Praying Well Together

Memorial Feast of St. Charles Borromeo

A key theme of my reading and meditation this week, inspired heavily by the Solemnities of All Saints and All Souls, has been on the communal nature of the faith.  While a direct, personal relationship with Christ is at the heart of Christian discipleship, it's never simply about "me and Jesus."  We're all in this together, now and in eternity.  A very practical example of this is our communal prayer.

On the First Sunday of Advent the new English translation of the Mass will formally premier.  I must admit that I was not a big fan of these changes when they were initially announced, even going so far as to join an online group advocating for a delay of the new translation.

I have softened my opinion on all this, though there are still changes that pain me.  The pinnacle of the Mass for me has always been when we say, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed."  The tenderness, helplessness, the utter surrender of this prayer is often a breakthrough moment for me.  When I have been distracted or unprayerful throughout the entire liturgy (and usually for the entire week before), this prayer is what brings me back to my knees (spiritually; being physically on my knees is never quite enough), and prepares me to truly receive the Body of Christ for the complete grace and offering of reckless love that it actually is.  Now, we will say, "Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof," which is the closer translation of Matthew 8:8 (upon which the line from the Latin Mass is originally based), and has a similar, but subtly different, set of theological connotations.

Other changes seem completely neutral in value (and therefore pointless) to me.  What makes "consubstantial with the Father" any different in meaning or clarity than "one in being with the Father?"

Nevertheless, I have now heard many good arguments for why the new translation is richer in symbolism and sacredness and more deeply rooted in scripture.  These are fine arguments, which I can live with (and have to; and I find a kind of freedom in that).  Ultimately, though, the goal of this translation is adhering more closely to the original Latin upon which the entire Roman Rite is based, and I've decided that is itself enough to satisfy me.

There is nothing magical about Latin, of course.  Latin is special, not because it possesses any inherent quality in itself (some argue that it sounds ethereal and otherwordly and fosters deeper contemplation and reverence; okay fine), but rather because it is the language of the Church.  It is the universal language that for twenty centuries has bound Christian worship in unity and purpose.  There is something particularly awesome and powerful in knowing that when we proclaim the words of the Mass each Sunday (or each day), we are proclaiming the same words in unity of faith with over a billion people across the globe, and with Christians throughout the ages.  We've lost a little appreciation for this since Latin ceased to be the "Ordinary Form" of the Mass in 1962, but it remains that whether we pray the Mass in English, Spanish, Swahili, Chinese, or some other vernacular language, we are praying the same words.  The common source for those words is Latin.

And, of course, the common source for those words is also a common faith, without which all words are empty and meaningless.  We worship One God, the Father of us all.  As George Weigel wrote earlier this week at First Things, the way we worship matters:

The re-sacralization of the English used in the liturgy affords all of us an opportunity to ponder just what it is we are doing at Holy Mass: we are participating, here and now, in the liturgy of angels and saints that goes on constantly around the Throne of Grace where the Holy Trinity lives in a communion of radical self-gift and receptivity. This is, in short, serious business, even as it is joyful business. We should do it well, as the grace of God has empowered us to do it well.