The Dewdrop Liturgy
There are many traps for the unwary in the new, “improved” and lemon-scented Roman Missal translation of the Mass. I can’t get away from the frustrating impression, after stumbling and catching myself continuously through the pitted field of phrases and reordered words, that Vatican II took two steps forward and this new translation took one step back. At least we didn’t go back to obligatory Latin.
I call it the “Dewdrop Inn” Translation because the phrase, “like the dewfall”, pops up unexpectedly in the new translation of the Second Eucharistic Prayer—a pleasant image, I must admit, especially if I happen to be celebrating on a hot, dry day here in El Paso, Texas, but one that gives me pause. I easily associated the whole uneasy business of working to loyally implement the lumpy mess of a liturgy with the phrase, and the underlying good intentions gone astray that the phrase captures.
The innocent, pure dewfall, dropping mysteriously from the sky, is no doubt how the new liturgy’s composers would like to see it—instead of this stony mass of something invented far away from our society and culture, released on our heads with a heavy thud of programmed obedience from up there, from the centralized head offices.
It’s galling to think how acquiescent our bishops have been in accepting a translation that rejected all the recommendations of their own national commissions, assigned to this task of a new translation of the Mass. But what about the beam in my own eye? How sensitive have I been to local language and culture, especially during my time in Chile, but also including the “language” of my congregation or parish communities where I have served—not so much American English, that is, but the meaningful symbols and shared experience of the local community, rather than my own power agenda and desire to be a “successful”, money-raising or popular priest?
Just like the “DewDrop Inn” and its play on words, we Catholics are also striving to celebrate in a way that invites and attracts people, so that they “do drop in” on the community and become a member. The linguistic game in this case is a strategy of returning to a more traditional and Roman way of celebrating the presence of Christ among us, something that takes us back to pre-Vatican II individualism, and its obscure idea of sanctity.
But the concept of an attractive liturgy must rest on a theology of “glory”, or doxos in Greek, which carries with it a sense of the visible manifestation of the activity of God on earth—quite distant from the audible manifestation of the activity of bureaucrats on earth who seem to believe themselves above consulting committees of true experts found deeply inserted within the local societies that will receive the new translation, and above taking into account studies on culture and language. A doxos theology would require prayer, contemplation and humility, in order to pay attention to where God Himself is working among us, and in what way the Spirit guides us to a new translation, in order to more closely follow Christ in today’s world and in our local cultural group.
A new translation of the official liturgy of the Mass would then constitute a response to the urgings of God’s living Spirit, and transform us into a community of faith that joins God in the realization of God’s plan for humanity, visibly showing to all people the richness of this new community, its sacramentality and inherent invitation to the human heart to love effectively both God and God’s children.
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