Meditations Before Mass
by Romano Guardini

XXVII. Mimicry or Liturgical Form

HOLY MASS is the commemoration of the Person and redemptory destiny of Christ.

There are various forms of commemoration; one is that of the monument, a constant reminder to forgetful men of something that has been. This great form of commemoration is used chiefly to stimulate the national or ethnic memory. Rarer, but also impressive, is the memorial in which something transitory by nature is given "permanent form" through the continuation of its action; for instance, memorial flame, which, carefully guarded in some sanctuary, burns unceasingly. Essentially something that expires quickly, flame is the symbol par excel fence of the self-consuming. Here its natural action is brought to a "standstill," remaining just active enough to attract the attention and stir the mind. Water may be used similarly, the play and rustle of a fountain acting as a perpetual reminder of something past but unforgotten, a symbol of unstinted generous service. Whatever form it takes, a commemoration of this kind has the basic characteristic of something continuous, unchanging, that steadily holds its ground in the passing flow of life with all its haste and inconstancy.

It would be perfectly possible to commemorate the Lord in this fashion. Indeed, it is often done, for example, on a mountain peak or at some other significant spot where a cross has been erected. There the cross is not only a sacred image, it is also a monument. But in the Mass it is different. The memorial that Christ established is commemorated in the form of an action which itself commemorates an event or series of events: the life, death, and resurrection of the Savior. To be rendered present -not only as an act of the mind or heart, but in its own full reality-this event must be represented in the form of an action which begins, unfolds and ends. Into this passing act, so perfectly expressive of our own fleeting existence, steps the eternal. Thus all that exists in absolute permanence in God is packed into the brief span of an earthly event.

The believers' participation is likewise an act. Not a mere beholding and adoring, but co-operation. However inviolable from the standpoint of Christian teaching the adoration of the Eucharist is, and however fundamental and necessary the clear position it holds against error, there is a danger of its forcing the basic, active nature of the Lord's memorial into the background of the believers' consciousness. When the host is exposed for adoration, it gives an impression of permanence quite opposed to the act of Jesus' commemoration, into which the believer is meant to enter, and in which he should actively participate. In what form does this sacred act take place?

It would be natural enough to take Christ's command to "do this" literally, even in the external sense, and simply imitate what the Lord did on Maundy Thursday. Countless examples of commemorative folk-customs and festivals the world over testify to man's fondness for dramatization of historical events. Christian thought too has expressed itself dramatically time and again. We have only to consider the age-old devotion of the Way of the Cross, originally practiced in Jerusalem itself, where Christians piously retraced the actual path Christ took from Pilate's praetorium to Golgotha. Jesus' bequest that the Last Supper and His imminent death be commemorated could easily have led to the perpetration of the communal meal in its original form, the Agape, the meal of brotherly love immediately followed by the celebration of the Eucharist. In this form it actually was celebrated for quite a long time. However, abuses cropped up very soon, and to judge from the sharpness of St. Paul's criticism, they must have been grave:

So then when you meet together, it is no longer possible to eat the Lord's Supper. For at the meal, each one takes first his own supper, and one is hungry, and another drinks overmuch., Or do you despise the church of God and put to l shame the needy? What am I to say to you? Am I to commend you? In this I do not commend you . . . For as often as you shall eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the death of the Lord, until he comes. Therefore whoever eats this bread or drinks the cup of the Lord unworthily, will be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord. But let a man prove himself, and so let him eat of that bread and drink of the cup; for he who eats and drinks unworthily, without distinguishing the body, eats and drinks judgment to himself. This is why many among you are infirm and weak, and many sleep (1 Cor. 11:20-22, 26-30).

The oft-quoted words about eating and drinking judgment do not refer, as they are frequently thought to, to the wrong done by those who receive the sacred food in a state of serious sin, but to that attitude which makes the sacred meal the opposite of what it is meant to be: an expression of love between those linked by faith. What each believer brought was to be shared by all; anyone who preferred to eat his own food should take care that it at least would not differ conspicuously from the rest. Instead, the wealthy flaunted delicacies that embarrassed the poor; the one had too much and the other too little. Such lovelessness is the sin of unworthily eating and drinking the sacred nourishment of the Lord. Behind it lies the other wrong: emphasis on the physical nourishment obscures the central mystery of the feast. Such then, the consequences of the imitative form.

The attempt to commemorate Christ's death in the same form would have similar results. It has been tried, and still is, in the popular mysteries or Passion Plays. People think in pictures, and the depicted scene thrusts its way into the living present. The origin of the Passion Plays indicates that they are definitely religious. Often they have been founded by some religious group; to take part in them is an honor which presupposes a fitting way of life. Rehearsal and performance alike are preceded by religious services and originally bore the stamp of profound piety. Nevertheless, from the start they have carried the seed of degeneration. Quite aside from the dominant position which the dramatic instinct quickly usurps, aside from the inevitable infiltration of pride and envy and all the evils connected with money and success, there is something in dramatization itself that offends faith's instinctive modesty. Although this negative reaction makes allowances as long as the play remains simple and genuinely pious, and as long as it is produced rarely, it would consider it intolerable if the memorial which the Lord made the center of Christian life were to be commemorated regularly in this imitative form.

The memorial of the Mass is celebrated not in the form of a play, but of a liturgy. The object commemorated is not imitated, but translated into symbols.

The procedure is divided into several parts. The first part of the Mass consists in readings from Scripture and prayers corresponding more or less to the psalms of praise and the host's account of the Exodus at the beginning of the Passover meal. Then in the Offertory the gifts of bread and wine are prepared. This is reminiscent of the disciples' preparations for the Last Supper described in Matthew (26:17-19). Immediately after this, Jesus' institution itself is carried out: blessing, thanksgiving, and the sacred meal. The original form has vanished. No longer is there a table around which the faithful gather; in its place stands the altar, and however close architectural arrangement has permitted it, it still remains essentially separated from the believer. At the altar stands the priest; opposite him, united as congregation, the believers. There are no bowls and pitchers, cups and plates on the altar-all these have been concentrated in paten and chalice. And even they are shaped to differentiate sharply from the customary instruments in daily use. The priest partakes of the sacred food and offers it to the believers in a manner entirely different from that of the ordinary meal. As for the food itself, its form has become so "spiritualized" that one can almost speak of the danger of its being unrecognizable as bread.

It is important really to understand this process of translation from one sphere of reality to another. It exists not only here. In man lives a soul, but the life of that soul is not of itself visible; it is unable to express itself alone. To do so, it must first become gesture, act, word; it must translate itself into the language of the body in order for us to grasp it. Herein lies the true essence of what the German calls Leib-the vital unit of heart, mind and body, as distinguishable from the mere physique. Leib is not only a vessel or an instrument, but the visible manifestation of the soul. In Jesus this relation between body and soul reappears in sublime form. When God's Son came to us, He did not reveal Himself directly as the Logos; He became man. Here in a man's human body lived divine reality, a reality which did not manifest itself in mysterious radiance or overwhelming power, but which was translated into the body, gesture, word, act of the man Jesus. In that man God was heard and seen, as St. John so vividly expresses it: "And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us. And we saw his glory-glory as of the only-begotten of the Father-full of grace and truth" (1:14).

The Mass moves along much the same line. The event which took place in the room of the Last Supper was in the form of the Passover as it was then celebrated. Jesus sat at table, about Him the members of His "household," the disciples. He took a loaf of bread, broke it, and spoke over it certain words in the language He ordinarily used and in the voice usual to Him in particularly solemn moments. He handed the pieces to the guests, just as He had done earlier in the meal and during other Passover celebrations. He took the cup, also as usual, gave thanks, spoke the words of consecration, and handed it to the disciples. They ate and drank as they had always done. All this had the immediate form of daily reality, which it preserved for some time. But gradually it assumes a different form, the liturgical. Now the action loses its directness and becomes ceremonial and measured. At some points it only suggests; at others it elaborates on the essential, piously enclosing and veiling it. The bread assumes a new, special aspect; it becomes host. The cup becomes festive chalice; the table, altar. In place of the presiding master we have the delegated priest. The words spoken no longer spring from the immediate feeling and inspiration of the officiator, but are strictly prescribed.

Jesus' memorial had to assume this form if it was to remain a permanent part of the believers' Christian life. In its imitative form it could have been celebrated only very rarely; frequent repetition would have caused it to slip into the bizarre and embarrassing. In its liturgical form it can be celebrated at all times-on festive as on ordinary days-and in all situations, whether of sorrow, joy or need. It has now become genuine daily service.

Of course, like any other characteristic form, the liturgical too has its dangers: it invites independent development according to its own laws. Then the ritualistic action threatens to stifle the actual sacrifice, and the essential can be discerned only with difficulty through a tangle of forms. Moreover, the disparity between the liturgical and the realistic forms may so far remove the principal event from ordinary existence that it loses touch with everyday life. Not infrequently these dangers have become reality; for this reason, the business of liturgical work today is to do everything possible to present the original form in its full clarity and power.

The believer is faced with an important task: that of discerning the essential in what meets his eye. In the altar he must see the table; in the priest, the head of the congregation; in the host, the bread; in the chalice, the cup. He must recognize the Eucharistic Supper in the sacred act with its strictly prescribed wording. It is not enough, however devoutly, to "keep up with" a mysterious celebration's prayers and hymns, readings and acts of consecration and offering. The believer must also follow the "translation" into symbols of everything that is taking place. When we watch a person we love, we do not merely observe his expression and gestures; we try to interpret those external manifestations of what is going on within. Here we have something similar, only greater. Speaking for himself and for his fellow apostles, St. John says: "I write of what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked upon and our hands have handled: of the Word of Life. And the Life was made known and we have seen, and now testify and announce to you, the Life Eternal which was with the Father, and has appeared to us. What we have seen and have heard we announce to you, in order that you also may have fellowship with us, and that our fellowship may be with the Father, and with his Son Jesus Christ. And these things we write to you that you may rejoice, and our joy may be full" (1 John 1:1-4). The passage is very important. Jesus was the living "Epiphany" of the Son, and in the Son, of the Father. He Himself said: ". . . he who sees me sees also the Father. How canst thou say, 'Show us the Father'?" The reproving tone shows how essential was the point which Jesus was driving at and how self-evident it should have been. In His presence His followers should not merely reflect on God, they should behold God with the vital gaze of the new man. The liturgical action of the Mass is a formal rendering of Jesus' act of making His Father "visible."