When was the last time you felt enchanted by the Mass? I don’t mean enchantment as a trick or illusion, but in a sense more closely aligned with the Latin from which the word is derived: “incantare,” an entrance into the heart of the music.
I’ll be honest, usually I have a toddler or two using me as a personal jungle gym during Mass, so sustained meditation often alludes me. Yet, as much as I love the familiarity and accessibility of the English Mass, I have come to appreciate deeply the beauty and mystery of the traditional Latin Mass. Perhaps it’s because it reminds me of poetry.
Surprise and disappointment was a common first reaction among my first-year classical literature students. It never occurred to teens that most formal literature was composed, recited, passed down and eventually transcribed in verse. In the Western Hemisphere, prose writing as we recognize it today only became common in the past 400 years or so.
Now, the ability to write down imaginative or factual ideas in verse is not only a rare skill but an undesired one. Virtues of today are efficiency, brevity and clarity in writing. An unwilling consumer of poetry fears that he is likely to be confused by a string of words that is obscure, long or archaic.
Many perceive poetry as inaccessible, but those who take the time to access it find it can evoke an emotional and intellectual response beyond what prose alone can (usually) effect.
Poetry may be approached on several levels. One can just love the rhythm and rhyme of a poem without particularly examining the precise meaning of every word. We do this frequently with song lyrics. Beauty entrances us, even when we cannot entirely understand its parts. When we slow down and enter into the agile turns of phrase and meter within a poem, new treasures of meaning and emotion await us. The engagement of the intellect serves a deeper purpose than mental gymnastics. We become vulnerable in the act of seeking understanding, and we encounter the theme of the poem in an individual way. A poem weaves images that evoke a personal response, bringing our own past and personality to grapple or to meld with the truths we find within the verse.
I find many parallels in my experiences of poetry and the traditional Latin Mass.
A couple decades ago, I was fairly sure this ancient form of worship was not for me. How could a dead language ever feel like home? How could I participate when I was struggling to understand the words and the emphasis was not on hearing everything the priest said and responding with my voice?
Gradual exposure and openness have changed my opinion.
Initially, as a choir member, I learned to love the rhythm and beauty of the sung Latin Mass. My children respond enthusiastically at this level as well. I didn’t understand all the parts or all the words, but I began to see the celebrant and servers in his wake moved reverently in a pattern that represented what was happening in the Mass. The plain chant and polyphony lifted my heart in a way that pulled me out of myself and into prayer. There’s a reason that movie music draws from these old, liturgical styles of music when a film score seeks to elevate a small character to a hero or a tragedy to a memorial. This way of singing and praying (since the words are nearly all derived from Scripture) reminded me that the veil between heaven and earth is thinner than we think and that God wants to draw us up towards Himself.
As I learned to navigate a missal and read along with the translations of the psalms and prayers, I found new depths to plumb. The language was richer and introduced more nuanced Biblical examples than I had been used to in the straightforward English Mass. Layers of history, mission, connection and calling all pointed to the Person of Christ, made present in the Holy Eucharist so He could encounter each of us. This textured approach to worship challenged me to see my own small part in salvation history as meaningful and necessary.
After several month of attending Latin Mass, I no longer felt like a disconnected member of an audience watching an intricate and foreign ritual. The Latin words became familiar. Each shift in the chant became a harbinger of a new liturgical season and mood. Most importantly, I felt that with fewer demands on my outward participation, I could readily weave in and out of personal conversation with Jesus as the movement of the Mass carried my heart along its currents. The height of prayer is contemplation, and the atmosphere of a Latin Mass makes room for that quiet, personal gaze between us and Christ to exist.
Poetry is not merely a game for intellectual elites or romantics. Similarly, Latin Mass is not an irrelevant relic treasured by obscurists. Perhaps not everyone will learn to prefer either. Yet I think there is more to be discovered about God and oneself through them than we may admit.
We are challenged to bring our whole selves to encounter this form of beauty because there is enough freedom to support our interior movement and conversation – and enough substance to call us to greater beauty, insight and self-gift than we may have chosen for ourselves.
I have traveled to Latin Mass communities in our diocese and in other states. Every time I have found a warm community full of people of all ages, but especially surging with active young families, engaged teens and reverent young adults. There are arguments to be made for trying the Latin Mass from the perspectives of history, liturgical development, theology, aesthetics and more, but my appeal is that there is something there to enchant everyone, if only you open your heart.
Kelly Henson is a Catholic writer and speaker who explores the art of integrating faith into daily life. She and her family are parishioners of Our Lady of Grace Parish in Greensboro. She blogs at www.kellyjhenson.com.