"Se vogliamo che tutto rimanga come e, bisogna che tutto cambi. Mi sono
spiegato?" (If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to
change. Get it?) Quoted from "The Leopard" by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa.
Ascending the few deep stairs from the Corso Vittorio Emanuele one passes
through wooden doors that shut out the noise of the Roman traffic and
enters the grand Church of S. Andrea della Valle. Its vast nave and ceiling
far overhead, many side altars used by generations of Teatini who hold the
church, tease forth numberless associations: Act One of "Tosca" with its
promise of blood and passion; the brutal baron singing in counterpoint with
the "Te Deum;" the sheer magnificence of a true renaissance humanist such
as is embodied in the figure of Pope Pius II, Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini di
Corsignano, entombed across the nave from his relative, Pius III; the
cupola, second only in height and size at Rome to Saint Peter's, lifting
one's eyes as if to the hope of paradise which it depicts. Passing through
the right transept and into a little chapel near the sanctuary, one's eyes
are struck by the sight of a real saint, dressed in the blazing "porpora
sacra" of a prince of the Church, a cardinal. S. Giuseppe Maria Tomasi,
C.R., scion of the princes of Lampedusa, a noble family of Sicily, entered
the Teatini in Palermo. He was brilliant in modern and classical languages,
learning even Hebrew and Siriac. He published books on scripture and
theology. But he is particularly well known for his contribution to
liturgy, and for that he has been called "prince of Roman liturgists" and a
true forerunner of the Second Vatican Council. His Holiness, John Paul II,
solemnly proclaimed him a saint on October 12, 1986, and his feast is
celebrated on January 3. He died in Rome in 1713.
The connection? The author of the quote at the beginning of this
reflection was also a Giuseppe Tomasi, Duke of Palma and Prince of
Lampedusa. This one was born in 1896 in Palermo and died in Rome in 1957,
243 years after his sainted ancestor. "Il Gattopardo" or "The Leopard" was
published after the death of its author and treats of the decline of the
old ways and the adjustment to the new ways of the world during the
turbulent years of Garibaldi and the fall of the House of Bourbon from the
experience of his own imperiled and declining family.
In the book, the prince, the Leopard, "watched the ruin of his own class
without ever making, still less wanting to make, any move towards saving
it." He knew the effort would be futile and that the end was near. However,
almost as if by accident the choices he makes somehow assure a continuation
of his family, if only for awhile. The quote at the beginning of this essay
is an ironic statement made by the Leopard's nephew Tancredi early in the
book. It aptly summarizes the younger and newer approach to the onslaught
of uncontrollable circumstances. Tancredi, a man of action in contrast to
the prince's older style of patient aristocratic endurance, says: "If we
want things to stay as they are, things will have to change."
Years ago I wrote in "Sacred Music" a two-part personal reflection from
the perspective of a convert from the Lutheran confession about the impact
of the Latin liturgy and its music on my life. They drew me with gentle and
almost intoxicating tenderness into the arms of the Church, which I entered
with great zeal and not a little naivete. Some years later, and a great
many bumps, bruises and lessons along the way, an update is due. I write
now from a new perspective as well. My place of residence is now Rome and I
am a deacon, soon to be ordained a priest.
But arriving at this point has not been easy, and the struggles have
slowly shaped and formed me. I now have come to hold ideals and goals
regarding music and the liturgy not previously expected, though it can be
said that they are genuine outgrowths of those intitial roots set down at
the Church of Saint Agnes in Saint Paul, Minnesota. To understand this
point, however, and what is meant by the odd quote at the top, starting
near the beginning and then looking forward is almost unavoidable.
It was during my instruction and conversion that I had been encouraged to
involve myself in all kinds of parish activities, the most important of
which was singing in the polyphonic and Gregorian chant choirs. From Mozart
and Haydn, the baroque architecture of the church, the vestments and
changing seasons, it became clear how so many different elements
participate in the creation of a whole, carrying astonishing impact on the
receptive person who merely permits them to enter. But nothing approached
the impact of Gregorian chant, learned from Paul LeVoir and the men of the
schola cantorum. In short, with an entrance into the Church, not only a new
faith was gained, but a new culture built through the centuries. Knit so
closely together with the faith itself, by its very reception the heritage
became my own as well. To paraphrase Newton, my discoveries were made while
standing on the shoulders of giants.
Simultaneously with this experience of the Church through the liturgy, my
pastor encouraged me to read and study everything that could be absorbed.
Monsignor offered catechisms from different periods and styles, works by
spiritual writers, historical fiction, the writings of Carol Woytyla as
well as his teachings as pope, and the documents of the Second Vatican
Council (not to mention an invitation to subscribe to "Sacred Music"). It
was electrifying. At my reception into the Church I was armed with not only
the aforementioned zeal and naivete, but also a certain grasp of what the
council had taught. I had at least read the documents.
But no sooner had I entered the door of God's house, taken off my coat and
hat and started to settle into this new home, when to my horror it became
apparent that the landlords and other tenants were not only demolishing the
furnishings, they were calling in the wrecking ball.
This is hardly figurative. Before my very eyes, churches and seminary
chapels were being mutilated and disfigured, vestments sent to the dumpster
and books cast away. The sad face of a discouraged construction worker
"reforming" an exquisite inlaid marble floor with a jack-hammer in what was
to become a "worship space" will stay with me to my dying day.
But by the time I had come to see that vandalism, it had become obvious
that the prevalent attitude toward music in the Church is today--along with
Catholic art, education, practice, everything--founded on similar ideals.
While trying to get the point of what they were striving to accomplish,
this thought came to mind: Now they have to destroy the churches
themselves...they are all that remain. It was then that a new ideal
developed: Keep what we have and restore it to perfection, thus preserving
our treasures, our heritage. If we want something altogether new, let us
build new, with a new style. But let it be sacred and let it be art! Let it
be worthy of the worship we offer to God. Too often the tunes we hear in
churches now are capable of reminding us of nothing but the "mundana," even
cheap. How many times had I been forced during liturgy in a shattered
chapel to sing the inspiring announcement that the gospel was about to be
proclaimed using a melody that could have been transcribed from the
Campbell soup jingle: "O the blessed gospel...mmm...mmm...good!" Given the
melody, nothing else could possibly come to mind.
Many times I was tempted to give up in frustration. It has been an ongoing
temptation to escape from the hurts by abandoning my convictions in one of
two avenues: throw off the "restraints" of the ideal that beauty and
obedience to the teachings of the Church will bring a new birth to Catholic
life, and just do what everyone else seems to say has to be done "in the
spirit of the council," or, leave the debate behind and enter some
conservative group such as the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Pius X, now
sadly in schism, but still preserving some of the things that can be so
attractive. These escape routes were seductive...for about three minutes at
a time. As my pastor says, "You can go into the ditch on either side of the
road!" We have one road, that given by the Church. I am convinced that,
contrary to the opinion of many, what one experiences at Saint Agnes is
firmly in the center of that road, and, because of its smoothness and ease
of travel, it is twenty years in advance of its critics who label it
retrograde. From 1981 to 1991, at Saint Agnes, there will have been
thirteen First Solemn Masses celebrated by newly ordained priests from the
parish. A tree is known by its fruits. The music and liturgy there have
been integral in fostering these vocations.
During those initial years at Saint Agnes, I acquired an education in the
general state of affairs through travel and exploration of other parishes.
Then came the seminary. Suffice to say that it was difficult to harmonize
much of what was found there with what I had come to value previously. I
had come to understand that the liturgy is the very action of Jesus Christ,
continuing in our time in the Church and thus our efforts should reflect
His presence and strive to create an experience of the divine and give
glory to God. In the liturgical principles employed at the seminary, I
found confusion and, for all the openness and pluriformity being acclaimed,
a rather narrow approach to how liturgy ought to be. Their ideal seems to
have been to create a "truly human experience." My own reactions were shock
and, at times, disillusionment and frustration at such a perspective.
Conflict resulted which at times reflected real growth and change for the
better. At times it revealed little more than symptoms of deeply rooted
problems that could not be resolved. For example, there was a painful day
when, after suggesting the use of some Latin in the liturgy once a month, I
was accused of "just wanting the 50's back."
This is not mentioned out of anger but rather to put in sharper contrast
the real foundations on which my Catholic faith had been built. The
Catholic Church of the 50's was unknown to me, having started life only in
1959, and as a Lutheran at that. The offerings of a classical education had
been absorbed along with the formation given by the liturgy itself, without
the intrusions of illicit creativity. But in the seminary the suspicion of
Latin, chant, and a certain attention to rubrics still drives some people
more powerfully than their goals of pluralism. I fear not a few seminarians
have found to their dismay that desire for the aforesaid can easily result
in questions about their emotional and pyscho-sexual stability thereby
indicating reasons for professional help or "deselection."
It became obvious that a different approach was necessary. Latin and chant
just were not grasped. Their driving principles could never allow them.
Still, the document from the Congregation for Catholic Education, following
on the well-known visitation of seminaries, signed by Cardinal Baum, states
that all newly ordained should be able to sing the Mass in Latin and in
English. It is not necessary to cite again the pertinent paragraphs in
"Sacrosanctum concilium" or the "General Instruction to the Roman Missal"
or even the Holy Father's motu proprio, "Ecclesia Dei adflicta."
After Saint Pius V closed the Council of Trent in 1563, there was upheaval
and conflict in almost every sphere of Catholic life. This seems to be a
recurring pattern after each council: confusion followed by growth and
advancement in sacred music, art, architecture, theology. But now the
council has been over for some years and we are still in the throes of
change. Let me affirm that I believe that a new time of real advancement in
church music and architecture will come. Astonishing new possibilities have
been given to the people of God by the council fathers in the fields of
theology and the law of the Church, which grew out of the same reforms of
the council. They reflect a new focus on the person. This is an exciting
time to be a member of the Roman Catholic Church. We have so much to look
forward to.
The winter issue of "Sacred Music" (Vol. 116, No. 4, p. 9) has a fine
illustration of the Church of S. Andrea della Valle with which this
reflection began. To the left of the church is the Piazza Vidoni and the
facade of the palazzo where the Teatini priests still live. The walls of
their home still bear the scratched and carved-in names of the French
soldiers of Charles V. One of the "statua parlanti" (talking statues),
Abbot Luigi, next to whom people still tack up their quips on Roman life,
watches their comings and goings without comment. Some changes in streets
have been made since the picture found in "Sacred Music." Now there is a
long street that empties into the piazza and opens on the other end next to
S. Carlo ai Catenari, the other dome you see in the background of the
picture. Between the two stands the palazzo where one finds the "Scuola
Puerorum--Cappella Sistina," that historic institution now under the
direction of Monsignor Domenico Bartolucci. By sheer coincidence or divine
ordinance, I live in the very same building. My life seems inextricably
entwined with music.
Every day in Rome I walk past the rehearsal hall of the "Cappella Sistina"
and catch their strains (these boys when they are let out of school create
a spectacle and chaos that really should be seen to be believed). Saluting
Abbot Luigi and continuing in front of S. Andrea, not infrequently I wander
inside, listen to the organist practicing, visit the Blessed Sacrament and
pay my respects to the two pontiffs and the prince of Roman liturgists.
These visits, along with those of scores of other churches in Rome, each
more intriguing than the last, have given many opportunities for reflecting
on the Church.
Another facet must be mentioned. In this time here in Rome, having also
the chance to work with those entrusted with these matters, it has been
possible to see at close range the results of the conflict over the changes
initiated by the council and how they have been handled by some who wish to
return to an earlier period. A growing number of people wish to freeze "the
time immemorial Mass...the most beautiful thing this side of heaven" in its
1962 form. Sometimes they do not admit the validity of the reforms, of the
"novus ordo missae" of 1970. Naturally, many of these frustrated people
were never given the right to participate in the real reforms of the
council and were forced to endure illegitimate endeavors. Their travails
are well known. However, conflicts have been drawn out and made more
complicated, strained by polemics on both sides. An embittered laity accuse
their bishops of "disobedience...indifference." Bishops and priests have
revealed at times a less than open approach to what the documents from Rome
invite and sometimes require. Thus, a vicious cycle has been created and
needs to be stopped. We have an incredible freedom available, if we only do
what the council and the subsequent documents ask. There will always be
some honest differences of interpretation, of course, but it is hoped that
the resulting dialogues will be guided by a new vision based on our
heritage and directed by the Church through its legitimate and competent
authorities.
Why do I write this? There are many times when it has been difficult to
see the point of continuing to struggle for the sacred and the artistic in
the liturgy, for which so many hunger. I have felt times of alternating
exhilaration and despair and that despair has only been relieved by
glimpses of hope. The Church is the very person of Jesus Christ, and He
will be with us until the end of time. Since the council taught under the
inspiration of the Holy Spirit, He will guide us in our efforts to bring
the conciliar reforms about. As Tancredi says in "The Leopard," if we want
things to stay the same, that is, preserve the treasures of our past and
the heritage of our Catholic culture and bring in a new and vital
expression of the liturgy, things will have to change.
We will need to add our prayers as well, both to heal many wounds as well
as to thank God for what we have accomplished already. A new approach is
needed, and new hearts too. All we must do is "to do what the council has
asked!"
