St. Paul instructs us in his Epistle to the Ephesians to work constantly for the building up of the Church, for the nurturing of Her members. In St. Jerome’s translation of the Scriptures, the exact passage I should like to focus on is as such: ad consummationem sanctorum in opus ministerii, in ædificationem corporis Christi. Literally translated, it means: …to the consummation of the holy ones (i.e. “saints,” believers) in the work of the ministers, in the edification of the Body of Christ (that is, the Church). Verse 12 of Ephesians 4 uses a word that appears only a handful of times in the entirety of the Holy Bible – ædificationem, edification. Indeed, it is used only five times: twice in Corinthians, twice in Ephesians, and once in I Thessalonians. And in each of those times, it used the same way. It refers to the edification of the Church and the faithful.
I had to check my concordances to make sure I had not miscounted the use of this word. Maybe I overlooked its use in the Old Testament. It seems to be the sort of word that would be associated with the Temple in Jerusalem. After all, the Temple figures prominently throughout the historical books of the Old Testament, which chronicle its commissioning, its building, its desecration, its re-consecration, etc. It is mentioned throughout the psalms, many of which were written as “psalms of ascent” that pilgrims would chant as they ascended to the Temple Mount to worship God in His sanctuary. The prophets are seen, major and minor alike, admonishing their contemporaries, instructing them on the ways of God, directing them to realize the significance of the Temple in their midst. And yet, the word “edification” appears nowhere in relation to the worship of the Old Testament.
So why, then, does St. Paul use it to explain the mission of the faithful, instructing them either to edify each other or to edify the Church? The word has overtones of a sacred nature. You wouldn’t say in response to a neighbor’s “hey, how are you,” “I’m feeling edified, and you?” No. Edification is a higher state than being content, satisfied, or even joyful. Edification comes from a contemplation of God and the right, a contemplation of His Creation and how we interact with it. Indeed, the original Latin verb ædificare means “to build up, especially in a spiritual sense.” Were not the Old Testament prophets doing just this, though? Were they not building up the people of God in a truly spiritual sense?
They were, to the greatest extent possible at that time. God dwelt with His people in the Holy of Holies, in the sanctuary of the Temple, wherein priests would offer sacrifice on behalf of the people. The Temple was the link between the Chosen People and their Lord, the place where Heaven and Earth met, where man and God walked together in harmony. However, when God became man, and was no longer hidden behind the veil in the Temple, no longer needing mediators such as priests and prophets, the world became the dwelling place of God, just as each person is a “temple of the Holy Spirit.” Christ came boldly into His Earthly reign, and did so for the edification of the people. The old ways yielded to the new, and we were given a new commandment, a new Sacrament, a new Church.
The fact that God left the Temple, that He chose to live and interact with His people, giving them the Incarnate Word, should speak to the need of the people, in every age, to be edified. For edification comes from many sources, but primarily, the spoken word. And what word is more sacred, more edifying, than the Word made Flesh? Christ is the source of grace which enables us to act in the way St. Paul desires. We would be unable to edify each other in the Church if we were not moved by the grace of God to do so. This grace rouses in us holy zeal and allows us in turn to diffuse that edification through His Church. And there is no surer method to edify the faithful than to share with them the Word Incarnate in a worthy manner.
Temple worship was a very particular thing, and no doubt edifying. I say without hesitation that I would undoubtedly have been edified in going to the Temple, in making that venerable pilgrimage to Jerusalem. However, the change in terminology belies a change in presence. Whereas God was spiritually present to the Israelites, He is physically present to His Church in the Blessed Sacrament. The Divine Teacher comes into our midst to instruct us, to lead us, to edify us. And it is our duty similarly to lead all Christians to a sense of edification, especially in our churches, where God now walks with us in perfect harmony.
Belief in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist makes this task of edification a simple one. If we see the small, white host raised in Benediction over us, do we not feel a sense of wonder and awe that God should dwell so near, yet so veiled? The contemplation of the host alone leads us to consideration of He Who is Goodness, Beauty, and Truth Himself. We gaze upon His Presence with humility in order to allow this lesson, this Divine edification, to take root in our souls. Just as the priest raises Our Eucharistic King above us in silent Benediction, so too does Christ raise our hearts and minds to consider the greater things.
It is this raising of ourselves, the heightening of our intellect, of our charity, of our devotion and reverence, which serves to edify our neighbors. If we bear witness to our Faith in a tangible, dignified way, those around us, within and without the Church, are obligated to take notice and pay attention. They realize that our efforts, our focus on Truth, are not trivial things. Anyone has the ability to edified, just as anyone who has a profound and reverent love of Christ has the ability through his or her actions to edify. And none have a more perfect opportunity to live the command of St. Paul than does the priest.
The priest stands at the altar charged with the singular task to bring Christ to His flock. He is charged with this duty by his congregation and by Christ Himself, Who called him by name to minister to Him in the sanctuary, to “go unto the altar of God, Who gives joy to my youth.” By his ordination, the priest finds himself to be, not his own person, but God’s and His Church’s. But this is absolutely necessary for the priest, for he surrenders his own aspirations, his own desires and agendas, for the sake of the edification of the faithful, the building up of the City of God.
For this reason, the priest must offer a Mass that is edifying. It must challenge the faithful to raise their hearts and minds to God. It must reach out to them as brothers and sisters in Christ. It must present them right teaching, and do so in a dignified way. For Truth demands reverence. If we attempt to convey the Sacred Mysteries without reverence, through a Mass stripped of genuflections and a sense of the beautiful, the Mass becomes a farce, a cross between the unbloody reenactment of Calvary and a Broadway musical. And this does not edify. It entertains. And nowhere in the Old Testament or the New did the prophets, evangelists, or St. Paul tell us “entertain the faithful in the Body of Christ.” No. We are told to edify and be edified in the transforming presence of Christ.
Therefore, each Mass must be offered with an eye to respecting the integrity of the ritual, a ritual which was designed to bring God to His people and His people to Him. Our own ideas on inclusivity or approachability are shown to be incredibly hollow and ineffective when presented with the immutable beauty of a liturgy whose priest sets out with the goal of edifying his congregation, not entertaining it. The eastward-orientation of the priest at Mass, with congregation and priest facing God in prayer together, prevented priests from turning the Mass into a show. While a priest could very easily offer an irreverent Mass facing the tabernacle or the people, when his face is turned towards God, the people assume that His thoughts are with God. When his face is towards the congregation, countless distractions might arise which, then, hinder the edification of the people.
The rubrics are not there to overcomplicate the Mass, to take it away from the people. Rather, the rubrics are there to bring the Mass to the people in the most authentic way possible. They ensure that the faithful are edified by holding the Mass as something sacred, something that belongs to the people, yet belongs to God, too. For, just as the Temple belonged to the people, the sanctuary was God’s. There has always been a designation, in the Old Testament and the New, between what is sacred and what is profane, “profane” literally meaning “outside of the shrine.” While God deigned to leave His dwelling in the Temple, this did not mean that the separation from the sacred and profane ceased to be.
This need for a reminder of what is sacred and what is not led to the advent of the communion rail, the rood screen, the iconostasis. Each of these liturgical delineations serve, not to separate the sacrifice of the Eucharist from the people, but to bring the people to the altar of God in a worthy, reverent way. The communion rail, for example, is actually considered an extension of the altar. And so, when communicants kneel at the altar rail to receive Our Lord, they are kneeling at the very table of God. When we have the Blessed Sacrament brought to us by designated members of the lay faithful, a sense of dependency on man is created. Whereas the communion rail invites us to come to God to receive Him at the very doorstep of mercy, we must now come to a fellow pilgrim to receive Our Lord.
I do not say this to demean our Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion. In many parishes, they serve a necessary function. However, in many other parishes, they lead the faithful away from edification. When a young child sees a crowd of lay people distributing the Blessed Sacrament like so many overworked pharmacists dispensing medication, the unique role of the priest is diminished. Indeed, it is demeaned. And what is even worse, compounding this, is that the faithful fail in our mission to edify each other. If we fail to see the priest as a representative of Christ, if we fail to grasp the Real Presence because of the feigned enthusiasm of “Eucharistic Ministers,” we fail to edify each other, to impart right teaching to the faithful.
It has been said that there is no more eloquent sermon a priest can offer than a well-said Mass. A well-said Mass edifies the faithful. How many times have you left Mass in the past month feeling edified? How many times have you left Mass in the past month feeling frustrated? The countless distractions introduced inorganically to the Mass over the past several decades, the many feminizations and simplifications embraced to “make Mass more accessible,” have led the faithful away from the instruction of St. Paul, away from being aware of God’s awesome presence in our midst. Tabernacles are crossed without due reverence. Our Lord’s Body is ground underfoot by less-than-vigilant communicants. Sanctuary lamps burn out, leaving only memory to make the faithful recall the presence of Christ in our churches. This is not edification. This is, rather, evidence of a liturgical self-absorption.
This pride is what alienates the faithful, what makes them leave Mass still hungering for the Sacred. For while Christ has come to them sacramentally, they have not been edified. They have been, as I said, entertained. More accurately, I think it should be said that they have been “entertained at.” We recycle the same trite pop songs because “people like them.” Certainly people like them, for they are steeped in a sentimentality that has no real place in the liturgy. To focus on our feelings, on our own musical entertainment is to focus on ourselves, on our tastes, on what “sounds nice.” But what “sounds nice” and what “is sacred” are two separate questions. I would contend that what is genuinely sacred will always “sound nice,” for if music is authentically sacred, is artful, dignified, and universal, it will perfectly compliment the liturgical action in such a way as to rouse the faithful to contemplation of God.
And nothing rouses this contemplation in our hearts and minds as does the beautiful. Sacred art, architecture, and music appeal to our sensual natures. And in our age, which is obsessed with the senses, it seems as if we as a Church are afraid to meet this challenge. Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste all come together in the sacred liturgy, and the proper meeting of these senses is the surest way, combined with the priest’s humility and reverence, to edify the faithful. There is no shame in admitting to ourselves that we like nice things. Beauty appeals to us because it is an innate desire placed in us by the Creator in order to discover His presence in the world. It is a simple way to let God speak to us, by surrounding ourselves with holy reminders.
This age is, perhaps, the most sensual (sense-based) age in recent centuries. Our youth are constantly bombarded with music and images of a decidedly profane nature. What would happen, do you think, if sacred art and music found their worthy home, not on museum walls and in concert halls, but in our churches? The hunger in our souls to be edified would be met. We would encounter God in so many ways, all of which pointing us undeniably to His Real Presence, a presence so often ignored or forgotten even by those who profess a belief in it. This unfortunate reality can only be rectified by the humble and loving persistence of those of us who understand the integral nature of traditional liturgy and aesthetics. It is up to us, in our limited capacities, to lead our brothers and sisters to Christ in this unique way. Not everyone is called to do so, but some of us are. And we must be obedient to God, to His prophets, to His evangelists and saints, and strive constantly and in everything to work towards “the consummation of the holy ones in the work of the ministers, in the edification of the Body of Christ.”
This is why the beauty of a Latin liturgy is just that: undeniably beautiful. It takes the thousands of tongues of praise with which God has gifted us, and unifies them, binding them in one so as to create a harmony of perfect sacrifice. For in this liturgical, linguistic union, we lose ourselves in the immensity of Christ and His Church, focusing not on our own limited capabilities or cultural experiences. The value of Latin in the liturgical life of the Church is that it strips us of our pride, minimizes our ego, makes the Mass entirely sacrificial and Christ-centered. Our Masses far too often seem to canonize the community, or worse yet, to worship it. Latin makes this impossible, due mostly to the fact that it is a foreign tongue. It makes us all equals in the eyes of the Church.
The answer will invariably be along the lines of, “it makes me feel little.” We might feel lost, confused, isolated. We might feel wholly unwelcome at, even uninvited to participate in the Sacred Mysteries. But what we must realize is that we will only feel that way if we are unwilling to surrender totally to Christ. If we feel this way, we are placing ourselves, our own insular and limited perception, above that of Christ’s Church. Latin only makes us feel overwhelmed if we fight it out of a sense of entitlement. We must always approach the altar with a spirit of absolute humility. Rejoice, yes, but temper your rejoicing with the realization of who you are. We are, each of us, sinners. We trust in God’s mercy. And we approach the Mass with a sense of great joy, but simultaneously, with some measure of hesitation. After all, we should be in awe when we attend Mass.
And so all that is left for us to do is reintroduce Latin, to expose our young people to the unquestionable beauty of the Faith, so richly embodied in her use of that venerable language to convey Truth. There is no reason to be shy in defending the use of Latin in the Church’s liturgical life. Bl. John XXIII, the Roman Pontiff who oversaw the first portion of the Second Vatican Council, stated in no uncertain terms that, “The Catholic Church has a dignity far surpassing that of every merely human society, for it was founded by Christ the Lord. It is altogether fitting, therefore, that the language it uses should be noble, majestic, and non-vernacular” (Veterum Sapientia). Champions of so-called “reform” attempt to point to him and his successor Paul VI as defenders of vernacular liturgy. However, this is far from the truth of the matter.
When priests and bishops stripped our liturgies of their natural language, of their chant, of their vestments, of their altars and sacramentals, they stripped the Bride of Christ of her wedding garments, and forced Her to stand there, mirroring Christ, unprotected and derided by the centurions. We force on Her brow the crown of thorns of feigned inclusivity. We place in Her hand the sceptre of castrated authority. This is not the act of a lover. This is the act of those whose love has run cold, if it has ever run at all.
Our immediate interaction with the Divine is a command, which is something quite bold when you think about it. There is no language of, “would that Thou might look with favor on Thy lowly servant.” There is no explicit supplication. This first sentence is uttered in the same spirit as the words of the woman with the hemorrhage, who reached out and seized Our Lord’s garments. There is a presumption here on our part, on her part, and we take it upon ourselves to take a great liberty with God. “God, do this.” No please. No other softener of the blow. But this audacity is mitigated by the Faith which prompts it in the first place. After all, if there were no faith in our hearts as we make this prayer, if there were no faith in the heart of the woman who reached out to Our Lord, our prayer and her reach would either be stripped of any real value, or cease to be a possibility at all. It just wouldn’t happen.
We then proceed to undergo a sort of examination of conscience. Where there is hatred, Lord, give me the grace to spread Your love. How often do we shy away from being truly loving, wholly giving of ourselves, because of how others might perceive that? What is more scandalous, friends, to sow love, or keep it hidden and ungerminated? Should we shirk the pain and burden of the Cross, because resting in its shade is so much more comfortable? Love was God’s gift to us. Love was nailed to the Cross. That was God’s sowing; what shall be ours? We must run towards those who shame and humiliate, those who challenge and defy, and show them love. Charity is active, not passive, and so, in order to be charitable, we must go into the world and sow the seeds of love.
Love is then, quite clearly, the source of pardon, faith, light, hope, and joy. And Christ is the source of our love for one another. If our love has not Christ as its center, if our cry to be a “channel of peace” is motivated, not by love of Christ, but by selfish motives, then it falls short. It is a hollow love, and can achieve nothing. True love gives till there is nothing more to give. Love doesn’t heed the shallow objections of nay-sayers. Love that is true, that is “pure and faultless, is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” This is why we cry out the way we do in this prayer’s opening words. This is why we proceed to list all those ways in which we might fall short, and why we pray that where there is doubt, we might bring faith.
I think it is safe to say that very few people expected the election of this Holy Father. He is the Church’s first Jesuit pope, the first “American” pope, and the first pope to adopt the name of St. Francis. (It is currently speculated that this is in honor of St. Francis of Assisi, whose simple piety and dignified, reverent prayer life have endeared him to many.) Naturally, there are some quarters in the Church expressing confusion, maybe even disappointment. Some of us wanted a liturgical pit-bull, a near-reincarnation of Ven. Pope Pius XII. Pope Francis does not appear to be this sort of man. But to witness growth in the Church, one must have fertile soil. Bl. Pope John Paul II tilled the soil. Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI planted the seeds. Now Pope Francis must water and fertilize this heritage, as I’m certain he will. We must, as always, pray for our Holy Father in Rome. He is the Successor of St. Peter, the visible head of the Church on Earth, a Church that thrust down pagan Rome and every subsequent threat to the Gospel of Christ. When His Holiness bowed his head after asking for the silent prayers of all those in St. Peter’s Square, I knew that this man had the heart of Christ beating within him. 
We see, in his election, the turning of a new page in the history of the Church. The Vatican II generation is done. The botched implementation, the misapplied theologies, the butchered liturgies are things of the past, and will only continue to wane in the sight of humble, loving, devoted men. The youth have seen two excellent examples of Christian zeal in the past two pontificates; they will, now mature, grow in the grace to come from this third. John Paul II made the Church proud again, lifted Her chin from its crestfallen position, and bade Her look ahead to the glories to come. Benedict XVI whispered gently in Her ear the scholarly insights of a masterful theologian, giving Her the resolve and purpose to go boldly ahead. Francis shall now take Her tenderly by the hand and take the first steps on a path of simple joy, of genuine charity. The Church is bigger than one man. The Church is bigger than us. We are privileged to live in a time where we must constantly defend our faith. I say “privileged” because what greater honor is there than to defend and know the Truth of Christ, the Truth now embodied in this servus servorum Dei? The Holy Spirit has guided us this far. He will not lead astray now.
In discussing liturgy, there is always the risk (or perhaps “certainty”?) of having an errant commenter spreading the Gospel of Misinformation, crying aloud “You worship the rubrics, not God!” Well, naturally, we could say this person is worshipping weak arguments, deifying his lack of critical thought, but that’s beside the point. What is important, though, is that we demonstrate that care for the liturgy is, in fact, care for God. We adorn our altars with fine linens just as we would dress our Lord in choicest fabrics. We sweep our aisles and vestibules just as Mary and Martha doubtless scoured their house before Our Lord visited them. Since we have Christ among us sacramentally, we must take the same care that those who had Him in the flesh took. It is the very least that we can do.
And it is this humility that must be reflected in our interaction with the sacred, especially through the Church’s liturgies. Recently, I encountered a gentleman who was comparing two Christmastime liturgical functions. They were both “Lessons and Carols,” one offered at Sacred Heart Cathedral, and the other at St. Thomas the Apostle. Naturally, these are not on the same level of solemnity as a Mass, as reciting the Divine Office, etc. However, they both should serve, as we first said, as vessels which convey the Truth of our Faith. The man said to me:
Traditional liturgy hinged on humility, on realizing the sacred. There is nothing humble about what we see at most Masses. Through the demeanor of those in the sanctuary, the tone of the music, the sentiments of the congregation, it’s as if the Mass becomes solely about us. It is not. It is about Him, and His sacrifice for us. But this isn’t the fault of any of those people. Liturgy has been watered-down for two or three generations, and these are the fruits. We are brought to church, to Calvary, by the joy and liberation of the empty tomb. But this does not mitigate the solemnity which must be observed when we remember Christ’s unbloody immolation. If we simply do what the Church asks of us, and leave our personal tastes out of it, a pure offering will be made, one not stained by partisan bickering, by personality, by ability or lack thereof. The rubrics are there, not to be worshipped, but to be followed for the edification of the faithful. If you are a priest, the words given to you by the Church in the Roman Missal are not there because it made someone happy to translate “pro multis” as “for many.” Happiness has nothing to do with what is right. (St. Thomas More can doubtless explain that better than I.) Things come to us, not as the work of self-motivated individuals, but rather, as the cultural and religious condensation of centuries of prayer, of refinement, of a striving towards perfection.
It is for this reason that churches are sacred, for they become our Calvaries, they become the tomb, they become the tabernacles of the Most High. We spend our Sundays, not in our pew or in our seats, but at the foot of the Cross, keeping vigil with Our Lady. When we return from Communion, we are retracing the steps of St. Mary Magdalene, with the news “He lives!” in our hearts. When we leave the church and head to the parking lot, we become like so many disciples who traveled to the ends of the earth to spread the Gospel, inspired and emboldened by that Miracle of Miracles, the Holy Mass.
For some of us, this might seem overly dramatic. Others, though, will understand. When you give your heart to God, you must know that in doing so, you take your place beside Our Lady, looking upon her suffering Son. And no two of these personal Calvaries are the same. It doesn’t matter where you experience it, for it is certain that at some point, sooner or later, you will. When you love the Church, you must be ready to have your own heart pierced like Our Lady. You must be ready to embrace the cross wherever it is given to you, and to accept every splinter that enters you. “Blessed is the man whose help is from you: in his heart he has disposed to ascend by steps, in the vale of tears, in the place which he has set.”