The Spirit Of The Liturgy by Romano Guardini

4. THE SYMBOLISM OF THE LITURGY

IN the liturgy the faithful are confronted by a new world,

rich in types and symbols, which are expressed in terms of

ritual, actions, vestments, implements, places, and hours,

all of which are highly significant. Out of this the

question arises--what is the precise significance of all

this as regards the soul's intercourse with God? God is

above space; what has He to do with directions as to

specific localities? God is above time; what does time,

beginning with the liturgical hours and ending with the

ecclesiastical year, matter to Him? God is Simplicity; then

how is He concerned with specific ritual, actions and

instruments? Let us desist from the attempt to enter more

fully into the question, and content ourselves with asking:

God is a Spirit--can matter therefore have any significance

in the soul's intercourse with Him? Is not the intervention

of material things bound to pervert and to degrade this

intercourse? And even if we admit that man consists of soul

and body, that he is not pure spirit, and therefore as a

logical conclusion that a material element will always play

a certain part in his spiritual life--must we not regard

this as a defect against which we must strive? Should it not

be the task of all true religion to come to be the "worship

of God in spirit and in truth," and at least to aim at, if

not to succeed in, eliminating the bodily and material

element as far as possible?

This question penetrates deeply into the essence and nature

of the liturgy.

What meaning has matter--regarded as the medium of spiritual

receptivity and utterance, of spiritual impression and

expression--for us?

The question depends upon the manner in which the Ego,

within its bodily-spiritual personality, experiences the

relationship between body and soul.1 There exists a peculiar

form of this self-experience, in which the boundary between

the "spiritual" and the "bodily" or "physical" is sharply

defined. In such cases the spiritual plane appears as

entirely self-contained, lying within--or perhaps it would

be better to say beyond--the physical plane, and having

little or nothing to do with the latter. The two planes--

spiritual and physical--are felt to be two distinct orders,

lying closely adjacent, between which communication

certainly takes place; but communication of such a nature

that it rather appears as a transposition from the one into

the other, than as the direct co-operation of both. Such is

the frame of mind which has probably drawn its conception of

the external world from Leibniz's theory of monads, and its

conception of the soul from the teaching of psycho-physical

parallelism.

It is obvious that people who favor such a system of thought

will only attach a more or less fortuitous significance to

the relationship between the physical and the spiritual. The

latter, they consider, is intimately bound up with the

former, and is also in need of it, but as far as the life of

the soul proper is concerned, the physical has no

importance; it merely appears to encumber and to degrade

spiritual activity. The soul strives to attain its goal--

that is to say, truth, the moral impulse, God, and the

Divine--by purely spiritual means. Even when such people

know that this endeavor cannot possibly succeed, they still

exert themselves to approach to the purely spiritual at

least as nearly as they can. To them the physical is an

alloy, an innate imperfection, of which they endeavor to rid

themselves. They may perhaps credit it with a limited

external significance, and look upon it as an aid to the

elucidation of the spiritual, as an illustration, or as an

allegory; but they are all the time conscious that they are

making what is actually an inadmissible concession.

Moreover, the physical does not appeal to them as a medium

of vividly expressing their inner life. They scarcely even

feel the need of expressing that life in a tangible manner;

for them the spiritual is self-sufficing, or else it can

express itself in a straightforward moral action and in a

simply uttered word.

People of such a turn of mind will inevitably have great

difficulties to face in the liturgy.2 Somewhat naturally,

they gravitate towards a strictly spiritual form of

devotion, which aims at suppressing the physical or material

element and at shaping its external manifestations in as

plain and homely a manner as possible; it prizes the simple

word as the most spiritual medium of communication.

Facing these, and in contrast with them, are people of a

different mental constitution. For them, the spiritual and

the physical are inextricably jumbled together3; they

incline to amalgamate the two. While the former type of

disposition labors to separate the physical and the

spiritual spheres, the latter endeavors to unite them.

People like this are prone to look upon the soul merely as

the lining of the body, and upon the body as the outside, in

some sort the condensation or materialization, of the spirit

within. They interpret spiritual elements in terms of

physical conditions or movements, and directly perceive

every material action as a spiritual experience. They extend

their conviction of the essential oneness of the soul and

the body beyond the province of the individual personality,

and include external things within its sphere of operation.

As they frequently tend to regard externals as the

manifestation of spiritual elements, they are also capable

of utilizing them as a means of expressing their own

innerness. They see this expressed in various substances, in

clothing, in social formations, and in Nature, while their

inner struggles are reflected even in conditions, desires,

and conflicts which are universal.4

Of the two types of spiritual character, the second at the

first glance would seem to correspond the more closely to

the nature of the liturgy. It is far more susceptible to the

power of expression proper to liturgical action and

materials, and can the more readily apply these external

phenomena to the expression of its own inner life. Yet in

the liturgy it has to face problems and difficulties all its

own.

People who perceive the physical or material and the

spiritual as inextricably mingled find it hard to confine

the manifestations of the individual soul to set forms of

expression, and to adhere strictly to the clearly defined

significance of the formulas, actions and instruments

employed in such expression. They conceive the inner life as

being in a perpetual state of flux. They cannot create

definite and clearly outlined forms of expression because

they are incapable of separating spiritual from physical or

material objects. They find it equally difficult to

distinguish clearly the specific substance behind the given

forms of expression; they will always give it a fresh

interpretation according to varying circumstances.5

In other words, in spite of the close relationship which in

this case exists between the physical and the spiritual such

people lack the power of welding certain spiritual contents

to certain external forms, which together will constitute

either the expression of their inner selves or a receptacle

for an extraneous content. That is to say, they lack one of

the ingredients essential to the creation of symbols. The

other type of people do not succeed any better, because they

fail to realize how vital the relationship is between the

spiritual and the physical. They are perfectly capable of

differentiating and of delimiting the boundaries between the

two, but they do this to such an extent that they lose all

sense of cohesion. The second type possess a sense of

cohesion, and with them the inner content issues directly

into the external form. But they lack discrimination and

objectiveness. Both--the sense of cohesion and the power of

discrimination--are essential to the creation of a symbol.

A symbol may be said to originate when that which is

interior and spiritual finds expression in that which is

exterior and material. But it does not originate when6 a

spiritual element is by general consent coupled with a

material substance, as, for instance, the image of the

scales with the idea of Justice. Rather must the spiritual

element transpose itself into material terms because it is

vital and essential that it should do so. Thus the body is

the natural emblem of the soul, and a spontaneous physical

movement will typify a spiritual event. The symbol proper is

circumscribed; and it may be further distinguished by the

total inability of the form selected as a medium of

expression to represent anything else whatever. It must be

expressed in dear and precise terms and therefore, when it

has fulfilled the usual conditions, must be universally

comprehensible. A genuine symbol is occasioned by the

spontaneous expression of an actual and particular spiritual

condition. But at the same time, like works of art, it must

rise above the purely individual plane. It must not merely

express isolated spiritual elements, but deal with life and

the soul in the abstract.

Consequently when a symbol has been created, it often enjoys

widespread currency and becomes universally comprehensible

and significant. The auspicious collaboration of both the

types of temperament outlined above is essential to the

creation of a symbol, in which the spiritual and the

physical elements must be united in perfect harmony. At the

same time it is the task of the spiritual element to watch

over and determine every stroke of the modeling, to sort and

sift with a sure hand, to measure off and weigh together

delicately and discreetly, in order that the given matter

may be given its corresponding and appropriate form. The

more clearly and completely a spiritual content is cast in

its material mold, the more valuable is the symbol thus

produced, and the more worthy it is of its name, because it

then loses its connection with the solitary incident which

occasioned it and becomes a universal possession. The

greater the depth of life from which it has sprung, and the

greater the degree of clarity and of conviction which has

contributed to its formation, the more true this is in

proportion.

The power of symbol-building was at work, for instance, when

the fundamental rules governing social intercourse were laid

down. From it are derived those forms by which one person

signifies to another interest or reverence, in which are

externally expressed the inward happenings of civil and

political life, and the like. Further--and in this

connection it is specially significant--it is the origin of

those gestures which convey a spiritual meaning; the man who

is moved by emotion will kneel bow, clasp his hands or

impose them, stretch forth his arms, strike his breast, make

an offering of something, and so on. These elementary

gestures are capable of richer development and expansion, or

else of amalgamation. They are the source of the manifold

ritual actions, such as the kiss of peace or the blessing.

Or it may be that certain ideas are expressed in

corresponding movements, thus belief in the mystery of

absolution is shown by the Sign of the Cross. Finally, a

whole series of such movements may be co-ordinated. This

gives rise to religious action by which a richly developed

spiritual element--e.g., a sacrifice--succeeds in attaining

external and symbolic expression. It is when that form of

self-experience which has been described above is extended

to objects which lie without the personal province, that the

material concrete factor enters into the symbol. Material

objects are used to reinforce the expressiveness of the body

and its movements, and at the same time form an extension of

the permanent bodily powers. Thus, for instance, in a

sacrifice the victim is offered, not only by the hands, but

in a vessel or dish. The smooth surface of the dish

emphasizes the expressive motion of the hand; it forms a

wide and open plane, displayed before the Godhead, and

throwing into powerful relief the upward straining line of

the arm. Or again, as it rises, the smoke of the incense

enhances the aspiration expressed by the upturned hands and

gaze of those who are at prayer. The candle, with its

slender, soaring, tapering column tipped with flame? and

consuming itself as it burns, typifies the idea of

sacrifice, which is voluntarily offered in lofty spiritual

serenity.

Both the before-mentioned types of temperament co-operate in

the creation of symbols. The one, with its apprehension of

the affinity between the spiritual and the physical,

provides the material for the primary hypothesis essential

to the creation of the symbol. The other, by its power of

distinction and its objectiveness, brings to the symbol

lucidity and form. They both, however, find in the liturgy

the problems peculiar to their temperament. But because they

have shared together in the creation of the liturgical

symbol, both are capable of overcoming these difficulties as

soon, that is, as they are at least in some way convinced of

the binding value of the liturgy.

The former type, then, must abandon their exaggerated

spirituality, admit the existence of the relationship

between the spiritual and the physical, and freely avail

themselves of the wealth of liturgical symbolism. They must

give up their reserve and the Puritanism which prompts them

to oppose the expression of the spiritual in material terms,

and must instead take the latter as a medium of lively

expression. This will add a new warmth and depth to their

emotional and spiritual experience.

The latter type must endeavor to stem their extravagance of

sensation, and to bind the vague and ephemeral elements into

clear-cut forms. It is of the highest importance that they

should realize that the liturgy is entirely free from any

subjection to matter,7 and that all the natural elements in

the liturgy (cf. what has been previously said concerning

its style) are entirely re-cast as ritual forms. So for

people of this type the symbolizing power of the liturgy

becomes a school of measure and of spiritual restraint.

The people who really live by the liturgy will come to learn

that the bodily movements, the actions, and the material

objects which it employs are all of the highest

significance. It offers great opportunities of expression,

of knowledge, and of spiritual experience; it is

emancipating in its action, and capable of presenting a

truth far more strongly and convincingly than can the mere

word of mouth.

ENDNOTES

1. The more precise discussion of the question belongs to

the domain, is yet but little explored, of typological

psychology.

2. This disposition does not, of course, actually exist in

the extreme form portrayed here any more than does that

which is described later. We are concerned, however, with

giving an account of such conditions in the abstract and not

in detail.

3. It need hardly be said that no intention exists of

discussing in this connection the real relationship of soul

and body. We are concerned with describing the manner in

which this relationship is felt and interiorly experienced.

It is not a question of metaphysics, but merely of

descriptive psychology.

4. Cf., for instance, the feeling of the Romantics for

Nature.

5. Hence the tendency of people like this to forsake the

Church, with her clear and unequivocal formulas, and to turn

to Nature, there to seek an outlet for their vague and

fluctuating emotions and to win from her the stimulus that

suits them.

6. As in allegory.

7. Such as is found in Nature-religions, for instance, which

are directly derived from Nature herself, from the forest,

the sea, etc. The liturgy, on the contrary, is entirely

designed by human hands. It would be extremely interesting

to investigate in a detailed manner the transformation of

natural things, shapes and sounds into ritual objects

through the agency of the liturgy.