The Cathedral of the Sacred Liturgy

TONIGHT I'll be giving you two readings. The first is short and brilliant and it sums up in the form of an allegory all that there is to be said about the liturgical changes which have followed the Second Vatican Council. I didn't write it. I would have liked to, but, alas, I didn't. The second reading is my own work. It is much longer and it will certainly not be brilliant. What is more, it only repeats and documents what is contained in the first reading.

The short and brilliant allegory which you will hear first was written by an Archbishop who has had a considerable influence upon my thinking about the liturgy. The Archbishop I am speaking of is Archbishop Dwyer of Portland, Oregon, and coming here tonight is for me something in the nature of a pilgrimage. I first began my writing on the subject of catechetics. I was very much heartened to discover that there was an Archbishop making criticisms of the new Catechetics identical to those I had formulated as a result of my own independent research. As the years passed I grew less and less happy with the changes in the liturgy, and, lo and behold, I found that Archbishop Dwyer was articulating my own objections yet again.

In 1974 he wrote an allegory entitled "The Cathedral of the Sacred Liturgy." ¹ I shall now read to you a slightly abbreviated version.

The Cathedral of the Sacred Liturgy

We wandered, the other day, through the ruins of a great cathedral. Once, not so long ago, we had known it as a superb structure, one of the supreme glories of the human achievement. It had a style all its own, or you might say, it was a uniquely successful amalgam of all styles, the simplicity and severity of the classical, the richness and color of the Byzantine, the rugged strength of the Romanesque, the soaring lightness of Gothic, the expanse and expansiveness of the baroque. Its architects, many of their names lost to history, had collaborated over the centuries to produce this miracle of diversity in unity, something never achieved, even remotely, elsewhere in the world. You would enter through its generous portal to find yourself in a narthex that outdid Vézelay in mystery and majesty, then on into the vaulted nave, reassured by a glance down its noble length that you were indeed in the House of the Lord; the lights burned ruby-red before the distant high altar. And everywhere, so it seemed, there were shrines, delicately wrought and enriched by the votive offerings of countless generations of men and women, the great of the earth and the humble, given in token of their faith and devotion.

It was said that every Saint in the calendar was honored there, either by an altar shrine or by some appropriate memorial, and though we never put the allegation to the test, it seemed to us possible. And in the windows, glorious in their brilliant translucence, were portrayed the mysteries of faith, the life of Our Lord told in loving detail, and the dogmas of religion expressed with all the ingenuity of symbolism. And by immemorial prescription, only orthodox Catholic doctrine was tolerated, no compromises were permitted with revealed and defined truth, no watering down of the common teaching of the Church. The vast multitudes that thronged the fane [a church] on Sundays and major feasts, or came on ordinary weekdays to assist at the sacred ceremonies, could listen with profound assurance that what they were hearing was the uncontaminated, undiluted Word of God.

The last time we were there-----it must have been about 1965-----a solemn pontifical Mass was being sung at the High Altar. The sanctuary, spacious and magnificently proportioned, set the stage for the ritual of reverent pageantry, though in its essential lines simplicity itself. Rhythm and grace showed in every practiced movement, from the venerable prelate who was the celebrant down to the lowliest torch-bearer. The ancient Latin chants came forth with haunting sonority, and as we looked around at the attentive faces of the immense multitude, not one did we discover who seemed not to understand and appreciate what was being said and done. And then, at the appointed times, the great choir would break forth in thrilling crescendos of polyphony. Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli, if memory serves. When the last blessing was given and the Ite missa est  chanted, we went out into the noonday sunlight with a sense of exhilaration and spiritual uplift which was far removed from any mere emotional spree. We had experienced again what Hilaire Belloc had pronounced the supreme moment of the Christian ages: High Mass in a medieval cathedral. Save for the difference that our cathedral was of all times.

Well, we came back to our cathedral the other day, after an absence of almost a decade. We had been forewarned what to expect and so were not wholly unprepared for the shock awaiting us. Even so, the actual sight of the ruin was traumatic. We walked up the broad esplanade leading to its glorious facade, and at a casual glance all seemed normal and as usual. But as we approached, it became painfully evident that the hand of the barbarian and the iconoclast had been at work. Every niche had been emptied of its storied statue, many of them of extreme antiquity, yet in a marvelous state of preservation. The tympanum over the portal, a great bas-relief of Christ in Glory, had been brutally chipped away and the word "love" daubed in blue paint over the vacant space.

The scene was one of utter desolation. Practically every shrine had been violated and destroyed, every carving defaced, every window broken out. The great pulpit had been pulled down, and in its place, on a platform of bare boards, stood a microphone, and beside it, reposing on a folding chair, was a guitar case. We looked for the familiar high altar, once a rival of the wonderful reredos of Winchester, but it was gone. A plain deal table stood there, covered by a rather dirty cloth on which candle grease had been spilled. There was no crucifix to identify its purpose.

We asked our taciturn companion where the Blessed Sacrament was kept, but he shrugged his shoulders in boredom. Do many come here for Mass these days? We ventured to inquire, and he satisfied himself and us by holding up the fingers of one hand. He may have exaggerated.

We went out into the noonday sun this time with an aching heart. No enemy had done this, but the children of the household itself. Oh yes, you wanted to know the name of the cathedral and its location? It is the Cathedral of the Sacred Liturgy, and it is found anywhere in the Catholic world in this year of grace, 1974.

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Reverend Fathers, ladies and gentlemen, you do not need me to give you any explanation of the meaning of this allegory. In my opinion, no one will ever express more clearly the fact that in the past fifteen years we have witnessed the destruction of a liturgical heritage which, as Archbishop Dwyer expressed it, "was one of the supreme glories of human achievement, a miracle of diversity in unity, something never achieved even remotely elsewhere in the world." In other words, we have witnessed not a reform but a revolution. I shall share with you some thoughts of my own upon this revolution. I cannot hope to match the elegance and erudition of the great prelate I have been quoting, but I hope you will agree that the comments I make are fair and factual.


1) The allegory first appeared in The Catholic Sentinel, on 9 August 1974.