On the Loss of the Sacred

Here is a fine excerpt from the first part of four, penned by the Bishop of Paterson, New Jersey, Arthur Seratelli. "On the Loss of the Sacred" provides some good pointers on the continuing Reform of the Reform.

The anti-authoritarian prejudice that we have inherited from the social revolution of the '60’s imprinted on many a deep mistrust not only of government but of Church. Some even reject the very idea of hierarchy (literally, “a sacred origin”) as a spiritual authority established by God. As a result, Church means, for some, simply the assembly of like-minded believers who organize themselves and make their own rules and dogmas. Thus, the Church’s role in the spiritual realm is greatly eclipsed.

On the first day of the new millennium, Prince Charles of England said, "In an age of secularism, I hope, with all my heart, in a new millennium we will rediscover a sense of the sacred in all that surrounds us." He said he hoped this would hold true whether in growing crops, raising livestock, building homes in the countryside, treating disease or educating the young. He recognized by his statement that we have lost a sense of the sacred.

Living in our world, we breathe the toxic air that surrounds us. Even within the most sacred precincts of the Church, we witness a loss of the sense of the sacred. With the enthusiasm that followed the Second Vatican Council, there was a well-intentioned effort to make the liturgy modern. It became commonplace to say that the liturgy had to be relevant to the worshipper. Old songs were jettisoned. The guitar replaced the organ. Some priests even began to walk down the road of liturgical innovation, only to discover it was a dead end. And all the while, the awareness of entering into something sacred that has been given to us from above and draws us out of ourselves and into the mystery of God was gone.

Teaching about the Mass began to emphasize the community. The Mass was seen as a community meal. It was something everyone did together. Lost was the notion of sacrifice. Lost the awesome mystery of the Eucharist as Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. The priest was no longer seen as specially consecrated. He was no different than the laity. With all of this, a profound loss of the sacred.
Not one factor can account for the decline in Mass attendance, Church marriages, baptisms and funerals in the last years. But most certainly, the loss of the sense of the sacred has had a major impact.

Walk into any church today before Mass and you will notice that the silence that should embrace those who stand in God’s House is gone. Even the Church is no longer a sacred place. Gathering for Mass sometimes becomes as noisy as gathering for any other social event. We may not have the ability to do much about the loss of the sacredness of life in the songs, videos and movies of our day. But, most assuredly, we can do much about helping one another recover the sacredness of God’s Presence in His Church.

On the first day of this millennium, the Prince of Wales struck a strong note of optimism for the recovery of the sacred. Paraphrasing Dante, he remarked: "The strongest desire of everything, and the one first implanted by nature, is to return to its source. And since God is the source of our souls and has made it alike unto Himself, therefore this soul desires above all things to return to Him." There is one place where we can begin to rediscover the sacred."

Two Kinds of Silence

Ruminating over the weekend at the Abbey about silence itself I came to the conclusion that silence usually comes in one of two types: Desolation or Consolation.

Remarkably similar to the Ignatian spirituality, both of these types of silence come from God. Both of these types of silence lead us back to Him. He designs each experience so that it can have its full effect, to make us love God and experience joy with Him eternally.

At the Abbey in Winter one of the most peaceful scenes I have ever witnessed is to look out over the snow covered valley outside the cloister and gaze at the blue tinted shadows, shadows which only half reveal the field stubble landscape underneath. To the ear, all is quiet, and a little deadened. This is one type of silence.

This wintery silence corresponds well to the dead times in my own soul's journey. These are times when words of prayer and proclamation, words of comfort and communication, cease to flow so easily.

Quiet is a defensive mechanism then. Or perhaps a healing one. These are times when we sense our souls drawing back into themselves, cringing and shriveling like dead leaves hanging on a branch, stirred by the wind.

There is something life-giving here, even in the winter, and not just by way of contrast and relief. It's not like when you come in from the cold and you finally get warmed up by the fire. It's more like this: you stand out in the cold for so long that it feels like even the cold has a peculiar warmth of its own.

However, one needs to beware the spiritual frostbite. You can feel warm and actually be in danger of losing a limb. To re-use the the metaphor of Jesus (Matthew 6:23), if even your light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness thereof. But if one is really listening, then I think there is little danger of being too long out in the cold desolation of silence. As Paul said, god does not tmept us beyond what we are able (1 Cor 10:13).

I like to preserve a preferential option for the other kind of silence: the silence of consolation. To me, that silence is like sitting with a long-loved partner and not needing to speak to him or her. The silence between you completes your sentences, one to the other. This silence is fertility personified.

That is the silence I heard this past weekend, sometimes between 5:00 and 5:30 a.m. on Saturday, after the Office Vigils but before Morning Prayer. It is a pregnant silence, not quite the time when the birds begin to sing and welcome the day. It happens before the time when the buzzing of cicadas or what-ever-the-heck is the Wisconsin equivalent begin their song.

It is the silence of potential fruitfulness, the silence which waits like the eyes of a handmaid for the answer of the Master (Ps 123). this the silence of knowing that god does all things well, while not knowing yet quite what God is up to.

As I think back on this silence and that great movie "Into Great Silence" I crave even more of that inward quiet, of both kinds. And one doesn't need to be a Carthusian to arrive there.

Turn off the car radio.

Sit still in the gloaming on the patio.

Listen with the ears of your heart.

Close to Her Heart: Gone to the Cistercians, and our Blessed Mother

I took part of Friday and Saturday to go visit my brothers at the Cistercian Abbey of Our Lady of Spring Bank near Sparta, Wisconsin. We celebrated the Immaculate Heart of Mary together.

I was struck by a single phrase in the Gospel reading for yesterday. At the end of the episode of finding Jesus in the Temple (Luke 2:41-51), it is said of Mary "she pondered these things in her heart."

Here is a wonderful commentary on that pondering from a fellow Cistercian, Saint Amedeus of Lausanne (1108-1159), Cistercian monk, then Bishop. The warmth of feeling for our Blessed Mother is one of the things drawing me to the Cistercians. You can see that warmth here.

Homily on Mary, 4

"Often, it seems to us, Mary forgot to eat and to drink, keeping vigil in order to think about Christ, to see Christ in his flesh. She burned with love of him and passionately loved to serve him. She often did what the Song of Songs sings about: “I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil.” (Song 5:2) Even when she was resting, she continued to dream of him who filled her thoughts throughout the day. Whether she was keeping vigil or resting in peace, she always lived in him, was always occupied with him.

Where her treasure was, there also was her heart (Mt 6:21); where her glory was, there also was her mind. She loved her Lord and her Son with all her heart, with all her mind, with all her strength (Mt 22:37). She saw with her eyes, touched with her hands the Word of Life (1 Jn 1:1).

How blessed was Mary, to whom it was given to embrace him who embraces and nourishes everything! How happy was she who carried him who carries the universe (Heb 1:3), she who nursed a Son who gives her life, a Son who nourishes her and all beings on earth (Ps 145:15).

The one who is the wisdom of the Father put his arms around her neck, the one who is the strength that gives movement to everything sat on her arms. He who is the rest of souls (Mt 11:29) rested on her motherly breast. How gently he held her in his hands, peacefully looked at her, he whom the angels wish to contemplate (1 Pet 1:12), and he gently called her, he whom every being calls upon when in need.

Filled with the Holy Spirit, she held him close to her heart… She never had enough of seeing him or of hearing him, whom “many prophets and kings wished to see… but did not see.” (Lk 10:24) Thus Mary grew ever more in love, and her mind was unceasingly attached to divine contemplation."