We hear the moving ancient hymn “Attende Domine” frequently during the season of Lent, especially at TLM masses. It is the cry of repentant sinners imploring God’s forgiveness: Attende Domine, et miserere, quia peccavimus tibi: literally, “Take heed, Lord, and have mercy, for we have sinned against you.”
The Latin text dates from around the tenth century, and is thought to be Mozarabic in origin. “Mozarabic” is a modern term that refers to the language and liturgy of Christians in the Moslem controlled areas of Spain in the Middle Ages (like “Byzantine”, this term a fairly recent invention which was completely unknown to the people to whom it refers). The melody is not Spanish, but is a Gregorian Chant in mode V.
The clip below was posted by kloostermagazine.nl. The Dutch publication Klooster Magazine renders its name into English as Monastery! It is pretty much what it sounds like. In any case, these three gentlemen do a beautiful job:
℟. Attende, Domine, et miserere, quia peccavimus tibi.
Ad te Rex summe, omnium redemptor, oculos nostros sublevamus flentes: exaudi, Christe, supplicantum preces. ℟.
A few years ago, during a previous Lent, I attended a mass in which the Gospel reading came from Matthew 8, which included the following passage:
. . . and behold, a leper came to him and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.” And he stretched out his hand and touched him, saying, “I will; be clean.” And immediately his leprosy was cleansed. (Matthew 8:2-3)
Father began his homily with the question, “Do you consider yourself a leper?” Well, I had never thought of myself as a leper . . . Father went on to explain that while leprosy was a real physical ailment and Jesus was healing real people, leprosy was also a scriptural metaphor for sin. Which means that lepers are a metaphor for us. So, I am a leper. We are all infected with sin, and, as Father put it, “sin makes the human person ugly.” But, he added, “that’s not our true likeness.” Jesus will cure us of our spiritual leprosy, provided that we, like the leper in Matthew’s gospel, are willing to be cured.
“Christ Heals Leper Man” Byzantine mosaic, detail from photo by Sibeaster
There’s the rub, as Hamlet put it. We are so used to our sinfulness that it feels, normal, natural. We wear it like another layer of skin. It may be a diseased layer of skin, but we’re used to it; its familiarity is comfortable; it’s ours. We have a hard time imagining ourselves without it.
This is not the post I had planned on writing this week. I actually spent a lot of time working on a piece drawing on an article on the Crisis Magazine website called “Toxic Chanceries“. Take a look at the original article if you want to get worked up. The author makes some very true points about what’s going wrong in the institutional Church. That was all I needed: I took her piece as my starting point, and off I went, smiting hip and thigh, decrying the lack of holiness in Church leadership . . . but then I stopped. Who am I to talk? I’m a spiritual leper. “I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” (Romans 7:19)
Before I go any further, let me say that I believe with all my heart that holiness is the answer, for all of us. It’s just that it’s so much easier to say than to do. I was making a distinction in the post (the one I didn’t write) about the difference between “gospel values” and genuine holiness. The author of the Crisis piece at one point says that “there has been a clamor among pundits that simply returning to gospel values will dispel the current problems affecting the Church.” I don’t know which pundits she’s talking about, so I don’t know if she’s correctly characterizing what they’re saying. Either way, I would have pointed out (if I had written the other piece) that “values” are a reflection of something deeper, an effect, not a cause. True gospel values are the product of holiness, which is an internal state, a putting oneself completely in the hands of God. Without true holiness gospel values are an empty show.
So, yes, genuine holiness would indeed improve the situation in our toxic chanceries. And while it might not confer administrative skills on bishops and priests, holier clerics would nonetheless lead to a better administered Church . . . a point on which I would have elaborated in the post I didn’t write.
Maybe I will write that post some day . . . or maybe not. In any case, today is not that day. Today is Sunday of the third week of Lent, Laetare Sunday, the mid point of our annual season of penitence. Holy Week, the culmination of our penitential journey, is quickly coming into view, and I would do well to pay more attention to the beam in my own eye (see Matthew 7:5). Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.
There are many things for which I should be more grateful, and one of the greatest is the forgiveness of sins in the Sacrament of Confession. One of the graces of the season of Lent is that there are many things to remind my stubborn, sluggish brain of that fact. For instance, this past Sunday father dedicated a large part of his homily to explaining how a detailed examination of conscience can help us make a good confession, and illustrated with a model based on the Ten Commandments . He also very helpfully directed our attention to the stained glass window closest to the confessional, which happened to be a depiction of the Prodigal Son. That reminded me of a Lenten penance I received at confession a few years ago, an assignment which got me thinking . . . and led to the meditation on the Prodigal Son, the Book of Jonah, and the Power of Forgiveness that I have reposted below.
I was given an interesting penance when I went to confession recently. I was to meditate on the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). My confessor emphasized that the father in Jesus’ story, who extravagantly welcomes back his wastrel son, is the true “prodigal”. In the context of the Sacrament of Confession we can see a clear identification between this father and the loving and forgiving God, with ourselves as the erring son who, having wasted his father’s generosity, returns home chastened and knowing that any kindness he receives will be more than he deserves. “Father”, he says, “I have sinned against Heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son” (Luke 15:18).
“The Return of the Prodigal Son” (1782) by Jean Germain Drouais (angry son at right)
There is another son in the story, however, the “Good” Son, who remained faithfully at home and, as he tells his father, “ ‘Lo, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command” (Luke 15:29). Angry that his erring brother is receiving a huge “welcome back” party, while his father “never gave me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends” (Luke 15:29), the obedient son stubbornly refuses to come in and join the celebration. He is, in fact, still obstinately standing outside the house at the end of Jesus’ parable, and the last thing we see is his father pleading with him “to make merry and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found” (Luke 15:32).
Thinking about this second son, I was reminded of the story of Jonah. I had never before considered how closely Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son parallels the last two chapters of the book of Jonah, but the comparison is striking. In the Old Testament book Jonah is sent to warn the people of Nineveh to repent their sins, or face the wrath of God. The Ninevites listen to the words of the prophet: like the Prodigal Son himself, they whole-heartedly repent, and in turn receive God’s whole-hearted forgiveness. Who could object to that? As it turns out, Jonah could, and does, object:
But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was angry. And he prayed to the LORD and said, “I pray thee, LORD, is not this what I said when I was yet in my country? That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish; for I knew that thou art a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and repentest of evil. Therefore now, O LORD, take my life from me, I beseech thee, for it is better for me to die than to live” (Jonah 4:1-3).
“Jonah, Seated Under the Gourd, Contemplates the City” (1566) by Maerten van Heemskerck
Jonah is determined not to give up his anger. God tries to soften his heart, first with kindness, by growing a large plant to shield him from the sun. He then takes a harsher approach, in which he kills the plant and exposes the sulking prophet to the ravages of sun and wind. Jonah’s heart is unchanged: “I do well to be angry,” he says, “ angry enough to die” (Jonah 4:9). The story ends, as does Jesus’ parable, with the voice of the Father explaining to his still fuming son why it is better to show compassion for those who were lost in sin, but have found their way back:
“You pity the plant, for which you did not labor, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night, and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?” (Jonah 4:10-11)
In both places, it is left unsaid whether the Father’s kindly words eventually pierce the heart of his stubborn son. We leave both Jonah and the unforgiving son still brimming with anger and resentment.
Which brings us back to Luke’s Gospel. The parable of the Prodigal Son is the culmination of a series of parables illustrating that, as Jesus says, “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance” (Luke 15:7). He is addressing a group of Scribes and Pharisees who were grumbling about Jesus, saying “This man receives sinners and eats with them” (Luke 15:2). The angry son in the parable is obviously intended to represent Christ’s hard-hearted critics.
Scripture, of course, always works on numerous levels, and we can see other meanings in the unforgiving brother as well. As I meditated on this passage I could see myself in this unlovely figure; as much as I can identify with the erring but repentant son, I can also be the judging, unyielding son who refuses to share his Father’s joy in the redemption of those who had previously fallen. Sometimes, amazingly, I can be both at once.
In his way, the angry son is the worse sinner. There can be no doubt that the first son has indulged in serious and destructive wrongdoing, but because it’s so obvious, and the consequences so inescapable, he knows he needs to repent. The second son appears to be doing all the right things, and in fact he is . . . on the outside. He is really like (again) the scribes and pharisees, whom Jesus says “are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within they are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness” (Matthew 23:27). The appearance of probity keeps him from seeing his own sinful heart, and he willingly removes himself from his father’s house. Jesus makes the same point with a different parable in Matthew’s Gospel:
A man had two sons; and he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ And he answered, ‘I will not’; but afterward he repented and went. And he went to the second and said the same; and he answered, ‘I go, sir,’ but did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” (Matthew 21:28-31)
This is, I think, a good point to consider as we draw nearer to Holy Week. It may be that the inspired author of Jonah, and Jesus himself with his parable, finish with a open-ended question, because we, in the person of the (self)righteous son, are being invited to give up our stubbornness and embrace the Father’s compassion. All of us need to throw ourselves on the mercy of God, Who in his prodigal love for us gave His only Son to suffer and die for our sins. What are our little resentments compared to that?
An earlier version of this Throwback Post was first published 21 March 2016.
One of the greatest of Marian hymns is the Stabat Mater, written (most likely) in the 13th century. It’s authorship is unknown; it has been attributed to Pope Innocent III (1160-1216) or, somewhat more plausibly, the Franciscan Jacopone di Todi (c.1230-1306), although both are doubtful.
The hymn itself begins with Mary at the scene of the Crucifixion:Stabat mater dolorósa/juxta Crucem lacrimósa,/dum pendébat Fílius, “The mournful mother was standing/full of tears, next to the Cross/while her son was hanging . . .” Over the course of twenty verses the hymn draws us into the suffering of Mary, and through her suffering into the suffering of Christ himself. It ends with us asking the Blessed Mother to intercede for us before the Throne of God (per te virgo fac defendar,/in die iudícii, “Make it so that I am defended by you, Virgin, on the day of judgment”), since we have shared in her pain and that of her son. The Stabat Mater has been set to music by literally dozens of composers. The clip below features a setting by Pergolesi, whose Miserere we heard last week. The are musicians the San Francisco Early Music Ensemble Voices of Music, featuring soloists: Dominique Labelle, soprano, and Meg Bragle, mezzo-soprano.
I have posted the Latin text and the best-known English translation below the clip.
The English text below is by Edward Caswall from his, Lyra Catholica (1849). Caswall’s translation is not strictly literal since he wanted to reproduce the trochaic tetrameter of the original, as well as the rhyme scheme of the original (AAB, CCB, DDE, FFE, etc.). In spite of that, he manages to stay remarkably close to the meaning of the Latin text.
1. Stabat mater dolorósa juxta Crucem lacrimósa, dum pendébat Fílius.
2. Cuius ánimam geméntem, contristátam et doléntem pertransívit gládius.
3. O quam tristis et afflícta fuit illa benedícta, mater Unigéniti!
4. Quae mœrébat et dolébat, pia Mater, dum vidébat nati pœnas ínclyti.
5. Quis est homo qui non fleret, matrem Christi si vidéret in tanto supplício?
6. Quis non posset contristári Christi Matrem contemplári doléntem cum Fílio?
7. Pro peccátis suæ gentis vidit Iésum in torméntis, et flagéllis súbditum.
8. Vidit suum dulcem Natum moriéndo desolátum, dum emísit spíritum.
9. Eja, Mater, fons amóris me sentíre vim dolóris fac, ut tecum lúgeam.
10. Fac, ut árdeat cor meum in amándo Christum Deum ut sibi compláceam.
This is a very different musical interpretation of Psalm 51 than we saw last week in Allegri’s Miserere. In Allegri’s composition the intensity of the soaring, unaccompanied voices lead us to contemplation of the Divine Mercy of God in Heaven. Here the urgent, dramatic orchestration pulls us down into King David’s turbulent emotions as he comes to acknowledge his sinfulness and his need for God’s mercy. This clip is only the first part of a much longer composition, and contains only the first line of the Psalm: Miserere mei, Domine, secundam misericordiam tuam, “Have mercy on me, Lord, according to your compassion”. As the focus of the Psalm moves from David’s sinfulness to the abundance of God’s mercy, the music in the later parts of the piece changes with it.
Pergolesi
The composer Pergolesi was born in 1710. His name was Giovanno Battista Draghi, but he was known as Pergolesi because his family came from Pergola. He was a well-known composer of operas, and was a pioneer in the comic opera (opera buffa) genre. His most famous opera was La Serva Padrona, “The Servant Mistress” (1733), which caused something of a sensation in Paris. He is better known today for his sacred compositions, especially his Stabat Mater. He died young, at 26 years of age, from tuberculosis.
The video below features a performance by the Choir of Magdalen College, Oxford. The painting is “The Prophet Nathan Rebukes David” by Eugène Siberdt. Tradition tells us that King David wrote Psalm 51 as an expression of penitence after he committed adultery with Bathsheba and contrived the death of her husband Uriah (2 Samuel, chapters 11-12). Siberdt’s painting shows us the moment that the prophet Nathan confronts David with his guilt.
The last thing we need is conflicting messages, don’t you think? Especially when it concerns the State of our Souls. Imagine my dismay, then, when I came across two different signs at two different churches telling me to do opposite things to observe Lent. What’s up with that?
I first published this Throwback Thursday Blast From The Past on March 6th 2016.
To Give It Up Or Not . . .
What’s up with the chocolate? As I was driving home from work last week I passed a church with a signboard out front that said, “Lent: Give Up Chocolate, Not Hope.” I kept thinking about it all the way home, both because I think the folks who put up the sign were trying to make an important point, but also because they were (inadvertently, no doubt) undercutting their message at the same time (I’ll explain how below). I had decided to write about it, and took a picture of the sign on my way to an event at another church (neither was my parish church). When I got to the second church, as I was running through my thoughts on the first sign, I saw another sign, or really a notice on a bulletin board in the hallway: “Don’t Give Up Chocolate For Lent.” Hmmm . . . one tells me to give up chocolate, the other says the opposite. Well now, should I or shouldn’t I? What’s a Good Christian to do?
Lent Is A Season Of Hope
I should mention that the first sign appeared outside a non-Catholic Christian church, but I think that the good point it was making is perfectly Catholic, that is, that Lent is a Season of Hope. I don’t mean hope in the secular sense of the word, which often refers to little more than desperate wishful thinking. Christian Hope is the confidence that, however bad things might be in the here and now, we know that Christ will triumph in the end. The sacrifices and penances of Lent actually serve to reinforce that Hope, by helping us to detach from our hopeless reliance on the things of this world (pleasure, power, politics, money, and even family and friends – not to mention comfort foods like chocolate), so that we can instead attach ourselves to our Lord and Savior. The best sacrifice is when we give up something good, because even the best things in this world are insufficient. Our own best efforts are insufficient without God’s help. I remember reading somewhere the observation that Jesus, God-Made-Man Himself, was put to death through cooperation between the leaders of the highest religion and the officers of the most advanced government the world had yet seen. That was no accident: “Unless the Lord has built the house, they labored in vain who built it” (Psalm 127:1). The small austerities of the penitential season serve, at least in part, as a reminder that we don’t really need things, but we do need Christ.
Body And Soul
That’s where I think sign number one is in danger of sending a mixed message. To my ears, at least, it sounds almost dismissive of the idea of sacrificing something concrete for Lent, as if it’s saying, “If you insist on giving up something go ahead, but it’s not really important; all that really matters is your interior disposition”. Again, I don’t know if that’s what’s intended or not (one can only say so much on a roadside signboard); I certainly hope not, because while the interior disposition is all-important, the external action helps to form and direct it. We are both body and soul, and as Christians we worship God made Man, so our faith is incarnational and sacramental. Unlike angels, who are pure spirit, we need to apprehend abstract realities through physical signs. As a result, giving up something without the proper interior disposition is pointless, but maintaining the proper disposition without reinforcement from the world of created things is, in the end, contrary to our nature, and therefore very difficult (which is why Jesus gave us a visible Church and Sacraments).
Maybe I Shouldn’t Give Up Chocolate . . .
Here’s where the second chocolate sign comes in. “Don’t Give Up Chocolate This Lent” is the slogan of Catholic writer Matthew Kelly’s “Best Lent Ever” program this year. His website explains:
Lent is the perfect time to form new life-giving habits and abandon old self-destructive habits. But most of us just give up chocolate. Then, when Easter arrives, we realize we really haven’t grown spiritually since the beginning of Lent.
Lent is not just about giving things up, like chocolate. Lent is about doing something—something bold to become a better husband or wife, father or mother, son or daughter, friend, neighbor, etc.
I don’t think that Kelly is actually opposed to giving up chocolate per se: in his book Becoming the Best Version of Yourself, he relates (very powerfully) how he broke his own chocolate addiction, and uses that as an example of how we can let things other than God become our master. Breaking free of addictions and idolatries in this way is, in fact, the purpose of the traditional Lenten sacrifice. In promoting The Best Lent Ever, however, Kelly is using the giving up of chocolate to represent something else: here it represents the very different problem of going through the motions of a nominal sacrifice without really experiencing anything deeper.
What’s A Person To Do?
It’s interesting that both slogans are using apparently contradictory messages to make the same (good and true) point: that giving up chocolate (or coffee, or watching sports, or whatever) is not enough, that truly experiencing what the Season of Lent is meant to teach us requires much more. They both also have the effect of seeming to trivialize the value of such sacrifices. To be fair, Kelly’s program offers plenty of other concrete ways of living out Lent, such as daily meditations, inspirational videos, etc. The slogan catches the eye precisely because it is so contrary to expectations. The problem is that many more people, unfortunately, will probably see the slogan than will look into the program. Let’s hope it doesn’t encourage people to forego Lenten sacrifices altogether.
As I said before, what’s a person to do? Perhaps there’s no way to fit the both/and nature of a good Christian observance of Lent into a catchy slogan. Is there some pithy way we can say “Lent: Give Up Chocolate to Remind Us That Our Hope Is In Christ Alone”? Or, “Don’t Give Up Chocolate For Lent If It Doesn’t Help You To Grow In Christ, but do give up something that does”? However that may be, chocolate is not the issue: we can, in good conscience, either give it up or not. Whether we participate in Matthew Kelly’s well-received program or follow some more traditional Lenten devotion, however, we should observe this most important penitential season both in body and in soul: let’s allow the Word to become Flesh in our own lives.
Note: Matthew Kelly did continue to use the chocolate line for at least a couple of years after I first wrote this post, but I don’t see it on his website this year (I can’t say whether it’s included in some of his other materials). He instead has the slogan “It’s not what you give up this Lent, it’s who you become”, which expresses the point he seemed to be trying to make before, but without getting embroiled in the Chocolate Wars.
