iacobusm Easter, Lent and Easter

Music for the Easter Season: Pedro Camacho’s Te Deum

“St. Ambrose” by Francisco Goya, 1799

    The Te Deum is an ancient Christian hymn composed in the 3rd or 4th century.  It takes its name from its opening line in Latin, Te Deum laudamus (“We Praise You God”). Throughout the ages it has been sung in thanksgiving or celebration on occasions both religious and secular. Today we pray it (or sing it) in the Liturgy of the Hours at the end of the Office of Readings on Sundays outside of Lent and on solemnities. Its authorship has sometimes been attributed to St. Ambrose and/or St. Augustine, or sometimes St. Nicetas of Remesiana, although it is likely older than any of these suggested authors. I’ve posted the English translation of the hymn and a brief commentary below the clip for those who are interested.

     The Te Deum has been set to music countless times over the centuries.  The clip below features the Classical Madeira orchestra and Madeira Chamber Choir performing what is probably the most recent of these compositions, by the Portuguese composer Pedro Camacho.  Camacho’s setting was first performed in public less than a year and a half ago, in December 2019. Here’s an opportunity to celebrate the Resurrection of Our Lord by listening to a beautiful combination of new music and a timeless prayer of praise.

TE DEUM

You are God: we praise you;

You are the Lord: we acclaim you;

You are the eternal Father:

All creation worships you.

To you all angels, all the powers of heaven,

Cherubim and Seraphim, sing in endless praise:

Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might,

heaven and earth are full of your glory.

The glorious company of apostles praise you.

The noble fellowship of prophets praise you.

The white-robed army of martyrs praise you.

Throughout the world the holy Church acclaims you:

Father, of majesty unbounded,

your true and only Son, worthy of all worship,

and the Holy Spirit, advocate and guide.

You, Christ, are the King of glory,

the eternal Son of the Father.

When you became man to set us free

you did not spurn the Virgin’s womb.

You overcame the sting of death,

and opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers.

You are seated at God’s right hand in glory.

We believe that you will come, and be our judge.

Come then, Lord, and help your people,

bought with the price of your own blood,

and bring us with your saints

to glory everlasting.

Save your people, Lord, and bless your inheritance.

— Govern and uphold them now and always.

Day by day we bless you.

— We praise your name for ever.

Keep us today, Lord, from all sin.

— Have mercy on us, Lord, have mercy.

Lord, show us your love and mercy,

— for we have put our trust in you.

In you, Lord, is our hope:

— And we shall never hope in vain.

“The Last Judgment”, by Fra Angelico c. 1450

Commentary on Te Deum

The Te Deum is one of those prayers that every Christian should know. In a relatively few lines it combines some of the spirit (and language) of the psalms of ancient Israel with a highly condensed Christian Creed, all in a form that has been in continual use for most of the history of the Church.

         While nowhere near as old as the psalms, some of which were written a thousand years before the time of Christ, the Te Deum is still very ancient, having been composed in the 3rd or 4th century.  And although it’s not one of them, the Te Deum shows a strong spiritual kinship with the psalms.  There are clear echoes of the venerable Hebrew hymns in the first stanza, in fact, which like Psalms 67 and 100 calls us to joyfully praise our Creator, and invites “all creation” to join in our worship.  

         The next three stanzas give us a kind of spiritual cosmology, specifying in descending sequence the three orders of creatures who participate in this praise.  First the Angels, the highest order of created beings, “who always see the face” of the Father in Heaven, as our Lord put it (Matthew 18:10). The last two lines of the stanza come directly from the Prophet Isaiah’s vision of Heaven, where he sees angels before God’s throne and “And one called to another and said: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.’” (Isaiah 6:3)

         Next we see the Church Triumphant.  These are holy men and women who went before us and are now experiencing the beatific vision: the Apostles, men chosen by Jesus Christ himself to be his companions and successors; the prophets, who were chosen as God’s representatives to his Chosen People; the Christian Martyrs who witnessed to their Lord with their lives.

         The fourth stanza brings us to the Church Militant, believers living today who unite themselves with the angels and saints in praising their Creator.  I’m not sure how many times I sang or recited this prayer before it really struck me that I wasn’t praying on my own, I was joining all the Hosts of Heaven through eternity in their endless Liturgy of Praise.  It’s an exhilarating realization, but humbling at the same time.

         At this point the prayer begins to turn our attention to the God whom we are all worshiping. Lines 13 through 24 bring us through a brief but beautifully comprehensive recap of the main points of Christian doctrine.  It reads something like a concentrated version of the Nicene Creed:

  • Lines 14-16 name the three Persons of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
  • Lines 17-20 identify Christ as “King” and “Eternal Son of the Father”, but also refer to his mission of salvation and his Incarnation as Man
  • Lines 21-24 succinctly present the Death and Resurrection of Jesus, the opening of Heaven, and the Second Coming

Lines 23-28, which seem to have originally closed the prayer, include a call for God’s assistance, a reminder of his sacrifice for our salvation, and a prayerful request that we might join our holy forebears before His throne.

         The final section of the Te Deum consists of a series of petitions that were added at some point over the centuries, and have long since become a permanent part of the prayer. These appear to have been draw from the language of the psalms.  Alternating praise with calls for His help and mercy, they bring the prayer to a fitting close.

         I have always appreciated the way the Te Deum does so much so succinctly. In just a few lines we are reminded of the sweep of Salvation History, the Communion of Saints, the Doctrine of the Trinity, the Mission of Jesus Christ from Bethlehem to the New Jerusalem, and all in the form of a joyful song of praise to our God.

         But that’s not all.  For many centuries Christians would sing the Te Deum as a song of celebration and thanks to God.  This was true not only after events of clearly religious significance, such as the Christian victory over the Muslim Turks in the Battle of Lepanto in 1572, but on the occasion of more worldly triumphs as well, in recognition that all good things are a gift from God.  For instance, the English King Henry V is reputed to have ordered his army to sing the hymn after their victory over the French at Agincourt in 1415, an event William Shakespeare includes in his play Henry V:

KING HENRY V:

Come, go we in procession to the village.

And be it death proclaimed through our host

To boast of this or take the praise from God

Which is his only.

FLUELLEN:

Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell

how many is killed?

KING HENRY V:

Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgement,

That God fought for us.

FLUELLEN:

Yes, my conscience, he did us great good.

KING HENRY V:

Do we all holy rites;

Let there be sung ‘Non nobis’ and ‘Te Deum;’The dead with charity enclosed in clay . . . (Henry V, Act IV, sc. 8)

The Te Deum, then, like the Psalms, is a concrete connection to the experiences of our predecessors, in this case in a specifically Christian context.

From Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 film version of Henry V

iacobusm Lent and Easter

Mascagni’s Easter Hymn and The Regina Coeli (Music for Easter Monday)

(Feature image above: “The Virgin Mary”, detail from the Ghent Altarpiece, by Jan van Eyck c. 1430) 

   We have seen before that some well-known sacred music settings often start life as secular songs.  That was the case with “O Sacred Head Surrounded,” our Music Monday selection last week.  The two most famous musical accompaniments to the Ave Maria, the tune by Schubert and the setting adapted by the composer Gounod from an earlier piece by J.S. Bach (“The Bach/Gounod Ave Maria”) were both also created for secular lyrics.  

     Today’s selection is a little different.  The soaring melody was composed explicitly for these words celebrating the Resurrection of Christ at Easter:

Let us sing
That Our Lord is not dead,
And in glory
Has opened the tomb!
Let sing praise
That our Lord is risen
And today is gone up
Into the glory of Heaven!

Inneggiamo, il Signor non è morto.
Ei fulgente ha dischiuso l’avel,
Inneggiamo al Signore risorto
Oggi asceso alla gloria del Ciel!


     This magnificent piece is a little like the Treasure Hidden in a Field from Jesus’ parable (see Matthew 13:44).  Pietro Mascagni composed it as part of his opera Cavalleria Rusticana,  a turgid account of betrayal, jealousy, and murder.  At one point in the drama, however, the inhabitants of the little Sicilian village where these unsavory events unfold sing this beautiful hymn in the village square while the choir inside the church intones the traditional Catholic prayer, Regina Coeli, Laetare (“Queen of Heaven, Rejoice”).  It’s an unexpected reminder that grace breaks through even in the ugliest of circumstances.

     Regarding the Regina Coeli, a prayer traditionally associated with the Easter season, I have more information below the video clip.

The prayer Regina Coeli, Laetare is of ancient origin.  Our oldest record of it comes from the twelfth century, but the website ourcatholicprayers.com tells us:

According to The Golden Legend, a famous 13th century work about the saints, Pope St. Gregory the Great heard angels singing the first three verses from the Regina Coeli during a procession in the 6th century and was inspired to add the fourth line “Ora pro nobis deum” (“pray for to us to God” in Latin). Although this story is itself considered to be a legend, it is, as Father Herbert Thurston once put it in his book Familiar Prayers, “inseparably associated with the Regina Coeli.”

We pray this prayer in place of the Angelus during the season of Easter, at which time it also serves as the the Marian Antiphon at the end of Compline (Night Prayer). I have posted the prayer it in both English and Latin below:

English:

Queen of Heaven, rejoice, alleluia.

The Son whom you merited to bear, alleluia.

Has risen, as He said, alleluia.

Pray for us to God, alleluia.

V. Rejoice and be glad, O Virgin Mary, alleluia.

R. For the Lord has truly risen, alleluia.

Let us pray.O God, who through the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ gave rejoicing to the world, grant, we pray, that through his Mother, the Virgin Mary, we may obtain the joy of everlasting life. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Latin:

Regina cæli, lætare, alleluia:

Quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia,

Resurrexit, sicut dixit, alleluia,

Ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia.

Gaude et lætare, Virgo Maria, alleluia.

 Quia surrexit Dominus vere, alleluia.

Oremus.

     Deus, qui per resurrectionem Filii tui, Domini nostri Iesu Christi,
     mundum lætificare dignatus es:
     præsta, quæsumus, ut per eius Genitricem Virginem Mariam,
     perpetuæ capiamus gaudia vitæ.
     Per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum. R. Amen.

iacobusm Lent and Easter, The Triduum

Something Strange is Happening: Holy Saturday

Something strange is happening—there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep.

Those are the opening sentences in the non-scriptural reading in today’s Office of Readings, an “ancient homily on Holy Saturday.” It’s true that Holy Saturday is not quite like any other day in the liturgical calendar.  There is a pause after the intense liturgical activity of Holy Thursday and Good Friday.  There is a sense of expectancy, and, as the author of the reading above put it, “a great silence and stillness.”

     So it seems, to us.  If we read on, we see that the King may appear, to us, to be “asleep” but that is not really the case:

He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory.

The period between Death and Resurrection is one of stillness and waiting in our world, but Jesus doesn’t rest.  And why would Christ, fresh from crucifixion and death, seek out Adam and Eve? Our homilist shows him telling out first parents:

I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image.

These words are addressed here to Adam and Eve, but they are also addressed to us, their descendants. God did not create our first parents “to be held a prisoner in hell.”  Nor did he create any of us for that purpose. Out of his love for all of us he is calling us away from Death:

Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be separated.

“O sleeper, awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell.“

“The Harrowing of Hell” by Fra Angelico, early 15th century

The picture our homilist paints here of Christ is a reflection of what Jesus says of himself in the Gospels.  Consider this passage from the Gospel of Matthew:

If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray?  And if he finds it, truly, I say to you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray. (Matthew 18: 12-13)

This is one of numerous passages that show us how intent Our Lord is on gathering us to himself. We often speak of ourselves as “seeking God,” but that’s not really the way it works, we’re deceiving ourselves. The Benedictine Mark Barrett in his book Crossing: Reclaiming the Landscape of Our Lives says:

Biblical images of God – shepherd, farmer, lover – always make God the one who is active.  He takes the initiative . . . God is the seeker, and we are the object of the search.  This is the strangest lesson of all.

Yes, something strange is happening.  While our world seems silent and still, under the surface Our Lord is working out of our view to bring back all his lost sheep. We might want to take some time during the quiet of Holy Saturday to meditate on Christ’s saving action, and prepare ourselves to return to him when the Resurrected Lord comes back for us on Easter Sunday.

(You can read trhe entire Ancient Homily HERE)

iacobusm Lent and Easter, The Triduum

Is it I, Lord? (Good Friday)

   It seems all too easy for us sometimes to see the Apostles, in their bumbling humanity, as almost comic figures.  They certainly don’t appear too dignified, for instance, when they argue over which one of them is greatest (Luke 22:24, Mark 9:33, etc.); they look almost like clamoring children, who are clearly missing the point of their Master’s teaching.  We see another example in last evening’s Holy Thursday reading from John’s Gospel (John 13:6-10), where Peter just can’t understand what Jesus means when he washes the Apostles’ feet. Matthew’s Gospel shows us a further instance of Apostolic confusion in its account of the Last Supper.  After the Apostles have assembled for the meal with Jesus, the Lord says a remarkable thing: “Truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” (Matthew 26:21)  Were it not so serious a moment, we might be tempted to laugh a little at the Apostles all frantically asking “Is it I, Master?” (Matthew 26:24).  On the one hand, you would think that they know their own hearts, on the other, well . . . maybe they’re on to something.

“Truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” (Matthew 26:21)

“The Last Supper” by the Master of Portillo

     As it happens, not all of them doubt.  Peter confidently asserts, “Though they all fall away because of you, I will never fall away.” (Matthew 26:33)  He’s in for a rude awakening:  Jesus gently corrects the man he named “the Rock”, saying “Truly, I say to you, this very night, before the cock crows, you will deny me three times” (Matthew 26:34). And of course, Peter does just that. The other Apostles, as it turns out, had a better understanding of their own weakness.

     Yes, it tempting to put a comic spin on the Apostles’ reactions, but that would be a mistake, and not simply because they are holy people to whom we owe respect.  When Jesus says to them, “You will all fall away” (Matthew 26:31), he’s not speaking only to his Apostles, but to all of us who have been his disciples in the millennia since, as well as all those in the years  to come.  They all betrayed him; we all will betray him; I betray him.  Constantly.  That’s why we need the Sacrament of Confession.

     That’s also why we venerate the Cross and meditate on Christ’s suffering on Good Friday: because on the Cross Jesus died for us, because of our betrayals, because we fall away . . . because it is I, Lord; I fall away, not just three times, but over and over again.

O Jesus, Who by reason of Thy burning love for us

hast willed to be crucified

and to shed Thy Most Precious Blood

for the redemption and salvation of our souls,

look down upon us here gathered together

in remembrance of Thy most sorrowful Passion and Death,

fully trusting in Thy mercy;

cleanse us from sin by Thy grace,

sanctify our toil,

give unto us and unto all those who are dear to us our

daily bread,

sweeten our sufferings,

bless our families,

and to the nations so sorely afflicted,

grant Thy peace,

which is the only true peace,

so that by obeying Thy commandments

we may come at last to the glory of heaven.

Amen.

(Feature image top of page: “Christ Carrying the Cross”, by Hieronymous Bosch c. 1490)

iacobusm Lent and Easter, The Triduum

Christ Came To Serve (Holy Thursday)

He said to them, “But now, let him who has a purse take it, and likewise a bag. And let him who has no sword sell his mantle and buy one.  For I tell you that this scripture must be fulfilled in me, ‘And he was reckoned with transgressors’; for what is written about me has its fulfilment.” And they said, “Look, Lord, here are two swords.” And he said to them, “It is enough.” (Luke 22:36-38)

“St. Peter Cuts Off Slave’s Ear” by Duccio (c. 1300)

     I often find it easy to identify with Peter and the other Apostles when they are slow to catch on to what their Master is saying.  In the passage above, from Luke’s account of the Last Supper, there’s an almost comical quality to their too literal understanding of Christ’s sword imagery.  I picture Jesus shaking his head, with just a hint of a wry smile, as he says “It is enough.”  And yet this is a very serious moment, the Lord’s last instructions to his closest associates before he goes out to meet a horrifying death.  And later that same evening, Peter uses one of those two swords to mutilate a man in the gang that has come to arrest Jesus; nobody smiles at that.

     In the passage below from John’s Gospel, one of the readings at this evening’s Mass of the Lord’s Supper, we see something very similar:

Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, rose from supper, laid aside his garments, and girded himself with a towel. Then he poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel with which he was girded. He came to Simon Peter; and Peter said to him, “Lord, do you wash my feet?” Jesus answered him, “What I am doing you do not know now, but afterward you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You shall never wash my feet.” Jesus answered him, “If I do not wash you, you have no part in me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” Jesus said to him, “He who has bathed does not need to wash, except for his feet, but he is clean all over; and you are clean, but not every one of you.” (John 13:3-10)

     When he takes on the servile task of washing the Apostles’ feet, Jesus doesn’t simply speak but acts out his message, in the manner of an Old Testament prophet.  He is showing the Apostles through his example that the purpose of their office is to serve, and not to exalt themselves.  After Jesus notes that Peter does not understand what his Lord is doing, Peter confirms it with a curious mixture of pride and humility: he is indignant that his Master should lower himself in this way. Jesus tells him, in effect, that this is the price of discipleship, and then Peter, thinking that now he gets it, goes to the opposite extreme: in that case, wash everything!  As in the passage from Luke, Christ seems, in effect, to shake his head patiently and move on.

     There are many other examples like these in the Gospels: Peter and the other Apostles just don’t understand; then when they think they’ve finally got it, well, no, they still don’t understand.  And yet, these are the men Jesus has chosen to carry on his mission.  This tells us something about what it is to be human: none of us can figure it all out on our own.  We need the Power of the Father, the Saving Grace of Christ, and the Guidance of the Holy Spirit. When we see the same Peter acting with the inspiration of the Holy Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles (see for instance Acts 2:14-36), we see a more consistent and confident Apostle, much more worthy to be the Rock on which Christ builds his Church.

“If I do not wash you, you have no part in me.” (John 13:8)

“Christ Washing Disciples Feet” by Giotto (c. 1305)

     The washing of the feet also points to the much greater events that are about to unfold.  Christ’s death on the Cross, a servile and degrading form of execution (Roman citizens, such as St. Paul, underwent the more dignified penalty of beheading with a sword), was the ultimate act of Service, because it was all for us:

Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in the likeness of men.  And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:5-8)

Who can blame Peter for finding that hard to accept?  But eventually he does, through God’s Grace.  I pray that I also, in the commemoration of Christ’s Passion and glory of his Resurrection, find the grace to understand and to accept His service to me, and to follow his example in my own life.  

iacobusm Lent and Easter

A Hymn For Holy Week: O Sacred Head Surrounded

   J.S. Bach’s magnificent St. Matthew Passion is perhaps the most prominent musical composition that we associate with Lent. The most well-known part of the St. Matthew Passion itself is the “Passion Chorale”, which  often appears a hymn called  “O Sacred Head Surrounded”, or “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.”  

     What’s not as well known is that Bach is author of neither the basic melody nor the words: he merely incorporated into his composition (with some significant adaptation) what was already a familiar hymn called O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden (“O Head Full of Blood and Wounds”).  The music, which dates from about the year 1600, was composed by Hans Leo Hassler.  

     Like other familiar devotional songs such as the Schubert Ave Maria and the Bach/Gounod Ave Maria, the tune was originally composed as a secular piece and only later matched up with religious lyrics.  The German words were adopted by hymnist Paul Gerhardt from a much earlier Latin song traditionally attributed to St. Bernard of Clairvaux called Membra Jesu Nostri. Gerhardt’s words and Hassler’s music first appeared together in 1656 in a book published by Johann Crüger; Bach incorporated the song into his St.Matthew’s Passion in 1727.

     The first English version of the hymn was published by John Gambold in 1752, and there have been numerous English translations since.  The two most prominent are the 1830 translation by James Waddle Alexander that begins “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” and Sir Henry Williams Baker’s version, which opens with the words “O Sacred Head Surrounded.”     The lovely a cappella version of the hymn below sung by the Benedictines of Mary, Queen of Apostles, is largely based on Baker’s translation (except for the last stanza, which seems to come from Waddell). The words are posted underneath.

(Feature image: “Christ With Crown of Thorns” by Antonio de Pereda)

O Sacred Head Surrounded
By Crown Of Piercing Thorn!
O Bleeding Head, So Wounded,
Reviled And Put To Scorn!
The Power Of Death Comes Over Thee,
The Glow Of Life Decays,
Yet Angel Hosts Adore Thee
And Tremble As They Gaze.

I See Thy Strength And Vigour
All Fading In The Strife,
And Death With Cruel Rigor,
Bereaving Thee Of Life;
O Agony And Dying!
O Love To Sinners Free!
Jesus, All Grace Supplying,
O Turn Thy Face On Me.

In This, Thy Bitter Passion,
Good Shepherd, Think Of Me
With Thy Most Sweet Compassion,
Unworthy Though I Be:
Beneath Thy Cross Abiding
For Ever Would I Rest,
In Thy Dear Love Confiding,
And With Thy Presence Blest.


Be near when I am dying,
O show thy cross to me;
And for my succor flying,
Come, Lord, and set me free:
These eyes, new faith receiving,
From Thee shall never move move;
For he who dies believing,
Dies safely, through thy love.

iacobusm Lent and Easter, Sacred scripture

Who Are Those Cheering People? Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday

There’s something a little unsettling about Palm Sunday.  It appears that the same people who welcome Jesus as a victorious king at the beginning of the week are screaming for his death by its end. The liturgy reminds us of this incongruity by putting Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday together (at least in the Ordinary Form; in the Extraordinary Form last Sunday was Passion Sunday). I’ve heard a number of possible explanations for this apparent change in the crowd. I read once (I’m sorry to say I can no longer remember where) that the supporters greeting Jesus with palm fronds and hosannas on Sunday may not have been the same angry mob demanding his crucifixion on Friday. Maybe they were all different people.

There may be some small element of truth to this theory, but I can’t help but think that there must have been a very significant overlap between the two groups.  How likely is it that the entire mass of people who were so enthusiastic just a few days earlier would simply stay away from their new king’s trial?  I find the more traditional explanation more likely, that a large portion, at least, of the first crowd had soured on the whole Jesus phenomenon over the intervening days.

“Trial of Jesus”, artist unknown, 1545

     Which brings us back to the original question: why did so many change their minds?  The likeliest thing seems to be that when they found out that Jesus had no intention of being the sort of savior they were looking for, disappointment and disillusionment turned to disgust and hatred.  They thought that Jesus was a conquering hero who would free them from the oppression of the foreign Romans; when they discovered that his real aim was to free them from sin, well, no thanks, Jesus.

     This explanation rings true, because it fits with human nature: I’ve experienced it in myself, I’ve seen it in other people.  The fact is that, very often, we don’t really want to be saved from our sin. We would be happy to have Jesus take on our external hardships for us, to battle “Caesar” out there on our behalf, but we’re all too comfortable with the inner tyrants who hold us bound in a way no emperor can do.  How often have we welcomed Christ as our savior, only to turn away when the freedom he offers comes with the admonition “Go, and sin no more” (John 8:11)?     But Christ still rides into Jerusalem, receiving acclaim from a crowd that he knows will soon turn against him.  He does it because he loves them . . . just as he loves every one of us.

Featured image (top of page): “Christ’s Entry Into Jerusalem” Hippolyte Flandrin, (1842-1848)

iacobusm Lent and Easter, Sacred scripture, Saints

Why did Jesus ‘Take the Form of a Slave’?

Did you know that we are all slaves – and have you noticed how often the topic of slavery comes up in Scripture and in Salvation History?  We can see it in some recent posts here:  last Wednesday we discussed how St. Patrick was kidnapped and sold into slavery, and then returned after his escape to convert his former slave masters.  Two days later we celebrated the Solemnity of St. Joseph, whose forerunner Joseph son of Jacob had also been sold into slavery.  An impressive number saints have been slaves at some point, as recently as St. Josephine Bakhita, who died in 1947.

St. Josephine Bakhita

     Why is slavery so prevalent?  We Catholics know that in the Bible and in the history of God’s interaction with humanity there are different levels of meaning.  In another recent post, for instance, we talked about leprosy in scripture as a metaphor for sin; in much the same way slavery represents our attachment to sin. Why else has the Church’s Office of readings placed so much emphasis on the Book of Exodus during the first weeks of Lent?  God’s action in freeing the Hebrews from servitude to the King of Egypt is a foreshadowing of Christ’s Passion, Death, and Resurrection. Through his Passion, Death, and Resurrection he frees all of us from slavery: not thralldom to any human Pharaoh, but our own sinfulness.

    While Jesus himself was free from any attachment to sin, his human ministry inevitably reflected human servitude. Although we rightly call him the King of Kings, for instance, he didn’t look like a king when he lived on Earth.  As Jesus himself told Pilate, “My Kingdom is not of this world.” (John 18:36). In fact, St. Paul tells us “though he was in the form of God, [Jesus Christ] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave (δούλου in Greek), being born in the likeness of men.” (Philippians 2:6-7) St. Paul seems to be suggesting that to be man is therefore to be a slave – since of course, we’re all slaves, to sin.  Jesus took the form of a slave so that by his death and resurrection he might break the bonds of sin that hold all of us in servitude.  That’s why it’s Good News, Evangelion (Eὐαγγέλιον) in Greek, Gospel in Old English.

     Christ has broken our chains, but here’s the catch: we need to be willing to shake them off, get up, and follow him. “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24) And in fact, a quick search of all four Gospels finds at least twenty instances of Jesus inviting his disciples to “follow” him.

     The problem is, that’s not as easy as it sounds for those of us who are Slaves to Sin.  The bonds of sin have been there so long, they feel like a part of us.  Anyone who’s worn a ring for a long time knows what that’s like.  I once had to send my wedding ring out to be resized.  My finger was discolored and actually disfigured where the ring usually rested.  Not only that, I was constantly feeling for it, not even consciously, but out of a reflexive sense that something was missing . . . something that was supposed to be there.

     I mentioned above that the Exodus story takes a prominent place in the liturgical observances of Lent.  We might notice that the Hebrews did not go straight from slavery under Pharaoh to the Promised Land, but spent forty years in the desert trying to shake off their desire to return to the well-known comforts of bondage. More than once we see them yearning to go back to the predictability of a slave’s existence:

“The Israelites Leaving Egypt” by Johann Heiss (late 17th Century)

Would that we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate bread to the full; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” (Exodus 16:3)

and again

Now the rabble that was among them had a strong craving; and the people of Israel also wept again, and said, “O that we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we ate in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.” (Numbers 11:4-6)

     They weren’t ready to enter the Promised Land until their desire to move forward was stronger than their longing to back to their old, well-known chains.

     The forty days of Lent are intended to be our own forty years in the desert.  The penances and prayers of this penitential season are designed to help us turn away from our “strong craving” for whatever Fleshpots of Egypt we have in our own lives, and direct our gaze instead in the direction of the Promised Land.  

     Now, as we enter into Holy Week, the Church invites us to accompany Jesus into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, with its Passion Narrative to remind us what the sequel is to that ironic Triumphal entry.  Through the Triduum we have the opportunity to pick up our cross and follow Our Lord to Calvary and, through the tomb, to the True Triumph, Easter Sunday.     After all, we have nothing to lose but our chains.

(Feature Image top of page: “Joseph Sold Into Slavery” by Cornelis van Poelenburgh, early 17th Century)

iacobusm Lent and Easter

Music for Lent: J.S. Bach’s “Erbarme Dich” (from St. Matthew’s Passion)

Yesterday was the fifth Sunday of Lent, the beginning of Passiontide: the liturgical prayers and observances of the Church are building ever more urgently to the climax of the Triduum. Today’s musical selection, my second-to-last Lenten music post, is from what is perhaps the greatest musical composition created for the penitential season, Johann Sebastian Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion.  The piece in the clip below, “Erbarme dich, mein Gott” (“Have Mercy, My God”) powerfully combines words and music to evoke the experience of repentance:

Have mercy, my God,

for the sake of my tears!

See here, before you

heart and eyes weep bitterly.

Have mercy, my God.

Erbarme dich, mein Gott,

Um meiner Zähren willen!

Schaue hier, Herz und Auge

Weint vor dir bitterlich.

Erbarme dich, mein Gott.

The clip was recorded in 1947, and features violinist Yehudi Menuhin and contralto Eula Beal. Don’t let the scratchy sound at the very beginning deter you: this is a magnificent performance. My last Lenten Music selection of the year next Monday will also come from St. Matthew’s Passion.

Below: “Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane” by Carl Bloch (1873)