Reflections on Sacred Music and the Liturgy
by Peter A. Kwasniewski
The Church, acknowledging that man is not merely an intellectual
being who can subsist on thoughts alone but a creature who
approaches reality through his senses, has always emphasized the
importance of incorporating sensible signs into her acts of
worship. As St. Thomas Aquinas explains in his treatise on the
sacraments, Christ provided His Church with sensible signs of His
abiding presence, conduits of grace through which the Holy Spirit
works in the hearts of the faithful. Used in the proper way, these
sacred signs -water, bread, wine, oil, words of absolution-not
only represent the action of Christ, they <effect> His work
because He works through them, they are the means by which He
visits and sanctifies the believer. Because man is not a
disembodied mind but an integral whole composed of body and soul,
it is most fitting that God should bestow His gifts upon the
faithful by elevating humble things of common experience into
efficacious means of sanctification, so that the ordinary can be
rendered extraordinary and our world can be permeated with signs
of God's love.
The Church and the Fine Arts
Nowhere is this transformation more evident than in the rich
heritage of the fine arts, whose history cannot be told without
including a preeminent place for the Church and her patronage.
What began as the glory of the pagan world-architecture,
sculpture, painting, music-became in her hands the servants of the
divine mysteries, ministers of the unseen world and dim
reflections of the beauty of God. The sacredness of the liturgy is
adorned and elevated by the use of beautiful things: icons that
seem to capture the timeless essence of sanctity, statues that
remind us of the communion of saints and the purpose of our lives,
stained-glass that depicts episodes from the Gospel and the
history of the Church with an eloquence unrivaled by words.
Contemplative plainchant, soaring polyphony, the majestic sound of
the pipe organ-these too are no small part of the Church's sacred
worship and noble patrimony.
As a result of experiences with various liturgies, some blessed
and some regrettable, I have had much opportunity to think about
these things, particularly sacred music. During the past six
years, I have directed choirs for singing four part music and
scholas for singing Gregorian chant or plainsong. The music I
choose to perform, often at the request of others, is, in most
cases, hundreds of years old: motets from the Renaissance, that
glorious flowering of Catholic culture, and from the Baroque and
Classical periods. Whenever we sing plainsong, we are drawing even
more deeply from the historical and devotional fountains of our
faith: a large number of the chants for the Roman Rite date back
to the ninth and tenth centuries, when monasteries were
flourishing in Europe and set the tone for society at large.
Some Neglected Truths
From the time I began directing liturgical music, certain vital
but nowadays neglected truths have become clearer to me. The first
truth is that one does not "make music for the liturgy" or "fill
in the empty spaces when the priest is busy." One lets the liturgy
itself, with its own rich spirit, its age-old prayers and profound
gestures, shape and govern one's choice of music. The second truth
I have learned is more paradoxical: as its final end, liturgical
music should have its own dying in mind. Of course I do not mean
the death of the music itself-far too much good music has been
allowed to die out, to the inestimable disadvantage of the
faithful. Rather, I have in mind the important lesson Christ came
to teach us: we must lose ourselves, forget ourselves, that we may
be all the more attentive to Him, all the more willing to
<listen>.
In performing or in hearing music, many people experience a
momentary uplifting of the soul to heavenly heights where the
beauty and peace of God eternally reign. This transcendence of
self is one of the aims of the sacred liturgy, and music is
certainly meant to aid us in raising our souls to God-or better,
allowing Him to raise us. The lesson we should learn is one of
self-forgetfulness, self-effacement, the humility of those who
reverently assist at the Holy Sacrifice: <non nobis, Domine, non
nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam>: not to us, O Lord, not to us,
but to Thy name give glory. If all the people were lifted to
meditation on divine things because our music gave wings to their
souls, then we musicians should thank God that they are no longer
thinking of the melodies and the singers. "I must decrease, He
must increase," said John the Baptist, forgetting himself, guiding
his followers solely to Jesus Christ.
Music for the liturgy, therefore, must breathe the air of the
sacred. It should not be raucous or assertive; it should not
advertise its own cleverness or tunefulness. It should not be
noisy-there is far too much noise in the world already, from
airplanes to radio stations! The best qualities of sacred music
have also been the most enduring in the history of the Church:
pure melodies, tranquillity, modesty, reverence. On one extreme,
some liturgical music is too operatic, as are many pieces written
in the late Romantic period; at the other extreme, pieces
fashioned in a "folk" idiom are too cute and sing-songy. The
moment that people become <preoccupied> with the music whether in
singing it with gusto or hearing it performed by a choir-the music
ministry has, in a very important sense, failed in its purpose.
The fine arts have enjoyed a long but not always peaceful
relationship with the worship of God. When fine art serves to
enhance worship by focusing our minds on the sacred, it deserves
the greatest praise, but when it offers distractions and
fascinations that detract from the central act of sacrifice and
thanksgiving, it has essentially set <itself> up as the liturgy,
as the reason for attending Mass. That this has often happened in
the history of the Church should come as no surprise. To admire
excessively the works of human hands is a perennial temptation,-
as the commandment in the Decalogue against the worship of graven
images bears witness. The ancient peoples who dwelled in the lands
surrounding the Hebrews seemed to have had an inordinate appetite
for superstitions revolving around talismans and idols. In our own
times, when so many lack faith in Jesus Christ, we have witnessed
the revival of such superstitions among devotees of the so-called
New Age.
As happens with all errors, however, the extreme of paying too
much attention to artistic and cultural forms of expression can
lead, by way of reaction, to the extreme of rejecting them
entirely, under a false notion that men can worship God "more
purely" if sensible signs-statuary, organ music, polyphony,
stained glass, sacerdotal vestments, and the like - are removed
from churches, wheedled down to a minimum, or uglified by
aesthetic modernism. Nowhere is it more true that the proposed
remedy proves far worse than the disease. To suppress the
traditional liturgical arts or strip bare the sanctuary to
"purify" or "simplify" it, as the Calvinists did in the sixteenth
century, is not at all to improve worship, but rather, to attempt
to make it <fit> for incorporeal spirits and not for creatures of
sight and hearing, flesh and blood, as we truly are. The wave of
banality and populism that has stormed Catholic churches for some
thirty years now is scarcely better, one must admit, than getting
rid of artwork altogether. To suppress the fine arts or to
transform them into something flimsy and trite is to dishonor the
precious gifts that God has given to mankind through centuries of
vibrant Catholic devotion.
Gregorian Chant
The Church has always insisted that the beautiful ancient melodies
known as Gregorian Chant be given a place of honor in the liturgy,
a place not to be compromised by other styles or types of music.
Unfortunately, few seem to heed this wise commendation.
There seem to be at least three reasons for this neglect. The
first is a widespread loss of silence, sacredness, prayerfulness,
in the celebration of the liturgy itself. Such a dramatic loss
could only have taken place where people were already inured to
the noisiness and profanity of our world, and no longer realized
how great is our need for meditation and recollection if we are to
pay honor to God and make strides in living out the Christian
life.
The second reason is more subtle and more perilous. In many
respects, the way Catholics conceive of the Holy Mass has been
gradually tainted by humanism. The focus shifts from the atoning
sacrifice of Christ on Calvary, to the "community gathered
together to celebrate." These two elements need not be in
conflict, of course, but given the contemporary tendency to
emphasize the social side of Christian worship, there may well be
a danger that the transcendent mysteries we re-enact may become
peripheral, downplayed, and even forgotten. The moment a liturgy
ceases to be focused upon the Cross of Christ, the unbloody
renewal of His Sacrifice on Calvary and the commemoration of His
Resurrection and Ascension, it also ceases to minister to the true
spiritual needs of Christians: adoration, thanksgiving, penitence,
and supplication.
A humanistic notion of the goal or focus of worship brings about a
false sense of what congregational participation means. According
to the view (seldom stated but often accepted) that man is at the
center of all things, the purpose of liturgy would be primarily to
glorify and praise man, or to make him feel good about himself.
Perhaps God would be invoked as an afterthought, as a vindication
of our instinct to self-worship; but there is no room for God when
men think so highly of their own innate goodness. One often
notices this strain of thinking in sermons preached at weddings
and funerals; judging from what is said, one would think that
every marriage begins in the bloom of virtue, and every life ends
in the odor of sanctity.
The creed of a humanist has two articles: men are naturally good;
as a result, men need no Savior to rescue them, no authoritative
Church to guide them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Men
are weak sinners, and without Jesus Christ and His Church, there
is no hope of their improvement and salvation. The Christian, who
stands at the pole opposite to the humanist, knows that unless he
eats the body and drinks the blood of Christ, he shall have no
life in him. The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is man's communion
with God, the focus of all his aspirations and longings.
Thus, if we look at what the liturgy truly is, we shall see that
the gathering of the community is a precondition for, but not the
summit of, our worship. God is the object, not man; the Eucharist
is "the source and summit of the Christian life." Prayer, most
especially our participation in Christ's sacrifice, is the highest
form of community action. Whatever conduces to good prayer, prayer
focused entirely on the divine Majesty and His angels and saints,
brings about by its very nature the fullest union of one Christian
with another in their common purpose of knowing, loving, and
serving God.
Finally, as a result of the strong influences mentioned above, I
believe that many parish music directors are either unaware of the
rich heritage they neglect, or are taking advantage of their
position to create liturgical "experiences" wholly out of keeping
with the faith of the Church. Whether out of dislike for an
unfamiliar kind of music, or out of more dubious aims of
"modernizing" parish life, such directors often fail to cultivate
the talent and interest needed for preparing and executing chant,
hymnody, or polyphony in a worthy manner.
More Than a 'Get-Together.
These reflections on sacred music lead inevitably to more general
ones about the state of the liturgy today. Let us consider for a
moment the way in which anti-traditional tendencies, whose bitter
fruits we are now reaping, affect the priest's role in the parish
and the priest's perception of the duty and office belonging to
him. There can be no doubt that priests ought, like Christ, to be
shepherds, teachers, and rulers; for there is no doubt that people
need to be shepherded, taught, and ruled. The false conception of
liturgy as a "get-together," however, devalues the priest, turning
him into a mere "facilitator" of miscellaneous activities
scheduled for a Sunday morning. There is no reason why any other
person could not "facilitate" those same simple tasks: all it
takes is one who can read whatever is printed on a page stuck into
a binder. When mystery and the adoration of God recede into the
background, when the doctrine of Christ and His Church receives
scarcely a moment's attention, the priest loses his reason for
being. If men are not <really> sinners, how could they stand in
need of sacramental confession? No wonder Reverend Father feels
that his days are humdrum. He is no longer governing and healing
souls.
A similar problem arises with music ministers. Are they there to
put on a show and to keep the people pleasantly occupied or do
they sing in order to elevate the devout soul to the worship of
the Almighty? As I suggested earlier, part of the essence of true
music ministry is that it consciously seek to <efface> itself, to
leave the limelight and recede into the walls, so to speak. Only
when the congregation ceases to think about the music as one would
think in general of any secularized art, can the musicians assume
their rightful place: servants to the common good of the parish.
It would be impossible for me to count the number of times I have
heard glowing comments after Mass from people young and elderly:
"Your music was beautiful-it really helped me to pray, that old
song brought tears to my eyes." People who go to Mass to worship
God are deeply grateful when the music focuses their hearts on Him
and helps to prepare their souls for the sacred mysteries we
celebrate. But the comments I like best are those that, measured
by the world's standard, one would least want to hear: "I didn't
really notice the music, because I was so caught up in the beauty
of the liturgy." If church musicians do their job well, their
ministry will contribute to the good of the entire community
gathered together for worship; they will not stand out like
glittering jewelry or artwork done in poor taste.
If all of the elements that constitute our public worship were
blended together properly, then the music would assume its
indispensable role, not as a center-stage attraction, but as one
important member of a complex ensemble of symbols: the vestments
worn by the priest, the sweet smell of incense rising to God,
luminous stained-glass windows depicting the life of Christ or the
Saints, statuary to remind us of our forefathers in faith. Each of
these traditional elements carries with it both history and
instruction, a link with the past and a strong reminder of who we
are as Catholics, pilgrims of changeless faith in a world of
constant change. The components of the Roman liturgy are meant to
bear witness, in a tangible, accessible way, to the sublime truths
we profess in our innermost souls.
Peter A. Kwasniewski is studying for a Doctorate in Philosophy at
The Catholic University of America, concentrating on medieval
philosophy. He directs a men's choir and schola at Old St. John's
in Silver Spring, Maryland.
This article was taken from the May/June 1996 issue of "The
Catholic Faith". Published bi-monthly for 24.95 a year by
Ignatius Press. To subscribe, call: 1-800-651-1531 or write: The
Catholic Faith, P.O. Box 160, Snohomish, WA 98291-0160.
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