Episodes
Thursday Oct 31, 2019
Schola Christi - Congregation: Injustice Rectified
Thursday Oct 31, 2019
Thursday Oct 31, 2019
On the second Saturday of October, Members of the Secular Oratory gathered with Fr. David for a discussion on 'Congregation - Injustice Rectified.' The group read and reflected upon a brief selection from 'Meditations Before Mass' by Msgr. Romano Guardini.
Guardini now shifts his focus to the Congregation itself and specifically the interior disposition of all those present, priest and laity alike. A Congregation is not simply a gathering of many people together and not even a gathering of the pious and reverent. More specifically, Guardini tells us they are people "disciplined by faith and conscious of their membership in Christ gathered to celebrated the sacred mysteries." This does not simply happen spontaneously: rather, the congregation must "will it." Many things aid in the creation of this reality, but one element is absolutely necessary. Guardini describes it thus: "Be this as it may, anyone who knows that somewhere someone has something against him certainly can do one thing: he can promise himself to remove the injustice by correcting it as soon as possible. The honest intention suffices to bring down the wall between himself and his “brother.” Immediately the unifying element is free again to contact all parts. As soon as the injustice that isolates has been overcome, the congregation is restored." A radical unity must exist between members of the congregation. Any wall that divides must be removed if they are to stand before God. Sacred unity must be maintained at all costs. Forgiveness must be sought and at least established in one's heart. There can be no indifference towards another within us or false friendliness. Divine love must find its footing within us who have been made sons and daughters of God.
Friday Jun 28, 2019
Schola Christi - Prayer of the Heart
Friday Jun 28, 2019
Friday Jun 28, 2019
This was the February gathering for Schola Christi, a meeting open to all members of the Secular Oratory and adults who are interested. We began with a discussion of The Practice of the Jesus Prayer in the context of the ascetical life of the Christian followed by a history of the use and making of the prayer rope. Presented by: Fr. David Abernethy, C.O. and Ren Witter
If it is true that only the prayer has the power to awaken and deepen the spirit within us, that which makes us human beyond the body and the soul, then only the one who prays is a normal human being. Because of this fact, prayer is above all things, before all things and must accompany them all. “Nothing good can be done without it,” says the Russian pilgrim. The Jesus Prayer is precisely the practice which offers us this path for, the pilgrim says, “it is the continual and uninterrupted invocation of the name of Jesus on the lips, the heart and the mind, in the feeling of His presence, in all places, at all times, even during sleep: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!’”
Friday Jun 28, 2019
Schola Christi - Holy Day and Sacred Hour
Friday Jun 28, 2019
Friday Jun 28, 2019
On the second Saturday of March, Members of the Secular Oratory gathered with Fr. David for a discussion on 'Holy Day and Sacred Hour.' The group read and reflected upon a brief selection from 'Meditations Before Mass' by Msgr. Romano Guardini.
"It is the Paschal Mystery that becomes the cypher through which we understand the Divine Repose of the Sabbath. The Passion, Death and Resurrection of our Lord unfolds the deepest meaning of God's rest. Guardini writes: "The divine repose of the Sabbath now mingles with the triumph of the Resurrection. Into the hum of peace breaks the fanfare of victory. Promise and fulfillment have become one! For the Sabbath looked back in eternity to the beginning. Sunday looks forward in eternity to the end, to what is to come."
And this Divine Repose finds its expression in time in the Holy Mass. Eternity enters time! "This entry is the holy hour, the constantly recurring “now.” It is not as though there existed one hour which man reserves for his God; God Himself, bearing His salutary destiny, enters into the hour, which attains self-realization through Him. It now becomes part of the new creation. Through such an hour time contains eternity, and eternity embraces time."
For a brief moment, time enfolds eternity. Even in our adoration of the Blessed Sacrament when the Host is exposed to our gaze during Mass and one might say even when exposed for our worship during Adoration, we must not lose sight of this reality and allow it to become something banal! Rather we must let this reality permeate us and take this seed of eternity back into the world with us.
http://scholachristi.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-holy-day-and-sacred-hour-divine.html
Friday Jun 28, 2019
Schola Christi - The Revelatory Word
Friday Jun 28, 2019
Friday Jun 28, 2019
On the second Saturday of April, Members of the Secular Oratory gathered with Fr. David for a discussion on 'The Revelatory Word.' The group read and reflected upon a brief selection from 'Meditations Before Mass' by Msgr. Romano Guardini.
As an act, the Holy Mass speaks to us in a variety of ways. First, Guardini tells us, God makes Himself known through His words of revelation and through this also reveals to us what the world is and who we are as human beings. Through the readings and through the speaker - - God speaks. But the mystery of God's word extends to the inspiration it gives rise to in the heart of those who listen. The wisdom of God penetrates the individual and renews the soul. What takes place, then, is not simply the transmission of information but rather a personal encounter with the Living and True God. Thus, Guardini states, "It is not sufficient merely to accept ideas and understand commandments. We must lay bare our hearts and minds to the power that comes to us from beyond." We must prepare the soil of our hearts to receive the seed of God's word. It is a word that must be proclaimed, not simply read; heard and allowed to penetrate to the depths of a person's religiosity. We must cultivate that soil through preparing ourselves by meditating upon the scriptures ahead of time, reading passages in their entirety and in their context and developing a love for the Word within our hearts.
http://scholachristi.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-revelatory-word-encounter-with.html
Thursday May 30, 2019
Schola Christi - Behold I Make All Things New! The Executory Word
Thursday May 30, 2019
Thursday May 30, 2019
On the second Saturday of May, Members of the Secular Oratory gathered with Fr. David for a discussion on 'Behold I Make All Things New! The Executory Word.' The group read and reflected upon a brief selection from 'Meditations Before Mass' by Msgr. Romano Guardini.
The Word of God permeates the whole of the Mass and can be found in nearly all the solemn moments of the liturgy; of particular note is the moment of Consecration. Here the words spoken take on a special trait: they are spoke directly to God. Guardini notes, "the word becomes the living present. What was once spoken by Christ is spoken anew, not as a new word issuing from the hour and consequently passing away with it, but as the old, Christ-spoken word renewed and become part of this hour. The “memorial” does not consist in the congregation’s remembering what the Lord once spoke to His apostles, but in making His words alive and concretely effective." What Christ accomplishes through these words, that differs from all the other prayers of the liturgy, is the laying of the foundation for a new creation! "These words are the equals of those that once brought about the existence of the universe." The priest utters the words but it is Christ who speaks. It is to this great Mystery that we must bring all the faith our hearts can muster.
Tuesday Dec 12, 2017
Schola Christi - Composure
Tuesday Dec 12, 2017
Tuesday Dec 12, 2017
Composure
The precious fruit of silence and of stillness gained is composure. Regardless of our station in life (married, lay or religious) we are capable of being fragmented internally by the constant noise and distractions of our surroundings. Composure is the restoration of our inner unity in the spirit and the reestablishing the soul in its depth.
The growing artificiality of existence only compounds the dissipation of modern man. Bombarded by disconnected, contradictory and disturbing impressions, people gradually lose touch with reality itself and become detached from all moral and spiritual mooring. Cast about and disquieted, even a moment of silence leaves a person feeling lost or unbearably vulnerable.
This can be seen in the bearing of men and women at Mass. Guardini describes it vividly: "They are not really present; they do not vitally fill the room and hour: they are not composed."
Only the composed person is fully alive - fully human - "really someone." This means " true awareness: that inner knowledge of the essential; that ability to make responsible decisions; sensitivity, readiness, and joie de vivre.”
Again composure, like stillness and silence, arises not spontaneously but through preparation, the humble acknowledgement of the disorder within us and the ascetic efforts to reign in our thoughts and transform our passions. Composure is to be desired because it is a reflection of something far greater - of the eternity deep within us. It is the very ground of our soul and peak of the spirit.
IN THE spiritual life silence is seldom discussed alone. Sooner or later its companion, composure, demands our attention. Silence overcomes noise and talk; composure is the victory over distractions and unrest. Silence is the quiet of a person who could be talking; composure is the vital, dynamic unity of an individual who could be divided by his surroundings, tossed to and fro by the myriad happenings of every day.
What then do we mean by composure? As a rule, a man’s attention is broken into a thousand fragments by the variety of things and persons about him. His mind is restless; his feelings seek objects that are constantly changing; his desires reach out for one thing after another; his will is captured by a thousand intentions, often conflicting. He is harried, torn, self-contradictory. Composure works in the opposite direction, rescuing man’s attention from the sundry objects holding it captive and restoring unity to his spirit. It frees his mind from its many tempting claims and focuses it on one, the all-important. It calls the soul that is dispersed over myriad thoughts and desires, plans and intentions back to itself, re-establishing its depth.
All things seem to disquiet man. The phenomena of nature intrigue him; they attract and bind. But because they are natural they have a calming, collecting influence as well. It is much the same with those realities that make up human existence: encounter and destiny, work and pleasure, sickness and accident, life and death. All make their demands on man, crowding him in and overwhelming him; but they also give him earnestness and weight. What is genuinely disastrous is the disorder and artificiality of present-day existence. We are constantly stormed by violent and chaotic impressions. At once powerful and superficial, they are soon exhausted, only to be replaced by others. They are immoderate and disconnected, the one contradicting, disturbing, and obstructing the other. At every step we find ourselves in the claws of purposes and cross-purposes that inveigle and trick us. Everywhere we are confronted by advertising that attempts to force upon us things we neither want nor really need. We are constantly lured from the important and profound to the distracting, “interesting,” piquant. This state of affairs exists not only around but within us. To a large extent man lives without depth, without a center, in superficiality and chance. No longer finding the essential within himself, he grabs at all sorts of stimulants and sensations; he enjoys them briefly, tires of them, recalls his own emptiness and demands new distractions. He touches everything brought within easy reach of his mind by the constantly increasing means of transportation, information, education, and amusement; but he doesn’t really absorb anything. He contents himself with having “heard about it”; he labels it with some current catchword, and shoves it aside for the next. He is a hollow man and tries to fill his emptiness with constant, restless activity. He is happiest when in the thick of things, in the rush and noise and stimulus of quick results and successes. The moment quiet surrounds him, he is lost.
This state makes itself felt generally, in the spiritual life, in church services, in Holy Mass. Constant unrest is one of its earmarks. Then there is much gazing about, uncalled for kneeling down and standing up, reaching for this and that, fingering of apparel, coughing, and throat-clearing. Even when behavior remains outwardly controlled, an inner restlessness is clearly evident in the way people sing, listen, respond in their whole bearing. They are not really present; they do not vitally fill the room and hour: they are not composed.
Composure is more than freedom from scattered impressions and occupations. It is something positive; it is life in its full depth and power. Left to itself, life will always turn outward toward the multiplicity of things and events, and this natural inclination must be counter-balanced. Consider, for a moment, the nature of respiration. It has two directions: outward and inward. Both are vital; each is part of this elementary function of life; neither is all of it. The living organism that only exhaled, or inhaled, would soon suffocate. Composure is the spiritual man’s “inhalation,” by which, from deep within, he collects his scattered self and returns to his center.
Only the composed person is really someone. Only he can be seriously addressed as one capable of replying. Only he is genuinely affected by what life brings him, for he alone is awake, aware. And not only is he wide awake in the superficial sense of being quick to see and grab his advantage this is a watchfulness shared also by birds and ants. What we mean is true awareness: that inner knowledge of the essential; that ability to make responsible decisions; sensitivity, readiness, and joie de vivre.
Once composure has been established, the liturgy is possible. Not before. It is not much use to discuss Holy Scripture, the deep significance of symbols, and the vitality of the liturgical renewal if the prerequisite of earnestness is lacking. Without it, even the liturgy deteriorates to something “interesting,” a passing vogue. To participate in the liturgy seriously we must be mentally composed. But, like silence, composure does not create itself; it must be willed and practiced.
Above all, we must get to church early in order to “tidy up” inwardly. We must have no illusions about our condition when we enter the church; we must frankly face our restlessness, confusion, disorder. To be exact, we do not yet really exist as persons at least not as persons God can address, expecting a fitting response. We are bundles of feelings, fancies, thoughts, and plans all at cross-purposes with each other. The first thing to do, then, is to quiet and collect ourselves. We must be able to say honestly: “Now I am here. I have only one thing to do participate with my whole being in the only thing that counts, the sacred celebration. I am entirely ready.”
Once we attempt this, we realize how terribly distraught we are. Our thoughts drag us in all directions: to the people we deal with, family, friends, adversaries; to our work; to our worries; to public events; to private engagements. We must pull our thoughts back again and again and again, repeatedly calling ourselves to order. And when we see how difficult it is, we must not give up, but realize only the more clearly that it is high time we returned to ourselves.
But is it possible at all? Isn’t man hopelessly given over to outward impressions, to the press of his desires and his own unrest? The question brushes the ultimate: the difference between man and animal. An animal is really bound by these things, unfree though, we must hasten to add, protected by the orderly disposition of its instincts. An animal is never truly distracted. In the exact sense we were using, it can be neither distracted nor composed; it has not yet been confronted with this either/or. Its own nature determines its existence and requires it to be in order. Only man can be distracted, because something in his spirit reaches beyond mere nature. The spirit can turn to the things of the world and lose itself there; the same spirit can also overcome distraction and fight its way through to composure. There is something mysterious about the spirit, something relevant to eternity. Absolute rest and composure is eternity. Time is unrest and dispersion; eternity is rest and unity, not inactivity or boredom only fools connect these with it. Eternity is the brimming fullness of life in the form of repose. Something of eternity is deep within us. Let’s call it by the beautiful name the spiritual masters use, the “ground of the soul” or the “peak of the spirit.” In the first it appears as the repose of the intrinsic, of depth; in the second as the tranquility of remoteness and the heights. This seed of eternity is within me, and I can count on its support. With its aid I can step out of the endless chase; I can dismiss everything that does not belong here in God’s house; I can grow still and whole so that I can honestly reply to His summons: “Here I am, Lord.”
- Romano Guardini Meditations Before Mass
Thursday Nov 16, 2017
Schola Christi - Silence and Hearing
Thursday Nov 16, 2017
Thursday Nov 16, 2017
Stillness and The Word
In a few pages, Guardini takes us ever deeper into the mystery of the interplay of silence, speech and hearing. It is not uncommon, Guardini notes, to observe people at Mass with the eyes fixed on the missal during the proclamation of the readings. This may be done with the sincerest desire not to miss a word. Yet, in providing this opportunity to read along, as it were, many parishes undermine the spiritual act of listening attentively to the sacred word in its spoken form. The Divine Word is more than what is typeset on the page but something that can only reach to the depths of a person's heart through hearing. There is a vitality in the spoken word that elicits the deepest emotions and produces faith. The partial attention that comes through reading not only prevents a deeper comprehension but also makes what is to be communicated incomplete. There is, states Guardini, a spiritual/corporal nature of God's Word that is akin to the Sacraments. The Word was made flesh and the "same mystery continues in the living word of the liturgical proclamation!"
Such hearing requires silence; not just in the Church but in the mind and heart. We must seek to overcome the spiritual, intellectual and emotional noise within us to hear the word of God not simply through the filter of our own minds but as God desires us to hear it. We must seek the kind of stillness that is the fruit of purity of heart and that comes through the ascetical life.
SILENCE AND speech are interdependent and together form that nameless unit which supports our spiritual life. But there is another element essential here: hearing.
Let us imagine for a moment a Dialogue Mass; Epistle and Gospel, indeed, a substantial part of the Mass is read aloud in English. What do those believers who love the liturgy and wish to participate in it as fully as possible do? They take their missals in hand and read along with the reader. They mean well, they are eager not to miss a word; yet how odd the whole situation is! There stands the reader, continuing the service which the deacon once performed. Solemnly he reads the sacred words, and the believers he is addressing read with him! Can this be a genuine form of the spiritual act? Obviously not. Something has been destroyed. Solemn reading requires listening, not simultaneous reading. Otherwise why read aloud at all? Our bookish upbringing is to blame for this unnaturalness. Most deplorably, it encourages people to read when they should listen. As a result, the fairytale has died and poetry has lost its power; for its resonant, wise, fervent, and festive language is meant to be heard, not read. In Holy Mass, moreover, it is a question not only of beautiful and solemn words, but of the divine word.
Perhaps at this point someone may protest: “But these are mere aesthetic details which matter very little. The main thing is that the believers receive and understand the word of God–whether by reading or hearing is of no import.” As a matter of fact, this question is vital. In silent reading that frail and powerful reality called “word” is incomplete.
It remains unfinished, entangled in print, corporal; vital parts are still lacking. The hurrying eye brings fleeting images to the imagination; the intelligence gains but a hazy “comprehension,” and the result is of small worth. What has been lost belongs to the essence of the liturgical event. No longer does the sacred word unfold in its full spiritual-corporal reality and soar through space to the listener, to be heard and received into his life. Would it be a loss if men ceased to convey their most fervent thoughts in living speech, and instead communicated with each other only in writing? Definitely. All the bodily vitality of the ringing word would vanish. In the realm of faith also the loss would be shattering. After all, Christ Himself spoke of hearing. He never said: “He who has eyes to read, read!” (Matt. 11 :15). This is no attempt to devaluate the written word, which in its place is good and necessary. However, it must not crowd out what is better, more necessary and beautiful: hearing, from which, as St. Paul tells us, springs faith (Rom. 10:14).
Faith can, of course, be kindled from the written text, but the gospel, the “glad tidings,” gains its full power only when it is heard. Members of a reading age, we have forgotten this, and so thoroughly that it is difficult for us to realize what we have lost. The whole word is not the printed, but the spoken, in which alone truth stands free. Only words formed by the human voice have the delicacy and power necessary to stir the depths of emotion, the seat of the spirit, the full sensitiveness of the conscience. Like the sacraments God’s word is spiritual-corporal; like them it is meant to nourish the spirit in flesh-and-blood man, to work in him as power. To do this it must be whole. This consideration takes us still deeper. The saving God who came to us was the eternal Word. But that Word did not come in a blaze of spiritual illumination or as something suddenly appearing in a book. He “was made flesh,” flesh that could be seen, heard, grasped with hands, as St. John so graphically insists in the opening lines of his first epistle. The same mystery continues in the living word of liturgical proclamation, and it is all-important that the connection remain vital.
The word of God is meant to be heard, and hearing requires silence. To be sure that the point is clear, let us put it this way: how may proper hearing be prevented? I could say something to a man sitting out of earshot, for example. Then I should have to speak louder in order to establish the physical connection. Or I could speak loudly enough, but if his attention is elsewhere, my remarks will go unheeded. Then I must appeal to him to listen. Perhaps he does listen, notes what I say, follows the line of thought, tries his best, yet fails to understand. Something in him remains closed. He hears my reasons, follows them intellectually and psychologically; he would understand at once if they applied to someone else. In regard to himself, he fails to see the connection because his pride will not admit the truth; perhaps a secret voice warns him that, were he to admit it, he would have to change things in his life that he is unwilling to change. The more examples we consider, the more clearly we realize that hearing too exists on many levels, and we begin to suspect its importance when the Speaker is God. Not for nothing did our Lord say: “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”
To have ears to hear requires grace, for God’s word can be heard only by him whose ears God has opened. He does this when He pleases, and the prayer for truth is directed at that divine pleasure. But it also requires something that we ourselves desire and are capable of: being inwardly “present”; listening from the vital core of our being; unfolding ourselves to that which comes from beyond, to the sacred word. All this is possible only when we are inwardly still. In stillness alone can we really hear. When we come in from the outside our ears are filled with the racket of the city, the words of those who have accompanied us, the laboring and quarreling of our own thoughts, the disquiet of our hearts’ wishes and worries, hurts and joys. How are we possibly to hear what God is saying? That we listen at all is something; not everyone does! It is even better when we pay attention and make a real effort to understand what is being said. But all this is not yet that attentive stillness in which God’s word can take root. This must be established before the service begins, if possible in the silence on the way to church, still better in a brief period of composure the evening before. - Romano Guardini Meditations Before Mass
Wednesday Aug 16, 2017
Schola Christi - Holy Stillness
Wednesday Aug 16, 2017
Wednesday Aug 16, 2017
Members of the Secular Oratory gathered with Fr. David for a discussion on 'Holy Stillness.' The group read and reflected upon a brief selection from 'Meditations Before Mass' by Msgr. Romano Guardini
It is curious to think in our day that one of the most beautiful aspects of the Latin Rite Liturgy is the presence of silence. I say curious because it is so little found today or fostered. To do so seems to violate the "freedom" of distraction that individuals fight to maintain. A confrontation with silence is too frightening a thing in a culture that thrives on perpetual diversion. Any attempt to speak of the value of silence is met with either polite disregard or suspicion. Recently, I came across an article describing concern for maintaining a prayerful setting for worship as a reflection of narcissism; claiming that external distractions pull people out of focus on self and internal distractions that masquerade as prayer; allowing them to shift their prayers on to the needs of those around them. The absurdity of such an argument is unnecessary to address. Rather, I would like to reconsider a classic writing on liturgy - Romano Guardini's Meditations Before Mass. He begins by emphasizing what is sorely needed and painfully absent in our day: Stillness.
WHEN Holy Mass is properly celebrated there are moments in which the voices of both priest and faithful become silent. The priest continues to officiate as the rubrics indicate, speaking very softly or refraining from vocal prayer; the congregation follows in watchful, prayerful participation. What do these intervals of quiet signify? What must we do with them? What does stillness really imply?
It implies above all that speech end and silence prevail, that no other sounds of movements, of turning pages, of coughing and throat-clearing be audible. There is no need to exaggerate. Men live, and living things move; a forced outward conformity is no better than restlessness. Nevertheless, stillness is still, and it comes only if seriously desired. If we value it, it brings us joy; if not, discomfort. People are often heard to say: “But I can’t help coughing” or “I can’t kneel quietly”; yet once stirred by a concert or lecture they forget all about coughing and fidgeting. That stillness proper to the most beautiful things in existence dominates, a quiet area of attentiveness in which the beautiful and truly important reign. We must earnestly desire stillness and be willing to give something for it; then it will be ours. Once we have experienced it, we will be astounded that we were able to live without it.
What Guardini captures here is essential: silence does not happen spontaneously. It has to be desired as a good, fostered and we must be willing to make certain sacrifices to attain it. Few in our day have tasted true stillness and the beautiful fruit it produces in the soul and the liturgy.
Moreover, stillness must not be superficial, as it is when there is neither speaking nor squirming; our thoughts, our feelings, our hearts must also find repose. Then genuine stillness permeates us, spreading ever deeper through the seemingly plumbless world within.
Once we try to achieve such profound stillness, we realize that it cannot be accomplished all at once. The mere desire for it is not enough; we must practice it. The minutes before Holy Mass are best; but in order to have them for genuine preparation we must arrive early. They are not a time for gazing or day-dreaming or for unnecessary thumbing of pages, but for inwardly collecting and calming ourselves. It would be still better to begin on our way to church. After all, we are going to a sacred celebration. Why not let the way there be an exercise in composure, a kind of overture to what is to come? I would even suggest that preparation for holy stillness really begins the day before. Liturgically, Saturday evening already belongs to the Sunday. If for instance, after suitable reading we were to collect ourselves for a brief period of composure, its effects the next day would be evident.
Again, astutely, Guardini notes that preparation for such holy stillness begins not with the start of the liturgy but at the beginning of the Sabbath the evening before. The desire for stillness must be such that it leads us to begin the movement to still the mind and heart and regain the kind of composure that will become fully evident the following day. Saturday evening is often a time of heightened distraction rather than the begin of a fast from those things that fragment the mind and heart and lead to dissipation.
Thus far we have discussed stillness negatively: no speech, no sound. But it is much more than the absence of these, a mere gap, as it were, between words and sounds: stillness itself is something positive. Of course we must be able to appreciate it as such. There is sometimes a pause in the midst of a lecture or a service or some public function. Almost invariably someone promptly coughs or clears his throat. He is experiencing stillness as a breach in the unwinding road of speech and sound, which he attempts to fill with something, anything. For him the stillness was only a lacuna, a void which gave him a sense of disorder and discomfort. Actually, it is something rich and brimming.
Stillness is the tranquility of the inner life; the quiet at the depths of its hidden stream. It is a collected, total presence, a being “all there,” receptive, alert, ready. There is nothing inert or oppressive about it.
Stillness is not a void but rather a receptivity; the tranquillity of soul that prepares one to hear God as He speaks the Word He desires us to receive. In truth we should seek to live in a state of perpetual receptivity and alertness - a mindfulness of God that comes only through prayer and asceticism. We must seek to purify our desires and order our passions in order that nothing should distract us from the presence of God.
Attentiveness that is the clue to the stillness in question, the stillness before God. What then is a church? It is, to be sure, a building having walls, pillars, space. But these express only part of the word “church,” its shell. When we say that Holy Mass is celebrated “in church,” we are including something more, the congregation. “Congregation,” not merely people. Churchgoers arriving, sitting, or kneeling in pews are not necessarily a congregation; they can be simply a roomful of more or less pious individuals. Congregation is formed only when those individuals are present not only corporally but also spiritually, when they have contacted one another in prayer and step together into the spiritual “space” around them; strictly speaking, when they have first widened and heightened that space by prayer. Then true congregation comes into being, which, along with the building that is its architectural expression, forms the vital church in which the sacred act is accomplished. All this takes place only in stillness; out of stillness grows the real sanctuary. It is important to understand this. Church buildings may be lost or destroyed; then everything depends on whether or not the faithful are capable of forming congregations that erect indestructible “churches” wherever they happen to find themselves, no matter how poor or dreary their quarters. We must learn and practice the art of constructing spiritual cathedrals.
By fostering stillness, we our constructing the real sanctuary where God is worshipped in spirit and truth. The Congregation is formed not only physically but more importantly spiritually and altar of sacrifice must be humble and contrite hearts.
We cannot take stillness too seriously. Not for nothing do these reflections on the liturgy open with it. If someone were to ask me what the liturgical life begins with, I should answer: with learning stillness. Without it, everything remains superficial, vain. Our understanding of stillness is nothing strange or aesthetic. Were we to approach stillness on the level of aesthetics of mere withdrawal into the ego we should spoil everything. What we are striving for is something very grave, very important, and unfortunately sorely neglected; the prerequisite of the liturgical holy act.
Romano Guardini
Meditations Before Mass
Monday Dec 12, 2016
Schola Christi - The Christian and Anxiety: Fear Has Big Eyes
Monday Dec 12, 2016
Monday Dec 12, 2016
Any importance given to person and things reduces God's presence and activity within the soul," writes St. John of the Cross. God wants to protect me from being so deeply wrapped up in people and things that I push Him out. Through preoccupation with what He has created, I can effectively cover Him up.