Transcending
Oppositions: Liturgy as the Synthesis of Faith and Reason
Philipp Rosemann argues that the very incompleteness of the Summa
theologiae, which Saint
Thomas could not bring himself to complete at the end of his life, should be
taken as a sign, a gesture on the part of the Dominican preacher about the
inadequacy of human language to capture the ultimate reality of the divine
mysteries. (I have strong disagreements with how he fleshes out this thesis,
but am sympathetic to something of the general idea.) Augustin Del Noce argues
that rationalism and Christian philosophy differ not because the former is
self-grounding and the latter demands a foundational act of faith, but rather,
because the one expressly and honestly acknowledges its reliance on faith while
the other naively or mendaciously fails to do so. Catherine Pickstock argues
that the ancient Roman rite “purposefully” stumbles and struggles, wrestling
with the angel of incomprehensible worship and unbloody sacrifice.
To put these together in reference to the liturgy, one might say that
the ancient Roman Rite, in its swift simplicity and textured complexity alike,
recognizes that all earthly worship must be, in some innocent and unintended
way, imperfect and thus repeated (both within itself, built of blocks of
repetition, and from day to day as the same sacrifice is represented ever anew
until the end of the ages), at the same time recognizing that the sacrifice of
Christ is perfect and all-sufficient, once for all, youthful as spring and
abundant as summer. Like the Summa, the human act of liturgy
is internally, that is to say, of its essence, incomplete, since it falls short
of the heavenly Jerusalem’s eternal worship—but, again like the Summa, it
is genuine knowledge, a triumphant ascent into the wisdom of the Cross.
In common with fideism, the liturgy prays “in order that there might be
prayer”; it throws many prayers and chants into the air that the air might be
filled with words as it is filled with clouds of incense, sweet-smelling and
obscuring, luring while impeding. It stretches forth into the abyss, depth
calling to depth in the dark night of faith. In common with rationalism, the
liturgy knows that its prayer is rational through and through, an utterance of
the Logos, heard for its righteousness; it knows that there is a fundamental
soundness in the universe, which the liturgy expresses in its very dignity,
stateliness, order, and beauty. In company with Christian philosophy, the
liturgy transcends both fideism and rationalism; it is reason suffused with the
utter abandonment of faith, faith anchored in truth and lifting the soul to
truth.
The ancient Roman liturgy expressly (honestly) acknowledges its act of
faith in the transcendent mystery of God. The new ordo risks
turning worship into a communal act of gathering, a communal rationalism
whereby man affirms what he already is and knows, instead of forcing upon him
the weight of glory that demands the ascetical denial of the God’s-eye view, of
adequacy, of any proportion between man and God, even while it
paradoxically establishes the inner knowledge, the true
proportion, which is none other than the one mediator between God and man,
Christ Jesus, true God and true man, who not only knows all but, as the
uncreated Word, is the infinite act of infinite knowledge. The liturgy brings
man to God and to man himself—as yet unknown, destined to be broken and remade
in the furnace of charity. The liturgy brings man to the edge of the abyss,
where it is but one step, past the threshold of this life, to the beatific
vision. For it is of the union of the soul with God by sanctifying grace that
Pope Leo XIII wrote: “This wonderful union, which is properly called
‘indwelling,’ differ[s] only in degree or state from that with
which God beatifies the saints in heaven” (Divinum Illud Munus 9).
The traditional liturgy establishes the link between God and man by
focusing entirely on the God-man, reminding us of our nothingness, our
incoherence apart from Him—the nihilism and fragmentation of fallen nature—and
of our divine fullness and integrity in union with Him. In Christ Jesus we have
access to the one and only knowledge that enlightens; as sinners, we are cut
off from this light. That is why the ancient liturgy quavers between confession
of sin and praise of God’s glory, between abasement and exaltation. Blessed Elizabeth
of the Trinity begs of Jesus:
O Eternal Word, Word of my God, would
that I might spend my life listening to you, would that I might be fully
receptive to learn all from you; in all darkness, all loneliness, all weakness,
may I ever keep my eyes fixed on you and abide under your great light; O my
Beloved Star, fascinate me so that I may never be able to leave your radiance.
Is this not our experience, too, when we have plunged into the
mysterious depths of the liturgy, tasted its otherworldly sweetness, become
fascinated with its strange beauty, and then come face to face with our own
darkness, loneliness, and weakness, our acedia, indolence,
vanity, distraction, taste for things of the world... We say, with Elizabeth:
“Keep my eyes fixed on you... make me abide under your great light... fascinate
me so that I may never be able to leave your radiance.”
Transcending
Oppositions: Liturgy as the Synthesis of Faith and Reason
Philipp Rosemann argues that the very incompleteness of the Summa
theologiae, which Saint
Thomas could not bring himself to complete at the end of his life, should be
taken as a sign, a gesture on the part of the Dominican preacher about the
inadequacy of human language to capture the ultimate reality of the divine
mysteries. (I have strong disagreements with how he fleshes out this thesis,
but am sympathetic to something of the general idea.) Augustin Del Noce argues
that rationalism and Christian philosophy differ not because the former is
self-grounding and the latter demands a foundational act of faith, but rather,
because the one expressly and honestly acknowledges its reliance on faith while
the other naively or mendaciously fails to do so. Catherine Pickstock argues
that the ancient Roman rite “purposefully” stumbles and struggles, wrestling
with the angel of incomprehensible worship and unbloody sacrifice.
To put these together in reference to the liturgy, one might say that
the ancient Roman Rite, in its swift simplicity and textured complexity alike,
recognizes that all earthly worship must be, in some innocent and unintended
way, imperfect and thus repeated (both within itself, built of blocks of
repetition, and from day to day as the same sacrifice is represented ever anew
until the end of the ages), at the same time recognizing that the sacrifice of
Christ is perfect and all-sufficient, once for all, youthful as spring and
abundant as summer. Like the Summa, the human act of liturgy
is internally, that is to say, of its essence, incomplete, since it falls short
of the heavenly Jerusalem’s eternal worship—but, again like the Summa, it
is genuine knowledge, a triumphant ascent into the wisdom of the Cross.
In common with fideism, the liturgy prays “in order that there might be
prayer”; it throws many prayers and chants into the air that the air might be
filled with words as it is filled with clouds of incense, sweet-smelling and
obscuring, luring while impeding. It stretches forth into the abyss, depth
calling to depth in the dark night of faith. In common with rationalism, the
liturgy knows that its prayer is rational through and through, an utterance of
the Logos, heard for its righteousness; it knows that there is a fundamental
soundness in the universe, which the liturgy expresses in its very dignity,
stateliness, order, and beauty. In company with Christian philosophy, the
liturgy transcends both fideism and rationalism; it is reason suffused with the
utter abandonment of faith, faith anchored in truth and lifting the soul to
truth.
The ancient Roman liturgy expressly (honestly) acknowledges its act of
faith in the transcendent mystery of God. The new ordo risks
turning worship into a communal act of gathering, a communal rationalism
whereby man affirms what he already is and knows, instead of forcing upon him
the weight of glory that demands the ascetical denial of the God’s-eye view, of
adequacy, of any proportion between man and God, even while it
paradoxically establishes the inner knowledge, the true
proportion, which is none other than the one mediator between God and man,
Christ Jesus, true God and true man, who not only knows all but, as the
uncreated Word, is the infinite act of infinite knowledge. The liturgy brings
man to God and to man himself—as yet unknown, destined to be broken and remade
in the furnace of charity. The liturgy brings man to the edge of the abyss,
where it is but one step, past the threshold of this life, to the beatific
vision. For it is of the union of the soul with God by sanctifying grace that
Pope Leo XIII wrote: “This wonderful union, which is properly called
‘indwelling,’ differ[s] only in degree or state from that with
which God beatifies the saints in heaven” (Divinum Illud Munus 9).
The traditional liturgy establishes the link between God and man by
focusing entirely on the God-man, reminding us of our nothingness, our
incoherence apart from Him—the nihilism and fragmentation of fallen nature—and
of our divine fullness and integrity in union with Him. In Christ Jesus we have
access to the one and only knowledge that enlightens; as sinners, we are cut
off from this light. That is why the ancient liturgy quavers between confession
of sin and praise of God’s glory, between abasement and exaltation. Blessed Elizabeth
of the Trinity begs of Jesus:
O Eternal Word, Word of my God, would
that I might spend my life listening to you, would that I might be fully
receptive to learn all from you; in all darkness, all loneliness, all weakness,
may I ever keep my eyes fixed on you and abide under your great light; O my
Beloved Star, fascinate me so that I may never be able to leave your radiance.
Is this not our experience, too, when we have plunged into the
mysterious depths of the liturgy, tasted its otherworldly sweetness, become
fascinated with its strange beauty, and then come face to face with our own
darkness, loneliness, and weakness, our acedia, indolence,
vanity, distraction, taste for things of the world... We say, with Elizabeth:
“Keep my eyes fixed on you... make me abide under your great light... fascinate
me so that I may never be able to leave your radiance.”
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