The Sanctuary, the Holy of Holies

12-01-2024Weekly ReflectionFr. Leonard F. Villa

Visiting a Greek Orthodox or Byzantine Catholic church, you will find an iconostasis, or screen of icons, placed in between the nave and the sanctuary, separating off the “holy of holies” from the rest of the space. The sanctuary represents the divine liturgy in the heavenly Jerusalem, in which we participate “at a distance” while we are still in this life of pilgrimage. Meanwhile the clergy can enter through the iconostasis and go even unto the altar, because they are acting in persona Christi, in the person of Christ and as His representatives…

For about the first 1,500 years, the Latin West also had symbolic partitions, which took a variety of forms. Curtains were hung around a baldachin or in front of the sanctuary; steps went up to an elevated altar platform and texts were chanted from large stone structures; later, delicate wooden chancel screens surmounted by a Calvary group (Jesus, Mary, and John) were set up in many Gothic churches. Even when one could see through and follow the motions of the ministers, one was still reminded of many important truths: first, that we are not now where we are called one day to be; that we are separated from God by the fall and by our sins; that we have through Christ (and by means of the work of His visible ministers) the opportunity for reconciliation and communion; that God is both “among us” as Emmanuel, and beyond us as our transcendent and all-holy Lord. Although responsible for all creatures and pointed to with signs, He is not in His own nature accessible to human senses. Referencing St. Paul’s words in Second Corinthians, “we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen; for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal,” a Benedictine monk writes:

For centuries, it was not possible to see up-close the mysteries of the altar. In certain periods, curtains were drawn at the most important moments of the Mass. Still today, the solemn prayers of consecration are said in the lowest of tones — a whisper — as the drama of the liturgy unfolds. The hiddenness intrinsic to the Mass (with an iconostasis in the Byzantine rite) was common to all liturgies in some form for many hundreds of years; it summoned an atmosphere of mystery. In our age, which demands to see in order to believe, God is offering us a chance to rediscover mystery: the mystery of the Mass’s unseen efficacy (2 Cor 4:18). We must rely on an invisible medicine for our ultimate salvation.

At the time of the so-called Reformation, Protestants objected that the laity were being excluded from worship by a clerical caste who conducted the real work of the liturgy while the congregants stood by, given over to private devotions or idle distractions. This was an unjust accusation, as historians have shown, but partly in response to the Protestant challenge and partly in response to changing aesthetic ideals of the Baroque, the Church in the Counter-Reformation period generally removed such physical barriers from sanctuaries, so that the laity could have an “unimpeded” view of the liturgy….

Pontius Pilate’s order that the title “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” be placed upon the Cross in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin (Jn 19:19–20) suggested to many Church Fathers a special role for these three languages, which they have unquestionably had in salvation history. St. Thomas Aquinas noted that it is fitting that the Roman rite of the Mass, which contains the re-presentation of the Passion of Christ, should employ all three languages: Hebrew in words such as alleluia, Sabaoth, hosanna, and amen, Greek in the Kyrie eleison, and Latin for the rest. The Christian Latin of the Church was not a commonplace vernacular language but a highly stylized, poetic register, even at a time when many people still spoke Latin; and as the centuries rolled on, it acquired the status of a sacred language, that is, one set apart for divine worship, where we leave behind the everyday and common place, and enter into the sphere of mystery.

By the use of a now archaic, unchanging tongue, we are taken out of ourselves, out of our own place, time, culture, society, to the foot of the Cross where human salvation was accomplished in its essence. Unlike our everchanging vernaculars, Latin is universal: it does not belong to us, it belongs to all and to none; it is the same everywhere and yet still foreign, like God Himself, who is present everywhere, yet transcendent over all creation. To the extent that any of the Mass eludes our grasp, it reminds us that we will never fully comprehend God, for that would be to reduce Him to our own level. As St. Augustine said: Si comprehendis, non est Deus: “If you can wrap your mind around Him, He isn’t God.”

Gregorian chant is the musical “clothing” in which the Latin liturgical texts are dressed, or better yet, the musical body that the soul of the rite formed for itself during its slow gestation over several centuries. With its unsurpassed variety of modal melodies and its unmetered free rhythm, this chant — instantly recognizable as sacred music — signals that we are in the presence of God and are there to offer Him the incense of our lips and hearts. Pope Leo XIII says: “In truth, the Gregorian melodies were composed with much prudence and wisdom, in order to elucidate the meaning of the words. There resides within them a great strength and a wonderful sweetness mixed with gravity, all of which readily stirs up religious feelings in the soul, and nourishes beneficial thoughts just when they are needed.” There is no other type of music that even comes close to Gregorian chant for the “otherworldliness” that the Mass demands.

Silence — how much we could say about it, without finding adequate words! “My soul waits in silence for God alone: from Him comes my salvation” (Ps. 62 [61]:1). The profound and prolonged silences of the traditional Latin Mass are like oases where we can find refreshment for our souls. They open up the time and space for encountering God as “more interior than what is innermost in me, and higher than what is highest in me” (St. Augustine). The silence encourages an attentive watching, listening, and pondering. It allows the more complex ceremonies of the usus antiquior (the older use) to make an impression on us; it frames the words and chants so that they resonate in the vault of our souls.

Part of the reason the silences of the old Mass are so poignant is that they result naturally from the very unfolding of the liturgical action, instead of being tacked on to it by awkward suspensions of action; the silence is not an arbitrary “let’s pause for a few moments,” but a saturated environment in which prayer has assumed its rightful priority. Silence is a sort of spiritual prostration of the senses and human faculties in the most climactic moments of the Holy Sacrifice. Without denigrating the actions, chants, and beautiful things we can and should do in the liturgy, we must acknowledge that there are points when we are simply struck dumb. By observing these moments of “dumbness,” we enhance our realization of the unspeakable miracle taking place in the sanctuary, which is the very purpose of the sonic iconostasis. Peter Kwasniewski, https://www.newliturgicalmovement.org/2020/08/thewestern-liturgys-sonic-iconostasis.html (edited)