Dom 2 in Quadragesima
Evening, 20 February /
Church of St John the Evangelist / Agawam
And I will go
in to the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my youth (Ps 42:4).
Recall what we said last week about
the dignity and importance of the Psalms. Then, we discussed Ps 90, since it
was used for the tract at Mass. This week, I’d like to make comment about Ps
42: as it is in itself and as it fits into our Mass, namely, during the Prayers
the Foot of the Altar.
The use that we make of Ps 42 today
dates back, in some places, at least before the end of the tenth century,[1] though to this day some of
the mediaeval Rites of the Church—like the Carthusians and the Dominicans—do
not use Ps 42. For the Roman Rite, Ps 42 is omitted during funeral Masses. But
we can well understand why this psalm is used at the beginning of most every
Mass: “And I will go in to the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my
youth.”
“Jesus took Peter, James and his
brother John, and led them up a high mountain.” The altar where the Holy Mass is
offered is that high mountain: “Send
forth thy light and thy truth,” says our psalm, “they have conducted me” in montem sanctum tuum; to your holy
mountain. Before we ascend the altar to meet God, it is only fitting to pause
and beg for the grace of God, without whom we can do nothing.[2] On this altar, we do not
see Christ transfigured in bodily glory, as did Peter, James, and John—but we
see him under the light of faith in his Eucharistic glory. It is the same
consubstantial presence, only veiled behind the species of bread and wine.
Both our Gospel and Ps 42 remind us
of the heavenly character of what we do at Mass. “The altar of the New
Covenant”—where Christ is our sovereign priest—“is the place where this meeting
with God can be best accomplished this side of heaven.”[3] Ps 42 directs our
attention to the heights, where heavenly music can be heard: “To thee, O God my
God, I will give praise upon the harp.” Confitebor
tibi in cithara Deus, Deus meus. This is why the chants of our Church are
so vitally important to our worship. There is no chatter in heaven: either
there is the silence of rapt adoration, or the jubilant exultation of song. It
is the same with our earthly worship.
Yet, for this reason, Ps 42 also
bears a prophetic character. The versicle Introibo
ad altare Dei is said three times during our Prayers at the Foot of the
Altar. This teaches us that, “The definitive fulfillment of this prayer will be
our participation in the worship that arises in the immediate presence of God’s
throne. All our worship on this earth is a preparation for the liturgy of
heaven, because divine worship is the
ultimate meaning of our human existence.”[4] This certainly explains
the Sunday obligation to attend Mass. However, friends, this heavenly aspect is
also exactly why we take such pains at the sacred liturgy, despite our human
frailty. Anything that is banal, foolish, or unseemly has utterly no place in
Catholic worship. Ps 42, however, at the beginning of our liturgical action,
reminds us precisely of that fact—we mean to follow Christ up the heavenly mountain, where saints and angels dwell.
“Why art thou sad, O my soul; and why
dost thou disquiet me?” Ps 42 gives expression to the anguish of heart we can
sometimes carry. Why? As Jungmann reminds us, “When we desire to draw near to
God, the way is always blocked somehow by the homo iniquus,”[5] that is, the sinful man.
The Christian life is not an easy one, and we have enemies: we have to contend
with the world, the flesh, and the devil. Ps 42 therefore not only asks that we
be worthy to approach the altar—to participate in heavenly things—but it also
beseeches God to remove any obstacles that stand in our way: either conflicts
from without, or struggles from within. That carries us back to the beginning
of the psalm: “Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the nation that
is not holy: deliver me from the unjust and deceitful man.”
Despite that, we never escape the
need for trust and abandonment: “Hope in God, for I will still give praise to
him, the salvation of my countenance, and my God.” The word countenance hides a very deep insight: salutare vultus mei. The Greek text
could also be translated, “the salvation of my being;”[6] in other words, my very
self. Ps 42 is not talking about simply material circumstances or some kind of
comfort of heart. Rather, God’s salvation has everything to do with every aspect of our human life. The
face—vultus—is most expressive of our
human identity, the totality of our personhood: and it is this word that the
Psalmist uses, by no means accidentally.
Once again, Ps 42 reminds us of how
completely we offer ourselves to God as his servants—yes, especially during the
sacred liturgy, but in every moment of our life as well, priest and people
like. (If your baptismal priesthood means anything at all, it is this.) The
Mass is takes us deeply into the very mystery of our redemption—our redemption
personally, and the redemption of all creation. As Christ says in the Book of
Revelation, “‘Behold, I make all things new.’”[7] A soul that is saved is a
soul made new, a soul made young. “And I will go to the altar of God: to God
who giveth joy to my youth.” Here, the Psalmist does not mean the “youth of
yesteryear, but the new being that grows ever more new.”[8] Ps 42 is not about
reminiscing, but about looking ahead to the youthful plentitude that is holiness
and the life of grace.—The saints, not matter how old they were, were always
young!
How fitting, then, that this psalm
should be found at the beginning of the Holy Mass: for the Mass is the very
means by which we are taken up into that movement of grace whereby we are made
whole and new and young.
“And I will go to the altar of God .
. .”
[4]
Patrick Henry Reardon,
Christ in the Psalms, (Chesterton, IN:
Conciliar Press, 2011), 83-84; emphasis added.
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