150 - Gone the Sanctus Bells

Gone the Sanctus Bells
By Carole Z. Brennan

Editors note: In order to distinguish between the descriptive text and the various voices in what follows, different type styles have been used. When a Catholic Sister, or the Priest, speaks to the children, the text is printed in bold face type. When the author reminisces about her past, or speaks out of her day-dreaming, the text is printed in italic type. When the Priest speaks the Latin words of the Mass, THE TEXT IS PRINTED IN CAPITAL TYPE.

IN little less than an hour, Father Benedict will offer Mass. Between now and then I've got to set up this altar.

Walking toward the sacristy, old nuns' voices echoing years of Catholic school training bounce around my head. Taking the biggest bounce is what Sister Angelica, said this morning. Mass won't be offered in Latin any more nor will the priest wear the traditional vestments. The bells, too, have been ushered out along with the eternal, even though dead, language.

That's what makes it eternal, children, the fact that it's dead.

In sing-song voice: Yes, Sister.

But this morning Sr. Angelica said that word had come from Rome that English was the new language of the Mass and many other things were being changed, too. No more Latin.

Does this mean eternity has an end?

The Pope, the Shepherd of Mankind, the Bishop of Rome, whose word was law, the man a million miles away who symbolized all that was good, was suddenly somehow personally involved with me. And for some reason I didn't like it, not this kind of involvement. I wonder if ever I'd die for him now like I would have a day ago.

Carole Brennan attended Catholic parochial schools in Jeannette, Pennsylvania, and she is a graduate of Seton Hill College in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. She is a senior at Princeton Theological Seminary, and this essay was originally prepared as a termpaper in a class on "Symbolism and Theology." In a Preface to the paper, she hints that the essay may be partly tongue-in-cheek, for Carole Brennan is far from being a completely parochialized, ingrown, Catholic young woman. The essay, she noted, is a mixture of "sad-funny and real-daydreamy." Protestants think that Catholics must be jumping up and know, in profound symbolic ways, that with new changes in worship something down with joy now that the Mass has been Englished. But many Catholics old and precious also changes, and perhaps dies.

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I'm the only one in this whole church, staring at empty niches which once held statues that also have gone the way of the vestments, and remembering in a few seconds the years of gathered information concerning the Mass.

The church building itself, where Mass will soon be offered . . .

The voice of a nun, whose name I no longer remember, breaks into my thoughts and finishes my sentence for me.

… is generally pointed with the high altar eastwards, toward the Holy Land, where Christ was born, where he lived and where he died; and usually the church is in the shape of a cross, children.

Another sing-song answer: Yes, Sister Marylyn. That's it, Marylyn! Why do I remember it now after so long?

During all this thinking I've walked from the back of the church to the sanctuary which houses the high altar. A vision is before me-am I another St. John? There's me in the vision, five years old and standing with Sr. DeSales, my first grade teacher.

Let's say it together, children: The sanctuary represents the head of Jesus, the transcept his arms and the central nave his body.

Why am I the one not paying attention? I remember; I was thinking that Jesus must be really God because no human could fit in that little tabernacle without shrinking himself through some magic possessed by God alone.

Back to reality; this altar must be set and the vestments laid out before the people start arriving. But today's a funny day, I can't help dreaming of the Mass. Old religion classes keep popping up-like toast. Everything I'm doing has meaning, I know that. And with every move I make I hear two dozen nuns from two hundred dozen religion classes on two thousand different occasions uttering the message of the Mass, each in her own nun-way.

Tell me, dears, why does this table (pointing to the altar) represent a tomb?

Because in early Christianity the Mass was celebrated on the burial place of a martyr, Sister.

Ascending the three steps to the "tomb," in order to dress it, I stare up at that battered, bloody body limply banging from two chunks of wood; and as I hear Sr. DeSales telling the class that the altar and the crucifix represent Mount Calvary, I wonder if "they" will take away Jesus also. But the sanctuary lamp is burning, and I'm comforted briefly because I know that as long as that candle flickers Jesus is present.

The altar must be covered with three linen cloths that symbolize the linen in which Jesus was wrapped when placed in the tomb. There are also three altar cards that I've got to set up and, despite reasons given by well-meaning nuns as to their use, I know they serve no purpose save to help Father remember his lines. On each side of the altar stand three candlesticks that I've got to light immediately before Mass begins.

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Now children, what three things does the candlelight represent?

Str, Str, Str!! (Forty hands and bodies fly up). Str, Str, Str. For some reason no one ever said "Sister" when excited; it was always "Str."

So "Str" called on me.

The light represents Jesus; the light of the world, and faith, hope, and charity, Str.

I knew, too, that the candles had to be made of 100% beeswax because beeswax symbolized Jesus' human nature. But "Str" didn't ask that and as I reflect upon it, it didn't make much difference because Sr. Angelica said that was another change; no more bees-wax-at least not 100% and if it isn't 100%, why have it at all? The girls asked Sr. Angelica, if flowers could still be used on the altar and were all quite relieved when she said yes. The flowers, we all knew, represented the virtues which would bloom if one lived a life in Christ. That sounded so romantic. Neither girls nor boys were so happy, though, when she said that incense wouldn't be burned so often anymore. We all knew that the incense was symbolic of submission, adoration, and thanksgiving, but the removal of this bit of symbolism isn't why we're sad to see it go. It's the sick-sweet smell we'll miss; the smell that either makes you throw up (if you're a Protestant and not used to it) or puts you in a state of euphoria (if you are a Catholic and used to it). There is a great feeling of superiority over Protestants when we kneel through a solemn high Mass with full incense and they can't. Do they feel the same way about us because they can sit through Sunday school and church services and we can't? Well, no time to wonder about that; the altar is set up and now I've got to get the vestments in order.

When I was in fifth grade and learned about purity, I remember also learning that the vestments of the priest have allegorical significance. Setting each vestment on the table I remember what each means. I've known for some time what they stand for, but now that they're about to be taken away, their significance is thrown to the front of my mind. I remember the day we learned about the vestments. Sister Adele took us over to the church and Father came in to put the vestments on while we learned about them.

The amice, children, (why are people always children to nuns and priests?) is this white linen cloth which covers the neck and shoulders. It signifies hope, trust in Jesus, and is also meant to remind the people of the cloth used to blindfold Jesus while he was mocked.

Next he put on a long white linen robe that looked somewhat like my mother's winter night gown.

This is an alb, worn as a sign of purity of heart. It also represents the dress of mockery in which Herod clothed Jesus to revile him as a fool.

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Everyone was anxious to get back to the classroom then, to find out what "revile" meant. But Father was far from over. I remember him tying a long cord around his waist, over the alb; he said it was a cincture, a symbol of chastity. No need to hurry back after that one; we all knew what chastity was.

The clothes he had on up till that time were white. Then he put on colored vestments. The first one was a maniple, a narrow band worn on the left arm, and matching in color and material the remaining vestments. Everyone laughed when Father said it used to be used as a handkerchief and then he made a funny sound like be was blowing his nose on it. But then he said that a hanky reminds us of weeping and sorrow and therefore is an incitement for the priest to practice penance.

It also signifies the fruit of good works (the girls liked that) as a result of struggle and penance on the part of the priest.

Then he put on a long narrow band of material that was the same as the maniple.

This is a stole, the symbol of priestly power. (The boys liked that). It's worn around the neck like this and tied with the cincture in the form of a cross on the breast, like this. It suggests to the priest the obedience and fidelity with which he should perform his priestly duties. Together with the cincture and maniple it represents the cords with which Jesus was bound and the rod with which he was beaten.

I remember then he put on the last vestment.

I'm putting on the chasuble now, the emblem of the crown virtue, love, in which a priest is to abound. It reminds us of the purple robe that Jesus was clothed with while crowned with thorns. A chasuble has a cross on it, as you can see, which represents the death of Jesus out of love for us. When the bishop confers the chasuble on a newly ordained priest, he says "Receive the priestly garment, by which love is understood."

Then Father put on a funny looking black hat, which no one had seen. He said it was called a biretta, the official liturgical head-covering worn by the priest as he approaches and leaves the altar. It's a sign, we learned, of dignity and authority; and being a descendant of the academic cap, it is a sign also of priestly learning.

But now all this stuff is being taken away, for reasons I don't understand. Father Benedict will be wearing green vestments today, although it seems more appropriate that he should wear black, the color of death, the expression of mourning and sadness. I know, I know . . . black's only worn on three occasions: Good Friday, All Souls' Day, and services for the dead. Well, today's not Good Friday or All Souls' Day, but . . . ?

No more vestments . . . more vestments . . . vestments.

Sr. Angelica's words clang like the bell for the dead. I've always bated that bell; it brings me too close to death.

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Why the vestments? They mean so much. If Father walks out in red, we know in a second that he's about to celebrate a Mass in honor of the Holy Spirit, a Mass to remind us of Christ's suffering, or a Mass in honor of some martyr. Red-the color of the Pentecost flames and martyr's blood. If he approached the altar in violet, we knew it was lent or advent. It was the color that taught atonement for sins. Sometimes be came out in "Peace garments"-white. White, we knew, signified joy and purity of soul, and was worn only on special days-feasts of Jesus, feasts of Mary, from Christmas to Epiphany, and during Eastertide when the church is most joyful.

Today Father will wear green, the color of hope, the reminder that we should all live a life of hope. Right now I can only hope for one thing, for the Pope to change his mind. That's really a stupid thing to hope for; almost like expecting an umpire to change a close call at first base.

Fifteen minutes before Mass starts. What will I do with you, old missal, old dog-eared, ripped-up book that's gone with me to thousands of Masses?

The sanctuary bell sounds-all rise in symbolic respect for the priest who is about to offer Mass. One of the first things I remember learning about the Mass is that it's divided into two parts: the learning division, the Mass of the Catechumens and the Eucharistic division, the Mass of the Faithful. This is a symbolic reminder of the early centuries of the church when people under instructions, but not yet baptized, were permitted to stay for only the learning division of the Mass. Those baptized could remain for the Eucharistic service also. The reason: no spies wanted.

IN NOMINE PATRIS ET FILII ET SPIRITUS SANCTI.

Mass has begun. Father Benedict signs himself, a reminder to all, that life-like the Mass-must begin in Jesus, and that all true Christians must be willing to bear a cross.

This Mass has a somber mood to it. I've never heard the church this quiet before. Is everyone quiet for the same reason I am, because they want to drink up their last Latin words, words that they will never hear again?

The beginning prayers are uttered-at the foot of the altar, as a sign of humility before God. Everyone present knows exactly what will happen next.

CONFETIOR DEO OMNIPOTENTI.

Further acknowledgment of the guilt of all before God. Midway through this confession each person will strike his breast as a sign of sinfulness. The Confetior will stay, Sr. Angelica told us. I guess that's because man has so much to confess.

With a prayer for pardon on his lips, the priest ascends the altar, which he kisses. He kisses the altar nine times during the Mass,

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asking for the intercession of the saints whose relics are in the altar stone. Does everyone know what a relic is?

Yes, Sister.

ORA PRO ME AD DOMINUM DEUM NOSTRUM.

This mass is almost a torture. It's like doing something with a friend in the manner you've been doing it for years, with full knowledge that next week you won't see your friend anymore.

KYRIE ELEISON, KYRIE ELEISON, KYRIE ELEISON (the nine invocations addressed, three times each, to the Trinity).

It's the expression of mercy, the Advent of each day.

DOMINUS VOBISCUM.

I'm jolted back to reality, with my favorite phrase of the Mass. This little "ceremony in itself"-as the nuns called it-which is repeated so many times during the Mass, shows how closely the priest and people are united while offering the Mass. As Father Benedict says the words, he extends his hands and the congregation knows he does so to include them all in his greeting, "The Lord be with you." Beautiful words, but somehow I know they're not going to be the same as the Latin. Words mean more than just what they say.

It's Epistle time already, and after this prayer of thanksgiving comes the race between the server and the priest for the left side of the altar. Who will get there first, the server who must carry the Roman missal from the right side to the left, or the priest who must stop at the center of the altar to utter a pre-Gospel prayer?

The switching of the missal from the right side of the altar to the left is done to symbolize the divine favor that was taken from the Jews and given to the Gentiles. This isn't going to be done anymore, though. Feet shuffle, all stand.

SEQUENTIA SANCTI EVANGELII SECUNDUM. . . .

To show respect for the word of the Gospel, the faithful remain standing during its reading. And what is done at the beginning of each Gospel, children?

Str, Str, Str!! At the beginning of each Gospel, the faithful make the sign of the cross, with their right thumb, on their forehead, lips, and heart.

Very good; and why is this done, children?

Str, Str, Str!! They do it to declare that they will never be ashamed of the word of God, that they are ready to confess it by word of mouth, and that they love it with all their heart.

CREDO IN UNUM DEUM. . . .

Is it the end of the Mass of the Catechumens already? This Mass is going so quickly. Maybe that's because I want it to last forever. At times it used to drag, but today it's moving faster than I'd like.

ET HOMO FACTUS EST.

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Everyone genuflected at that part of the Credo. They didn't need anyone to say "The word was made flesh." Everybody genuflected as a symbol of awe and thanksgiving that the word was made flesh. It just doesn't make sense that this should all be in English, that so many of the symbols should go.

DOMINUS VOBISCUM.

The Mass of the Faithful begins-the most symbolic part of the Mass. It begins with the offertory-the offering of bread, wine, and self. Father Benedict will pour wine into the chalice, then a few drops of water in remembrance of the water and blood which flowed from the side of Jesus when pierced by the soldier's lance.

LAVABO MANUS MEAS….

Sister, why does Father wash his hands during Mass?

Long ago it was done because the priest's hands got dirty by handling the bread and wine presented by the people at the offertory. Now it's done to symbolize the purity of those who participate in the Mass. Also, it serves as a sad reminder of Pilate, who washed his hands of Jesus.

AMEN.

That ends the offertory; now the canon is coming up. I remember my advanced course in the Mass when I had to make a presentation of the canon as if explaining it to non-Catholics.

To open the canon of the Mass, the hymn to the angels, the trisagion, is addressed to the Trinity. The word canon is derived from the Greek and signifies three things: rule, direction, order.

I'd forgotten all about that word "trisagion." The song of the angels: Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus. Ringing bells, bending knees, striking breasts. This, too, is all going, all being pushed out. The bending knees are gone, the Sanctus bells are gone, the striking breasts are gone. Things that mean so much to so many are taken away by one letter from Rome.

At the beginning of the canon the priest prays for three things: (1) the Church, (2) living persons whom the priest especially wants to remember, (3) the faithful. During these prayers he sign's the water and wine three times with the sign of the cross, and does the same at the consecration.

The consecration-the most solemn part of the Mass. You could hear a pin drop. No one coughed, no one sneezed, no one moved. This is the part that impresses the non-Catholics most. They never experience silence like the silence of a consecration.

HOC EST ENIM CORPUS MEUM.

The priest then genuflects, a sign that God is before him. What puzzles non-Catholics most is that after this, the priest never disjoins his forefingers and thumbs, except to hold the host, until after the washing of his fingers at the end of Mass.

This symbolizes the fact that nothing but the body of Jesus may be touched by the priest.

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Then the priest consecrates the wine with the words

HIC EST ENIM CALIX SANGUINIS MEI.

The prayer after the consecration is also the last prayer of the Canon. Its first three words "Nobis quoque peccatoribus" are the only words of the canon which the priest pronounces in a somewhat elevated tone of voice, to symbolize an act of public self-humiliation; at the same time he strikes his chest as a sign of contrition. The canon is ended as the faithful assent to all that's been said by saying "Amen.'"

I was so proud that day. I knew all that stuff about the canonmost of it by heart. And what did it all mean? Somehow "This is my body" isn't as striking as "Hoc est enim corpus meum." It has more of a magical ring to it: Hocus, pocus.

PATER NOSTER, QUI ES IN COELIS...

The communion of the Mass has begun. That's one thing I could never understand about Protestants, why they don't have communion with every service. It's like going to someone's home and not being asked to dinner. The Mass is coming to an end. I've got to watch every move Father Benedict makes, listen to every word be says. Next month it will be over. The Pater is finished. Next Father will divide the host to symbolize the separation of the body and soul of Jesus when he died on Calvary. Then he'll mix a small part of that host with the blood in the chalice; but before doing that, he'll make the sign of the cross with the host three times.

Father seems to be more aware of his movements today, and of his voice. It won't be the last time he'll be offering Mass-well, not really, although it may seem so in a way.

The mixing's over. Now he'll cover the chalice, genuflect, and say, three times, "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis." And with each petition to the Lamb of God to have mercy on us, he'll strike his breast as a sign of humiliation.

We'll soon all receive communion. I'd better stop this day-dreaming and prepare myself by saying the three prayers of preparation: for peace, for sanctification, for grace. It will end with a kiss, the sign of brotherhood.

The kiss is characteristic, children. Before receiving communion, Christians should show that they are at peace with their brothers.

DOMINE, NON SUM DIGNUS . . .

Three times Father says this and then receives communion. Now he'll meditate for a while, then turn to us and well say the same thing with bells ringing all three times. Communion takes so long. Endless lines of people; up the center aisle, down the side. Rows and rows of people, extra priests coming to help the celebrant who can't possibly distribute all the communions alone.

Why is this all changing? I can't understand it.

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It's the universal service. . . . The same everywhere . . . you'll always feel at home in a Catholic church.

Nun-voices again. But, you know, they're right. I remember when we were in Scotland, the Mass was the same. I could use my St. Joseph missal as I do here. And the same goes for our trip to Italy and our trips through the United States. Everywhere the same. The last Gospel is over; Father's leaving the altar. Old nuns, you are so right-were so right.

I felt so at home in those churches. Mass is over. In four more Sundays, Mass, as I love it, will really be over. I feel like someone's rolling a bowling ball over my stomach. I only felt this way once before in my whole life, when Mom told me that in a couple of years I'd be old enough to have babies. For some reason I didn't feel as good as I think she expected me to feel. Growing up wasn't going to be that great. I'd have to lose too much of what I loved. I don't know why, but I feel that way today.