. What an awesome thought!

After school the church was filled with young students dashing to the altar rail, saying nine quick prayers and dashing out the door and turning around and dashing back in for a new visit which would reset the clock to enable us to release yet another soul from the place of suffering. If we ran out of relatives and acquaintances, we could rescue souls at random, or by other identification, such as “the most neglected soul in purgatory.” Any prayers wasted on those already in eternal bliss would be banked in the “Treasury of Merit” and of course all those souls freed by our good actions would spend the rest of forever praying for us before the Throne of God.

I wonder every once in a while if I was able to get through some of those rough times because some long-forgotten heavenly friend was putting in a good word for me with the Old Man.

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On special occasions (other than inaugurations) we would make “Spiritual Bouquets” for our parents, usually with a hand-drawn picture of the Eucharist or the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the cover, wherein we would pledge to say so many rosaries, make so many Visits, offer up so many Masses, etc. so that God would pour forth spiritual blessings on them. And I’m pretty sure He did.

Mom kept them all. I’ve still got them. I was pretty generous. I think I may still owe a few of those rosaries.

“My Spiritual Bouquet,” they all said.

Could there be a better gift?

In my last post I mentioned my wonderful trip to the Church of Our Saviour in New York (Park Avenue at 38th Street for those of you, including my children, who might be in the area). I was delighted to receive an e-note from Father George Rutler, the Pastor, who said, “You are most welcome anytime here, at what I like to think of as a village church in the midst of the big city.”

I thought that was cute, but the more I reflected, the more I realized the truth in that short sentence. The church, though beautifully decorated, is on the small side and intimate. The congregation, though metropolitan, seemed friendly and there was an easy familiarity among many whom I suppose to be regulars. I certainly felt right at home. There was no sensation of being enveloped as sometimes happens in the great cathedrals. Sure, a village church. I’ve been to a few of those.

When the children were smaller we often took them camping in the summer in the southern Adirondacks. There were a couple of small village churches we attended and I always felt a sense of great faith abounding in the simple surroundings. We also got remarkably good preaching. It was especially remarkable because both churches were on the far fringes of their respective dioceses, Albany and Ogdensburg.

One of them we hit four summers in a row and I heard four of the ten best homilies I’d ever experienced from a simple unassuming priest of no obvious greatness. Yet, he somehow managed to startle with an old message newly told and I remember thinking that if I could only come there six more times he’d probably capture every spot in my top ten.

Most of what he said has faded away now with the passing years. If only I had blogged it. There is one story he told, however, that has stuck, and may be not a bad one for the beginning of Lent.

Back in the early days of the Civil Rights movement, an African-American preacher approached a famous white lawyer who had been sympathetic to the cause and asked him to take the lead publically on some matter. Whatever it was, it created a great risk to the lawyer professionally. He was reluctant to get involved.

“I implore you, as a follower of Christ, to do the right and just thing!” begged the preacher.

“I’m a follower of Christ, too,” said the lawyer, “but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to be crucified!”

“If you’re not willing to follow Him to Calvary,” said the preacher quietly, “you’re not one of His followers.

“You’re just one of His fans.”

About a year ago, after a week by ourselves with Louisa off in Ireland with Anna and Peter, Mary and I finished off with a lovely weekend in New York City, hosted affably and skillfully by our son Bob who even picked up the tab for dinner Saturday night at his favorite Japanese eatery in the Union Square area.

From his apartment in Jackson Heights I plotted out the options for Sunday Mass, based on a poll of friends more familiar with the local liturgical scene than I. We ended up at the Church of Our Saviour on Park Avenue at 38th Street. The Pastor is Father George Rutler, whom I have seen many times on EWTN. He is in the top tier of the finest homilists in the English-speaking world and today he didn’t disappoint.

There is a side altar dedicated to St. Thomas More, one of my heroes and the patron saint of lawyers. I wanted to go over there and quietly sing the Ballad of High Noon for All Seasons, but alas, there wasn’t enough time before Mass and the opportunity never presented itself again.

“This isn’t gonna be all in Latin, is it?” Mary asked. She is that much younger than me that she has no recollection of the sublime beauty of the Tridentine Mass. “No, of course not,” I replied without telling her that my second choice was the Tridentine Mass at St. Agnes which was even closer to Grand Central than this church, and at the same hour.

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“Something old, something new.” Father Rutler may have been in the midst of his brief history of Time, but he might just as well have been talking about the liturgy itself. For a Novus Ordo Mass, there was little evidence that the old order had passed much. Six candles, incense, sprinkling of the congregation with holy water, triple bell-ringing at the Consecration, and glorious Gregorian Chant sung by a magnificent choir whose voices filled the church. It seemed like dozens, but I think there were only about four of them, in wondrous harmonies, accompanied by a most-accomplished organist. First rate all the way.

When they did occasionally break into English, it was the good stuff, like Holy God We Praise Thy Name. (No Gift of Finest Wheat or that calliope number Sing a New Song.) I never really understood why we abandoned Gloria in Excelsis Deo for the flat English translation. Hearing it again today, I would find it difficult to believe that anyone would not understand its meaning. And the Sanctus! To me, as an altar boy, that chant always sounded like the clink of censors and the tinkling of altar bells. It was in word and sound a brief glimpse of the Beatific Vision itself. It all came back to me today.

Fill the heavens with sweet accord
Holy! Holy! Holy Lord!

It really doesn’t matter that they don’t write hymns like that anymore. ‘Cause we’ve still got ‘em!

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The first thing I noticed on entering the church was the long line at the confessional. This is something you don’t see much anymore. The congregation was largely youthful, something we don’t see at all at home, the demographics being what they are. It was most encouraging.

As I say, Father Rutler is an extraordinarily gifted preacher. My hearing has been steadily deteriorating in recent years, and it is harder and harder for me to place myself in an assembly where I can get much out of what’s being said. I tried to capture each of the words today, and repeat them to myself as he went along. I felt, in the end, reassured, revitalized. Refreshed.

New York City is such a paradox. It is crawling with sin, sin of the worst kind, lost souls,drugs and alcoholism, diminishment and despair.

Yet in the midst of it all are these islands of hope and confidence, oases of grace and blessings in abundance. It is the surest sign that He wasn’t kidding when He said, “I will be with you always.”

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High above the sanctuary of the church there is written this legend: “LORD, IT IS GOOD FOR US TO BE HERE.”

Amen.

When we were kids, Mom made it a practice to take us to daily Mass during Lent. It wasn’t easy. Mom was teaching at St. Mary’s and the Mass schedules at St. Mary’s Church were such that she couldn’t quite get there and get ready for school too, so we would attend St. Michael’s a block away up the hill which had a syncopated Mass at just the right time, which, however, because there were five of us, we were never on.

Day after day we would wander in at the Epistle, and the Cuban priest who was attending in the sanctuary while the pastor said Mass would glare at us fiercely. We often sat behind Gene and Nancy Catena and their large brood of mostly rambunctious young boys (and one poor girl). The boys were continually poking at each other and otherwise messing around and Nancy would firmly, but gently bring them back under control.

Gene later became Family Court Judge and served for the 21 years before me. One of the rambunctious lads is now the County Court Judge of Montgomery County, another is in the seminary, another a hospital administrator. None are in prison.

One day, probably by accident, we arrived on time. The Cuban priest saw us and flew into near-hysteria, naturally assuming that something must have happened to the pastor, who obviously must be very late for Mass.

After Mass we’d walk down the hill to school and open up our breakfast of buttered toast, neatly wrapped in wax paper.

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Years later we were sitting near the front of St. Mary’s Church and Mary and I were having a bit of a problem controlling our two boys who were, shall we say, behaving inappropriately for church and uncharitably toward each other.

I turned around and there sitting behind us were Gene and Nancy Catena.

Smiling.

The call of business brought me in late December to the city of my birth, Troy, NY, for the third time in five weeks. The business was mercifully short, and we used my should-be-patented navigational method of follow-your-nose to wind our way back to the bridge over the Hudson.

I suddenly realized we had swung up to Fifth Avenue and when I spotted a church up ahead, I asked the driver, my former secretary, to pull over. For this was St. Peter’s Church, the church of my baptism and our home parish until just before my third birthday.

Our other companion was her sister, also a former secretary of mine, and the three of us stepped smartly through the front door and back into the 1950’s, for St. Peter’s had hardly changed a whit from the days of my toddling.

Twenty-something companions were awed by the beauty of the architecture and decor.

“This is what churches used to look like,” I told them.

It’s the third oldest parish in the State of New York, following St. Patrick’s in New York City and Old St. Mary’s in Albany. A Catholic church has stood on that site since 1830. The present building dates from the 1850’s, the interior decor from the late 19th-early 20th centuries. One of the early pastors was Rev. Clarence Walworth, whose name you might not know, but whose translation of a German hymn Holy God We Praise Thy Name should be on the lips of every English-speaking Catholic.

We wandered around, marveled at the marble high pulpit, the stations of the cross, the Christmas creche, the old confessionals. I realized I had missed the baptistry so I checked out the periphery until I found it in the back near the front door. (Churches are funny that way. You enter the front door to get to the back of the church, and the back door to enter the front).

It is astonishingly beautiful, dating, I later learned, from 1900, with an ornate baptismal font of marble, onyx and brass.

It was here that in July of 1951 I was given my name, and where, attended by my Aunt Marie Weise and Uncle Bob Brunelli, the stain of original sin was wiped away and I became, through the grace of Jesus Christ, a child of God and an heir of heaven.

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I should mention that this church is the only place in the diocese of Albany where the traditional tridentine rite Latin Mass of the Catholic Church is regularly celebrated. The old altar is still in use.

For more information, see the unofficial parish home page.