The Sorrowful Mysteries

For a long time I was put off the Rosary. I used to find it too long to say a full five-decades, and sometimes I would close my eyes and actually fall asleep during the first one. I was also put off by the sugary pamphlet literature that has grown up around this devotion, all of the different "methods" or ways of praying the Rosary which would help the devoted Christian to say a Rosary without distraction or wandering thoughts, and to derive enormous benefits from its recitation. One phrase sticks in my mind, I think from the book Secret of the Rosary, where we are directed to "make each Ave maria that falls from our lips a little Rose, which we offer at Our Lady's feet, and to weave them into a crown of 53 little flowers with which to crown Her Queen of Our Hearts "....or something similar, I'm paraphrasing, but the language always struck me as camp and unnecessary.

The claims about what could be achieved by the recitation of the Rosary also seemed desperately overstated. After reading some of these pious publications you could believe that a Rosary can do anything, and I did wonder if perhaps these Rosary novena groups were dropping the odd Pater Noster if their devotional efforts hadn't yet delivered world peace.

One of the most detrimental aspects of counter reformation Christianity, in some ways still perpetuated by nominally "Traditional" groups, has been to push personal spirituality into the centre of the Church's public life and to do so at the expense of authentic Liturgy, displacing the traditional understanding of Liturgy as corporate worship, and replacing it with a highly personal and individual experience of the Sacred Liturgy. The typical Traditionalist menu of Rosary, Votive Low Mass, Stations of the Cross, and Devotions to the Sacred Heart is built around the promotion of certain devotions, visions, prayers and indulgences by Popes of the last few hundred years and the promotion of private devotion over public worship. Even the Low Mass, the one bit of Liturgy on the menu, has been turned into a devotion. The faithful got used to saying the Rosary throughout the whole of Mass, or working through a series of meditations while the Priest stood at the altar, stopping only to adore the Host at the elevation. The Liturgical Movement replaced the Rosary beads with Layman's Missals, providing the laity with a vernacular translation of the Mass, in many cases, and instructing them on what was happening, but even this did not satisfy the need of the individual layperson to be doing something during the Liturgy, and we all know where that has taken us....

My understanding is that private prayer and public worship are two sides of the same coin, and we really can't have one without the other. We receive this understanding from scripture: although the Disciples are often to be found gathered together in prayer at key moments in the Gospel, and although prayer in the temple and the gatherings of the synagogue are by no means despised by Christ, we are also told:

But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you. Matthew 6:6

Public worship and private prayer - they should balance each other out. Of course we can have an interior, private response to public worship, and I see no harm in groups of people gathering to practice certain devotions, especially the Rosary, but we have to be able to distinguish between them. Both East and West have devotions which are in some way supplementary to or modeled on Liturgy. Both have Hours of Our Lady to be said in addition to the original hours, the Eastern Church has paraliturgical akathists. But there is no question of replacing the Liturgy with them.

This is all a massive digression from what I originally wanted to say. So I'm back into the Rosary. I've decided that it's all about doing as much as you can, as much as you want to, and realising there can be too much of a good thing - if I find myself with half an hour to spare in the evening and I've already prayed the mysteries assigned to that day, much better to reach for my Office Book instead. Developing a private prayer life is all about building on manageable things, maintaining variety, and not getting hysterical over the Rosary.

Today I prayed the Sorrowful mysteries and effectively came up with my own little "method" without really wanting to. My biggest problem in praying the Rosary is wandering thoughts and not knowing how to meditate on a mystery beyond maintaining a static mental image of that mystery in my mind. To people who have this same problem I'd say: don't worry about it, just chuck your pamphlets away and go and find out how to pray the Rosary in a way that works for you....you're allowed to, it's private prayer! I found myself trying to unravel each of the sorrowful mysteries by drawing on moments from my own little via crucis in life, recalling moments of humiliation, suffering, sadness or anxiety that I could relate to each mystery, offering that experience to Christ and uniting it to the Blessed Passion. So for example, for the Crowning with Thorns I recalled a moment in which I felt utterly humiliated after an argument in public, during the Agony in the Garden I recalled a moment of absolute fear, anxiety and terror about what comes next. Not that we can ever truly understand or imagine the thoughts and emotions of Christ during those moments, but we can gain a small insight into the power of the Passion, and remind ourselves that It is real. By the last mystery I had rehearsed so much that I was left quite deeply moved, having perceived, in the boundless depth of these Sorrowful Mysteries the shallowness of so much in my own life. But this is where the Glory of the next set of Mysteries comes into play: we who believe in Christ know that all things are restored in Him. Although we make of ourselves an unworthy offering, in the prayers of the Rosary said under the breath, or at the great Amen sung aloud at the Liturgy, God takes what we offer and makes it worthy. The great joy of being a Christian is that, at the moment when it hits us just how unworthy and undeserving we are of mere association with Him, He reaches out a hand of friendship and invites us into His very Heart. In the Eucharist we offer our unworthy present, and receive the Perfect Gift: Him in us, and we in Him. This is what it means to be alive in Christ, and every glimpse of this brings the Christian soul greater joy, to sustain us on this earthly pilgrimage.

Go to Mass, pray the Office, and if you still have the time and inclination to do so, pray the Rosary!

Pentecost Vigil III - Photos!

Dear readers, it's time to share with you the primary commodity of this, my humble blog....photos from S. Magnus! For a full description of the ceremonies of this ancient vigil service, see the post below. Many thanks to everyone who everyone who served and attended the Vigil. Next year we can expect it to be celebrated earlier in the day and with greater pomp. In the picture above you can see the Celebrant reading the first Prophecy which is being chanted by a Reader at an ambo.

The altar party process to the font, led by the Paschal Candle

The Celebrant blesses the Baptismal waters, dipping the candle thrice.

After the blessing of the font, the Litanies are sung in procession back to the sanctuary, where the ministers remove their violet vestments and prostrate themselves before the altar.

Towards the end of the Litany, the ministers go to the Sacristy and vest in Red for the Mass. The violet frontal is removed from the altar to reveal the red frontal, the altar is prepared for Mass and the candles are lit. Here the ministers recite the psalm Judica me while the MC lights a troublesome candle.

Mass of this Vigil is similar to Holy Saturday - there is no Introit (the one in the Missal is only for private Masses on this day), hand bells are rung during the Gloria, and the acolytes don't hold candles at the Gospel. Above you can see the Last Gospel read by the Celebrant at the end of Mass.

The Antidoron, the Pain Benit and the Sunday Loaf

I've been considering quite a lot recently the role and history of blessed bread in the liturgy and by extension, in parish life. The distribution of bread which is blessed, not consecrated, at the conclusion of the Liturgy is found in both Western and Eastern liturgical traditions. The Antidoron, the remains of the Eucharistic breads not consecrated during the Liturgy, is distrubted after every Liturgy amongst Russian and Greek Orthodox christians. The custom has as much of a history in the West, attested by the existence of no fewer that six benedictio panis prayers in the Roman Ritual, and the survival in France of the pain benit, bread blessed before, during or after the liturgy and distributed to the faithful as a sign of charity and community.

The common origin of both is found in the primitive liturgy, where the faithful would supply the bread that would be consecrated in the Liturgy. It is assumed by some that surplus bread was consumed by those who had been present at the Liturgy, including the catechumens (Gregory Dix makes reference to this in his description of the primitive liturgy in Sacramental Life, where he imagines a modern re-enaction consisting of secretive Christians arriving at a house laden with scones to be consecrated!). This custom survived as the Fermentum, where a Bishop would send consecrated Eucharistic Bread to his priests as a sign of their communion. Later, in order to prevent profanation of the Sacrament, as as the baking and supplying of the bread became the responsibility of ministers, supported by the donations of the faithful, the parrallel customs of the Western eulogia and the Eastern Antidoron took shape. As the Catholic Encyclopaedia notes:

The usage then began of sending blessed bread instead of the Holy Communion to those who did not communicate at the Mass, and to those who might wish to receive this gift as a pledge of communion of faith. These who did not communicate received bread offered at the Offertory the Mass but not consecrated. It appears to have received no other blessing than that of the Offertory Prayer, and was considered blessed because it formed part of the oblation. This bread is called eulogia, because it is blessed and because a blessing accompanies its use; it is also called antidoron, because it is a substitute for the doron, the real gift, which is the Holy Eucharist. The eulogia prescribed in the liturgies of St. Basil and St. John Chrysostom, but now it is distributed to all, both communicants and non-communicants. It existed also in the West, and is mentioned by St. Gregory of Tours, the Council of Nantes, and Leo IV in terms which would make it appear a somewhat universal custom.

Other small loaves, blessed but not consecrated, were also called eulogiae, and used by Bishops in a similar way to the fermentum, and the sending of a loaf signified by a Bishop could signify the resumption of communion after a schism or censure.

The development in the West of the wafer-like Eucharist host, which could not be easily baked in most homes and became a task entrusted to religious, signified the beginning of the end of the original eulogia, bread presented at the Offertory. The custom survived, however, in France, where one continues to see vestiges of Liturgical praxis that have died out in the rite of Rome. CE again:

Later, when the faithful no longer furnished the altar-bread, a custom arose of bringing bread to the church for the special purpose of having it blessed and distributed among those present as token of mutual love and union, and this custom still exists in the Western Church, especially in France. This blessed bread was called panis benedictus, panis lustratus, panis lustralis, and is now known in France as pain bénit. It differs from the eugloia mentioned above, because it is not a part of the oblation from which the particle to be consecrated in the Mass is selected, but rather is common bread which receives a special benediction. In many places it is the custom for each family in turn to present the bread on Sundays and feast days, while in other places only the wealthier families furnish it. Generally the bread is presented with some solemnity at the Offertory of the parochial Mass, and the priest blesses it before the Oblation of the Host and Chalice, but different customs exist in different dioceses. The prayer ordinarily used for the blessing is the first or second: benedictio panis printed in the Roman missal and ritual. The faithful were exhorted to partake of it in the church, but frequently it was carried home. This blessed bread is a sacramental, which should excite Christians to practice especially the virtues of charity, and unity of spirit, and which brings blessings to those who partake of it with due devotion. The Priest, when blessing it, prays that those who eat it may receive health both of soul and body: "ut omnes ex eo gustantes inde corporis et animae percipant sanitatem"; "ut sit omnibus sumentibus salus mentis et corporis". In some instances the pain bénit was used not only with superstitious intent, and its virtues exaggerated beyond measure, but also for profane purposes. This usage was brought from France Canada, and was practised chiefly in the province of Quebec. There the pain bénit had blessed immediately after the Asperges, and then distributed to those who assisted at high Mass. The parishioners furnished it in turn, and vied with one another in presenting as rich and fine a pain bénit as possible, until finally the bishops, seeing that it entailed too much expense upon the poor circumstances, prohibited it. Within the last twenty-five and thirty years the custom has almost entirely disappeared.

I'm not very knowledgeable about the extent of this practice in England, although it would seem to make sense that in Sarum something similar was done with bread as in France, at least on major feasts. However, the custom of wealthier parishioners supplying bread for the needs of the poor seems to have been a part of Parish life in the post-reformation Church of England, and to have possibly flourished on account of the Poor Laws enacted from the 16th-19th centuries. My own Parish church of S. Magnus, built by Wren in 1676, features eight small shelves either side of the main doors in the Narthex to house seven loaves, which were distributed to poor families after Sunday Service. It is unlikely that this bread ever received a special benediction before distribution, but the fact that this bread was donated by those with means to do so for the benefit of fellow Christians, as well as the mere fact that this bread was placed in individual shelves visible to all as they left the Church means this custom of the Sunday Loaf is linked, at least in ethos, to the eulogia of old.

I believe personally that all of these uses of bread honour an ancient and authentic aspect of the liturgy; that of giving. The Sacrifice of the Mass, depends in material terms on the giving of real bread and wine by the faithful, or at least having contributed by giving money. The consecrated Bread was received by those initiated and disposed to do so, but surplus bread, blessed not consecrated, was an important sign of the Christian's belonging to the community, even if he is unbaptised. As we saw with the pain benit, when the Eucharistic bread was no longer supplied directly by the faithful, they substituted ordinary bread, blessed at some point during the Liturgy, to be distributed afterwards. To my mind, this is the meanings of the word "leitourgia", which signifies the whole community of the faithful supplying the spiritual and the material substance of the Eucharistic Sacrifice. To disinvest them of this opportunity to contribute materially, is the first step towards alienating the faithful from the liturgy of the Mass. I would urge "practitioners" of Liturgy to consider reviving the custom of the pain benit, or preferrably of the actual eulogia (blessed by being part of the Offertory). It would be quite simple for an MC or server to place a basket of bread on the altar during the Offertory which could be removed after having been blessed at "haec dona, haec munera" and distributed after Mass. Alternatively, bread could be blessed after Mass according to the Ritual and distributed in the Narthex. Does that sound like such an eccentricity.

Procession of the Relic of S. Thomas of Canterbury

This Sunday at S. Magnus we kept the Feast of the Translation of the Relics of S. Thomas of Canterbury. After a Sung Mass, a relic of the Saint which was kindly lent to us for the occassion was transferred from the High Altar to a Feretory and Bier, and taken in Procession, carried by two Subdeacons, to London Bridge. The Old London Bridge, whose thoroughfare formerly went under the bell tower of S. Magnus, once had a chapel dedicated to Saint Thomas of Canterbury where pilgrims on the medieval pilgrimage route would gather before heading over to Southwark and on to Canterbury. This chapel, which is depicted in a window and model in S. Magnus church belonged to the Parish of Saint Magnus the Martyr, and so we have inherited that saint's special patronage.


The Mass was Sung by the Vicar, Fr Philip, who wore a red chasuble featuring the Arms of Saint Thomas.


As the Procession left the church, the choir began singing the petitions of the Litany of the Saints.


Here you can see the beginning of the Procession. You'll notice that S. Magnus maintains the venerable tradition of the Verger, who carries a mace and wears a distinctive verger's hat.


The Procession goes up the steps from Lower Thames Street onto the Bridge.



At the approximate place of the former Chapel, the relics made a station, and the Office of Sext was sung. This was followed by the Anthem of the Benedictus of the Office of S. Thomas of Canterbury, using the Sarum chant. On the return to the Church, the "praise psalms" 148, 149 and 150 were sung. On arriving at the church, the choir sang the Antiphon of the Magnificat of the aforementioned Office, followed by the versicle and collect. The reliquery was then removed from the Feretory, and place on the High Atlar, then censed, and the faithful had an opportunity to venerate. The reliquery also contained a fragment of the True Cross, among other relics, which explains the genuflections made by some. After Benediction of the Relic, the dismissal was given and all retired to a delicious curry lunch in the sun.

The Place of Chanting the Lessons at High Mass

What you can see above is a typical image from a typical S. Magnus Liturgy, of the Subdeacon reading the Epistle of the Mass accompanied by the MC. Now Rubricists will balk at the dreadful disregard of Roman custom in a Parish that claims to practice the traditional Roman Rite in full. I do myself sometimes wonder how to justify this perhaps eccentric custom of having the Subdeacon sing the Epistle from the gates of the Sanctuary.

I refer frenquently as the Classical Roman Rite, by which I mean that developed rite which existed in regional "dialects" both within and without the immediate Central control of later Committees. I include under that term the Roman Rite properly called (i.e. the Use of the City of Rome) which came to be regarded as the normative, authoritative form during the Counter Reformation, as well as regional varieties of the same Liturgy which are now termed "Uses". This term necessarily includes various customs which were region-specific, and some of these customs applied to the place of reading the Epistle(s) at Mass. The Roman custom that is now regarded as the norm is that the Subdeacon, having reverenced the Altar stands some distance from it towards the edge of the Sanctuary (the South side) and sings the Epistle facing East, but as I will mention shortly, this custom is only an approximation of what happened anciently.

However, another question to consider is practicality. While the Rubrics of the Mass are supposed to safeguard the dignity of the celebration and to limit personal excess, they have historically not been an obstacle to considerations of practicality. Different churches have different shapes, some are large and some are small. I wonder where one would send the Subdeacon to sing the Epistle at the Crib Altar in the Grotto of Bethlehem!

One of my favourite photographs that I have on a bookcase at home is a black and white photograph of the ancient Roman church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, whose portico hosts the famous "Bocca della Verita" or Mouth of Truth. In this photo the church is unadorned except for the altar furnishings: a frontal and six typically Roman tall candlesticks (last time I went in there there were two large electric heaters kicking around the sanctuary). I've always felt that the starkness and simplicity of the church's mouldings are off-played by the wonderful patterns of the marble and the warmness of the frecoes and the intimate, embracing form of the basilican schola. The present structure might not be the original, but it is certainly based on it. The schola structure also indicates where and how the lessons and gospels would have been read. On either side of the schola there is an ambo (which means simply "high place"). The one on the North side is reserved for the Gospel, while that on the South for the Epistle and Lessons. Originally however, there was only one. We read in the Catholic Encyclopedia:

Originally there was only one ambo in a church, placed in the nave, and provided with two flights of steps; one from the east, the side towards the altar; and the other from the west. From the eastern steps the Subdeacon with his face to the altar, read the Epistles; and from the western steps the deacon, facing the people, read the Gospels. The inconvenience of having one ambo soon became manifest, and in consequence in many churches two ambones were erected. When there were two, they were usually placed one on each side of the choir, which was separated from the nave and aisles by a low wall. An excellent example of this arrangement can still be seen in the church of St. Clement at Rome. Very often the gospel ambo was provided with a permanent candlestick; the one attached to the ambo in St. Clements is a marble spiral column, richly decorated with mosaic, and terminated by a capital twelve feet from the floor.

Where there were two or more ambos, one was used only for the Gospel. The common arrangement was that of an ambo on either side of the church, between the choir and the nave, as may still be seen in many old basilicas (e.g., S. Maria in Cosmedin at Rome, etc.). In this case the ambo on the north side was reserved for the Gospel, from which the deacon faced the south, where the men stood. The north is also the right, and therefore the more honourable, side of the altar. The ambo on the south was used for the Epistle, and for other lessons if there were only two. In the case of three ambos, two were on the south, one for all other lessons, one for the Epistles. This arrangement still subsists, inasmuch as the Epistle is always read on the south side (supposing the church to be orientated). Where there was only one ambo it had two platforms, a lower one for the Epistle and other lessons, a higher one for the Gospel (Durandus, "Rationale", IV, 16). The ambo for the Epistle should still be used in the Roman Rite where the church has one; it is used regularly at Milan.

From this history then, we can see that the custom of facing the altar developed from the use of one Ambo only. When churches without ambos became more common, and the Gospel was read facing north (i.e. without turning ones back to the Altar), this action was theologised as providing a link between the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist (a division which deserves another post!). However, we also see that churches made their own arrangements according to the structure of the building, and that practicality ruled in reading to the faithful. We also get a sense of the importance overall of the "High Place" in reading both the Epistle and the Gospel.

Time to share these two photos. The first is from the Alcuin Club's reconstruction of Sarum ceremonial, and shows the Subdeacon reading the Epistle from the entrance of the screen, facing the people but also positioned somewhat to the South side of the entrance. This is more or less what happens at S. Magnus, minus the screen of course.


In this second photo, from a celebration of the Extraordinary Form of the Roman Rite (note, not Dominican rite) in Blackfriars, Oxford. You will notice the Subdeacon reading from the "Epistle side" of the Sanctuary but facing the people, not the Altar.


One of the worst features of the Modern Roman Liturgical praxis is that it perpetuates the false division of the "Liturgy of the Word" and the "Liturgy of the Sacrament". Through what is admittedly a little bit of retrospective theologising, the link between the two "halves" of the Mass is exemplified in the Roman Rite by the reading of the Collects at the altar, the Subdeacon facing East to chant the Epistle, and the Celebrant's reading of the Epistle and Gospel there too. It is therefore imperative for someone wishing to preserve the ethos of the Roman Rite to consider this link with the Altar when deciding to break free of Roman custom in the name of practicality.

However, in both of the pictures above, we can see that both the Altar and the "Ambo" are present in the Subdeacon's position. In the first, we notice that the Subdeacon is directed to remain just outside the screen, but still on the highest step. We need only think of the what the word "altar" means those whose rites involve an Iconostasis to realise that in standing where he does, the English Use Subdeacon has not really left the "altar" at all. He is also reading from an "ambo", a "high place", being elevated by some steps from the lowest level of the church. Exactly the same is true of the Mass at Blackfriars, where the Subdeacon is standing a step or so higher than those you can see in choir, he is also in an equivalent position to the basilican ambo whilst remaining within the Sanctuary of that church as it is configured.

We can see then that there is some legtimate latitude in the position of singing the Epistle at High Mass in the Classical Roman Rite. Looking at tradition and customs from across the West, we can discern that the two principles of the Ambo and the Altar are what determine the "correct" place from which to chant the Epistle and other readings. But, there is never any point in being too prescriptive without thought of circumstance : I'd love to hear suggestions of where the Subdeacon should go to sing the Epistle in the beautiful, multi-level church of San Miniato in Florence!

Sunday in the Octave of Corpus Christi

Bewildered servers prepare for the procession of the Blessed Sacrament after Mass on the Sunday in the Octave of Corpus Christi

"beati qui ad cenam Agni vocati sunt"

Following on from my last post (very Hunwickesque, if I might utter the master's name), another thought came to mind re: the Beati qui.

Only moments before the Invitation, (unless you're sitting through the Coronation Mass) the priest has said the prayer: "Unde et memores, Domine, nos servi tui, sed et plebs tua sancta, ejusdem Christi Filii tui Domini nostri tam beatae Passionis....etc"

Or in the Missale Anglicanum :

Wherefore, O Lord, we thy servants, and thy holy people also, remembering the blessed passion of the same Christ thy Son our Lord...etc

In the Eucharistic Sacrifice, tradition endows the Passion with the attribute "blessed". Now, the discussion about whether or not beati should be translated as Happy or Blessed is something I won't go into here, and you can probably guess which side I'd fall on, but there is something significant about this for the Invitation.

Christ's Passion is Blessed. Christ underwent this Passion for the redemption of the whole world. We Christians, though we are called to, and the Saints always do, pick up the Cross, it is important to bear in mind that we have not undergone the Passion of Our Lord. In human terms, it is possible to suffer physically as Christ did, but we have not redeemed ourselves; rather we have been redeemed. Is it a confusion to call ourselves "beati" at the moment before receiving the Body and Blood of Christ? Is it correct to conflate "the Supper of the Lamb" of the Apocalypse with the Banquet of the Mass? Are we not blurring the distinction, despite our Communion, between the Church Militant and the Church Triumphant? Thoughts?

Ecce qui tollit peccata mundi....

Let us consider for a moment these words from the Mass. These moments between the Consecration and the Communion are filled with the recollection of Christ as the pure and spotless Lamb, and of our own petitions for mercy. The priest at High Mass makes the fraction, commixture and receives Communion before and during the singing of the Agnus Dei. Thereafter, if others are to receive Communion also, he first hears their Confiteor, absolves them and then turns to them holding a Host at eye-level and says :

Ecce Agnus Dei, Ecce qui tollit peccata mundi

Behold the Lamb of God, Behold him who says away the sins of the World.

The image provided by the liturgical action, of the Spotless Lamb on the Altar, comes from the Apocalypse, but the verbal formula used go back to the Gospels, where the Baptist bestows upon Our Lord the title "Agnus Dei", Lamb of God. At the River Jordan, he says "Ecce Agnus Dei qui tollit peccatum mundi", referring in the singular to the sin of the whole world. In the Liturgy, the response of the faithful is "Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof, but speak the word only, and my soul shall be heald". Here, they are echoing the words of the Centurion in Matthew 8 who responds to Jesus' promise to heal with "Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof: but speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed."

The Gospel texts which have been collated here do not come from one Gospel narrative, but do in fact reflect a common theme: the recognition of man's unworthiness to receive Jesus. The Baptist's words are provoked by his seeing Christ coming towards him, with the crowds of sinners, to be Baptised. These words, these striking images, preface the Baptist's discourse on his unworthiness, and on his role as praecursor. His words are motivated by faith, however, in the fact that Christ's baptism of the Spirit will be the true Baptism, and a true remission of Sins.

The centurion speaks as one who knows his unworthiness before the poor Healer from Gallilee, but also reflect his faith in the healing "word" of Jesus. The liturgical action that accompanies these immortal words skip back to another Gospel story, that of the publican in the Temple who beats his chest and proclaims his unworthiness.

What we have here then is a very small dialogue between the Priest, the People and Christ. While the Priest addresses the faithful in the person of the Praecursor ("Behold..."), the People respond to his declaration by addressing Christ in the Host directly ("Lord, ..."). We have two speech-acts, two voices, and in them, the meeting-place of two themes: unworthiness and faith. This is how tradition has determined that we dispose ourselves before receiving Christ in the Blessed Sacrament.

In the reformed rite of Paul VI, however, we find another formula inserted into this simple three-way dialogue : After Ecce Agnus dei, we have Beati qui ad cenam Agni vocati sunt, which is erroneously translated into English as "Happy are those who are called to his supper". The Latin is in more accurately "Blessed are those who are called to the Supper of the Lamb".

Now, I'm not sure how I feel about picking on specific minutiae of the reforms in order to criticise them (I often feel the principle of reform has had much more disastrous consequences than most of the details), I do think it's important to interrogate these insertions into the rite, and to ask what they mean. My specific interest is in the analogy of Liturgy with language, and so I would like to ask what is meant by these words; who is speaking them and in what voice? What is the meaning behind them, and where do they fit into the dialogue I described earlier?

Clearly this formula is not entirely inappropriate to the liturgical "Invitation to Communion" as this is often labelled in modern Missals. The cena referred to in the sentence is the "marriage feast of the Lamb" of Revelation 19.9 and certainly describes what we are partaking of. However, it must be pointed out that this leap from the Baptist's words in the Gospel to the mysterical and esoteric disrupts the Communion dialogue by bringing in another voice. Suddenly, to the voice of John the Baptist is added the voice of an Angel saying "write these words : Blessed are those....". From the awe and wonder of Christ's presence amongst men (in both the Baptist's words and those of the centurion), we are taken abruptly to the celestial realm, and asked to ponder not the Human Face of our God, but the mystical wedding feast of the Lamb and His reign in Heaven. The addition of this formula to the Mass is consonant with a general de-emphasis of the Mass as Sacrifice in preference of the Mass as Supper and of course, the Mass is both. However, it does seem to me at least that the insertion of the "Beati qui..." into the Mass is at least a little jarring. The Post-Communion collects of the classical Roman Rite, to my mind, do quite enough to emphasise the Mass as meal "these gifts which we have received..." etc. I would also point out that where the voice of Angels is most prominently echoed, in the Sanctus, the words are padded out with plenty of non-scriptural language, and the Sanctus has an "organising" role in the flow of the liturgy that is quite unique.

In any case, I'd be very interested to hear what other people think about the New Rite Invitation to Communion, and whether the "Beati qui..." is an appropriate interpolation.....

The Language of the Liturgy : Candlemas

The often disregarded reforms in the Roman liturgy which took place before the Second Vatican Council and the new Missal of Paul VI were largely kind to the Feast of the Purification, but the changes which were introduced were not insignificant in their ramifications. Regional variations of the Roman rite are often referred to as “dialects” of the same “language”, and in my own view, one fruitful way in which to approach the Liturgy is by analogy to language. Like any spoken language, the Roman rite employs a rich vocabulary, some of which will have “cognates” in other rites, some of which will be unique. The beauty of the eloquent use of a natural language is often associated with its ability to evoke other speech acts, words or expression over time and between places, the inter-dependence of different instances of language from which it derives its complexity and its refinement. The same is true of the liturgy.

The reforms of the Roman liturgy during the 20th century, then, can be seen as a sort of editing process. The kindest, most elegant type of liturgical reform throughout history has been termed “organic”, just like the “organic” development of languages. This type of reform isn’t really reform at all, but more properly the “form” of something that is by definition able to adapt and change from within, without need of poking or pruning from outside. The reforms of the 20th century have largely been of of a much more severe type; an extreme editing process that disrupts the meaning of something and alters it almost beyond recognition. A useful analogy would be to imagine the process of editing Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream…” speech. Imagine if the editor decided that the repetition of the phrase “I have a dream” was unnecessary and probably bored the people listening to it. With keenness, he preserves the phrase “the sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent” but dispenses with all phrases that start with “I have a dream” or else takes parts of them and moves them to the beginning of the speech. Imagine if this new, edited form of the speech became the official version to be taught in school and reproduced in encyclopaedias, such that the old form only existed in original recordings closely guarded by collectors. What remains is still wonderful oratory, but is it the same, full-blooded speech which planted itself in the hearts of a nation, and set them on fire with a yearning for justice?

The ceremony of the Blessing of Candles and Procession before Mass on the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary is for many one of the highlights of the liturgical year. The Nunc Dimittis with its antiphon “A light to lighten the Gentiles…” forms the liturgical backbone of this rite, and the theme of Simeon’s acclamation in the temple on seeing the Christ child runs through all the collects which traditionally accompany the blessing of the candles. The distribution of candles to the faithful has a symbolism which is both obvious and powerful, readily understood but replete with meanings which unfold in the prayerful heart of the believer. The form of ceremony that survived into the late fifties also possessed certain meanings, explicit and implicit, which were lost in the reformed rite. A brief comparison follows :

For a High Mass of the Feast of the Purification, the colour of the blessing and procession is violet and the Mass is sung in white. The meanings of the colour violet in the Roman rite are many and varied, but include such things as “not-yet-redeemed” or “awaiting the Messiah” (Advent and Lent, or indeed the Votive Mass pro pace). The colour takes us back to the time before the work of Calvary is complete, and the alternation between violet and white in the liturgical year reflects the gradual revelation of Christ to the world, the story of which is told in the Gospels from Advent to Easter. Before the ceremonies begin, the Altar is veiled in violet and unornamented. The pieces of liturgical furniture, the credence, the Mass vestments on the sedilia and even the candles to be blessed are all hidden under violet veilings. The sacred ministers enter, the celebrant in cope and the deacon and subdeacon in their violet folded chasubles. The origin of the folded chasuble, as has been discussed elsewhere, is obscure, but evidence points to the custom of deacons and subdeacons adopting the chasuble (and folding it up) for penitential processions, which is why they continue to be worn on ember days of Lent and Advent, and for the procession on Candlemas. The Celebrant kisses the Altar (but the other ministers don’t genuflect when he does so) and then the three line up at the Epistle Side for the blessing of the candles. The five prayers of the blessing speak of the light of Christ and the petition of Simeon, but mention also the work of bees and the pure oil burnt in the tabernacle. The candles are censed and lustrated, while the celebrant says the antiphon Asperges Me (without the psalm). The content of the prayers moves from an emphasis on Christ as light to the collective and the external (Israel, Gentiles, people, arms of Simeom) to the light and purification of the individual and his soul (“may not be wanting to our souls”, “purge me”). The Candles are distributed while the Nunc Dimittis is sung. There is a final collect which underlines the work of Christ on the soul through outward devotion (a good précis of the five blessing prayers), before which (if it be not a Sunday and after Septuagesima) the Deacon and Subdeacon sing Flectamus genua and Levate respectively. These instructions from the sacred ministers to kneel in prayer and arise before the collect is sung also feature in the liturgy of Good Friday and on the Ember Days. The procession is then made, with the Subdeacon as cross-bearer and the Antiphon “Adorna thalamum tuum, Sion” by S. John of Damascus is sung, incidentally one of the few borrowings of text and music by the Roman Church from the Greeks. At the entrance to the church, or return to the sanctuary if the procession has not left the church, a responsary is sung V. They offered for him unto the Lord a pair of turtle doves or two young pigeons. As it is written in the law of the Lord R. When the days of Mary’s purification according to the law of Moses were accomplished, they brought Jesus to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord. As it is written in the law of the Lord. As the Catholic encyclopaedia notes :

“The solemn procession represents the entry of Christ, who is the Light of the World, into the Temple of Jerusalem. It forms an essential part of the liturgical services of the day, and must be held in every parochial church where the required ministers can be had. The procession is always kept on 2 February even when the office and Mass of the feast is transferred to 3 February.”

Indeed, owing to the presence of the processional cross as a symbol of Christ, this act of entrance is the ritual re-enactment of the presentation itself, and as such forms the climax of this ceremony. During the procession, the Altar has been unveiled to reveal a white frontal, ready to greet the Lord. Without further ceremony, the Mass proceeds. The ministers assume white Mass vestments (the tunicle and dalmatic underlining the move into new light and joy) and the prayers at the foot of the altar are said. The Candles of the faithful are to be lit to greet Christ in the Gospel and From the Te Igitur to after the Communion.

As I mentioned, the Missal of 1962 has been largely kind to this ancient rite, preserving much of the form. However, there are some important changes which disturb and deform the original rite. Firstly the entire ceremony of blessing is said in the White Mass vestments. The entire “before redemption” meaning of the colour violet, which is (inconsistently) maintained in Advent and Lent to the present day, despite the suppression of the folded chasuble, is lost. Related to this, the instructions Flectamus genua and Levate are gone. These instructions particular to the Deacon and Subdeacon were also part of the Solemn prayers of pre-1955 Good Friday, but for no apparent reason, the Subdeacon was divested of his Levate, which was given to the Deacon.

Secondly, and consistent with a general move to suppress these prayers where another rite precedes Mass (viz. the 1955 Palm Sunday [though previous to this reform, the psalm was omitted as per Sundays in Passiontide]), the prayers at the foot of the altar are not said. While much could be said about the disregard shown in this reform for the liturgical coherence of the Mass, and the importance of the words “Introibo ad altare Dei” in the worship of the Church, I only have time here to share these words again from the Catholic Encyclopaedia :

"That the Mass, around which such complicated rules have grown, is the central feature of the Catholic religion hardly needs to be said, During the Reformation and always the Mass has been the test. The word of the Reformers: "It is the Mass that matters", was true. The Cornish insurgents in 1549 rose against the new religion, and expressed their whole cause in their demand to have the Prayer-book Communion Service taken away and the old Mass restored. The long persecution of Catholics in England took the practical form of laws chiefly against saying Mass; for centuries the occupant of the English throne was obliged to manifest his Protestantism, not by a general denial of the whole system of Catholic dogma but by a formal repudiation of the doctrine of Transubstantiation and of the Mass."

To my mind, the decision to remove in one stroke, a part of what is and has been for centuries, words that have become ingrained in the mind of every Catholic, is a serious assault on tradition, and, by extention, what that tradition seeks to protect, and this assault must be interrogated. The notion that a part of the ancient practice of the Church’s regular worship can be edited out, simply for the sake of convenience, is above all patronising to the very people for whom this service exists: the plebs sancta Dei. The assumption that the lay man or woman in the nave of the church has suffered, Sunday by Sunday, from a lack of comprehension, an inability to engage with the rite of Mass because of its convoluted ceremonial or its long-dead Latin is the great fallacy of the movement for reform, and a damaging lie. The simplification and reduction of the liturgy is, in my view, the very reason why church attendance has dropped so severely since the period of reform began. As one friend put it, when a churched Christian reaches adulthood and is still expected to engage with a dumbed-down liturgy that was altered to be accessible even to small children, then what really is there to keep them from leaving? An examination of the unreformed rites of Candlemas, as with any ancient ceremony of the Church, clearly exhibit a language in vibrant use, a language which can be heard readily by anyone who opens themselves to it. The particular language is the Roman rite, but the message is redemption. Dumbing down the Mass, the Liturgy, the traditions of the Church, can only indicate that much of the Church as a whole has stopped believing in Herself, and that what She has offered to Her children for centuries is no longer worth very much at all.

Cathedra Petri

Today is the feast of the Chair of S. Peter, and the beginning of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. This week of prayer, as many Anglicans will know, began life as the Octave for Christian Unity, proposed by Anglo-Catholic Fr. Paul Wattson in 1908 to be observed from the feast of the Chair of S. Peter on the 18th January until the feast of the Conversion of S. Paul on the 25th. The decision to observe the Octave over these two feasts is an obvious indication of the Anglican Papalists' desire for unity with the See of Peter, and as a glance over the history books and archives will tell, our Papalist forefathers took up this Octave of Prayer with great enthusiasm. As the idea caught on, the Octave came to be observed as the (perhaps less explicitly Catholic) Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, and was blessed by Pius X to be observed in the Roman Church. Since its promotion by the World Council of Churches, the Week (still actually an 'Octave') has been very widely accepted by Christians across the world.

This week I am also celebrating my new iPod Touch, a wonderful piece of technology which I almost can’t believe I ever lived without. Over the weekend I have been discovering the many wonderful applications I can download onto my new iPod: such practical things as a Spanish-English dictionary, an iSiddur (a Jewish prayerbook, just in case I ever find myself in shul on a Friday night), a Catholic Calender by Universalis with readings for Mass and the Liturgy of the Hours, a course of Salsa Lessons (to supplement my Wednesday night session) and plenty more besides. I’ve also subscribed to podcasts, which update automatically via iTunes, so that I can share in weekly Bible study sessions with a group of American Franciscan Sisters, as well as a daily documentary from the BBC!

Unfortunately, though, many of the things that I want aren’t available as applications or podcasts yet. While some churches do broadcast Mass daily online, there are no podcasts that I know of for the Usus Antiquior, and Sanctamissae.org is yet to release the Missale Romanum (1962) as an iPod application. Nonetheless, what I can get on my iPod and what I can watch on my PC involves such startling variety and seemingly endless possibilities for mission, that it isn’t surprising that so many in the Church are embracing the technology available, and podcasting sermons, broadcasting Masses or creating eRosary applications for iPhone.

At a parish meeting last year, the people of S. Magnus were encouraged to contribute their ideas in a brainstorming session as the first stage in formulating our MAP, or Mission Action Plan for the coming year. Reading over the notes of this meeting put together by one of our churchwardens, two very strong themes emerged from the participants' comments: firstly, a very strong and discerning appreciation of the traditional Liturgy offered in S. Magnus every Sunday, and secondly, the desire to see this precious gift shared with those who form the wider S. Magnus community, including tourists at the Monument, casual visitors, or, quite importantly, people who follow S. Magnus through this blog or the Church website, and who constitute the eParish of S. Magnus; our “virtual parishioners” as one person put it.

It seems that S. Magnus has accepted, in theory at least, the idea that one can be part of the community without being physically present (although obviously, it would be all the better if you could be!), and has begun to explore the possibilities of reaching out to our eParish via the internet and possibly Apple technology also. Some ideas that I’ve seen work well in other places are the simultaneous broadcast of the Sunday Mass (do look here at S. Gertrudes if you haven’t already enjoyed the broadcasts of these Traditionalist Roman Catholics in the States), and the podcasting of sermons to be downloaded to iTunes (S. Clement’s Philadelphia has done this for some time). The Parish website is also due to be revamped soon, and that could be very exciting, with an ordo and events calendar published and updated regularly, photo folders to look back over past events etc. All of this requires skill, effort and outlay, so your prayers are asked for our church of S. Magnus as it follows others into the mission fields of cyberspace! Who knows? It might not be too long before this blog is sharing video content from the Parish Mass or feast days, or whatever event we might be hosting, to give YOU, the virtual parishioners of S. Magnus, a regular dose of the M vitamin. And in this week of prayer for unity, while we are waiting for decisions to be made about Anglicanorum Coetibus, we must remember to ask the decision-makers the important questions: like, when will we get podcasts of Anglican Use High Mass?

Advent II

Here are one or two photos from the Mass of Advent II on Sunday.

The Asperges collect

The censing of the altar at the introit

Censing of the celebrant

The Gospel is proclaimed in the body of the church

During the Canon. As you can see, the Deacon wears a 'broad stole', representative of his folded chasuble worn over the shoulder, while he fulfills his diaconal duties at the altar.

All Souls Day

I grew up with a very simplistic idea of what happens to us when we die. As a child, heaven was something to hope for; a mystical realm where I would live on a cloud and eat sherbet dibdabs forever, chatting to my dead pets and meeting relatives I’d only ever seen in photos. I had a vaguer, more cautious idea of hell as a large room underneath the church hall, where naughty children were locked away with the devil, thanks to the frustrated attempts of our Sunday School teacher to explain such things to children. What I grew into, as a teenager and a young adult, was the idea that actually nothing happens to us when we die. The assault on my childhood fantasies as I moved into a secularised society was so severe that I, like almost everyone in my generation, came to regard even the possibility of believing in some form of continuation of life after bodily death as so outlandish, unrealistic and idiotic that even those who maintained that a soul can join God in His Kingdom was worthy to be held in contempt.

Not every belief, though, was so ardently attacked. I remember going to a Buddhist meditation class while I was at university, and telling friends that I thought I might believe in the transmigration of souls. That was fine by them. It marked me out as a little quaint but, they said, if it floats your boat then it’s ok if you “buy it”. It’s not surprising that the vocabulary of purchase is applied to the believability of different systems in such a group of young adults. In a way, it sometimes seems that ideologies, beliefs and religions are arranged in a spiritual market place, like poloshirts in Uniqlo, to be looked over, assessed and eventually, invested in. These days, Atheism is flying off the shelves, and to buy into anything else, while not a heinous crime will definitely mark you out as a bit nerdy. To chose the Christian faith, particularly in its Catholic colours, makes you an irredeemable spod.

I sometimes think that a particular culture is capable, at certain points in history, of falling back into a kind of spiritual adolescence or early adulthood. It’s the mid-life crisis of a society that, unlike the human version of the condition, repeats itself at various junctures. I don’t believe that it’s linked to a particular time or place, such as secular Western Europe in the 21st century or Pagan Rome. It happens whenever a community or society allows doubt, fear and prejudice to prevail, and as a result feels the need to reject and trample on its own collective memory. I believe that the hostility and ridicule that Christians suffer for their hope in the Resurrection of the Dead, as also their belief in damnation, is a symptom of that condition.

However, I am just as much a product of my generation and its culture as anyone. My route to the Faith has taken me through all of that posturing and sneering, and that is why to me, Christianity is so unlike anything that came before it. But my thoughts are still, in some way, conditioned by that mindset, I am still partly burdened by the “critical skills” and keenness for a witty jibe that is the baggage of a Cambridge education. How on earth am I supposed to believe, like I say I do, in the “resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come”, in the punishing fires of Hell, or in the purification of Purgatory, when none of it is universally accepted by the world scientific community, let alone my friends? It isn’t easy. In the darkest moments, I feel trapped between the terrifying prospect that “this is it”, and incredulity at the florid accounts sometimes preached about what happens after this life is over.

Perhaps one way to begin the process of reconciling ourselves with the afterlife is to go back to a turning point in the narrative of salvation: the Incarnation. The resounding YES of Mary to God’s call gives way to the unintelligible NO of the Incarnation. I call it a NO, because in a way that we cannot hope to understand, God said NO to Himself, and divested Himself of the glory of omnipotence to be clothed in our own humble flesh, constrained by hunger, thirst, weakness, vulnerable to extreme cold or heat and ultimately to the cruelty of other men. In the resurrection, he rose again and was taken into heaven, body and soul, taking the flesh right into the Godhead, and he promised us that one day, we who love Him will join Him there too in the Father’s Kingdom.

For perhaps the first time in history, the flesh was not despised for the soul to be exalted. When God invited the Apostle to place his hand inside His wounded side, we saw God for who he truly is. In the mystery of the Incarnation, our human world of skin, bones, blood and guts begins to own the possibility of making sense, and in the Resurrection, that process of “making sense” will be complete.

Sometimes, we’ll find it difficult, even impossible, to believe fully in either the Resurrection or the Incarnation. Sometimes, we won’t even want to pray. Sometimes the wickedness of this world will turn us in on ourselves so much so that we lose interest in even thinking about God and resign ourselves to another option; crippling depression, or callow selfishness. However, bringing the thought of our Incarnate God, of our Risen Lord with us as we confront the terrible silence of death might help us grasp the precious thread of our faith and dare to open our eyes on the glory of God.

Corpus Christi Procession at S. Magnus

Here are a few pictures from the Procession of the Blessed Sacrament which took place after the Mass of Corpus et Sanguis Christi. As you can see, we processed around the Monument to the great fire, which is our nearest large public space, being a short walk up the hill.

Here you can see our flower-girl throwing rose petals down before the Blessed Sacrament.

Since our canopy is beyond use, it has been our custom for some time to use a liturgical umbrella, which Fr. Philip picked up in Ethiopia. I'm sure that the amount of Gold in it makes it liturgically legal for use in such processions, don't worry yourselves over THAT.

People find their places in the church before Benediction is given, and our Heavenly Father demonstrates his approval with a shaft of sunlight directed at the Blessed Sacrament. You'll also notice in these pictures a good turn-out for the Mantilla. I've been providing them for use for the last few Sundays, although I've given them away to women who would like to use them regularly. I will be making more myself this week, if only I could lay my hands on some tasteful scalloped lace edging.....

Shortly before Benediction...

The faithful kneel in rapt silence, adoring the Most Blessed Sacrament as sunlight cuts through the heavy haze of incense smoke.

There's one story I love which is told by one of our servers, Br. Deiniol, about a church he used to go to. There was an ecumenical programme there once which involved an exchange between the local Anglican and Methodist congregations so that they might better experience the other's worship life. So, the Anglicans went to the local Methodist Chapel for Evening worship with plenty of robust hymnody, and the Methodists were invited the following Sunday to Solemn Evensong and Benediction at the Anglican church. After the service, a Methodist lady was asked if she enjoyed Benediction : "Oh yes" she said, "lovely! Especially the bit near the end when the Minister picked up that carriage clock and it struck three". I fell about laughing.

The Old Rite

I hope that a good Ascension Day was had by all. Whenever I hear the word ascension, the first image that pops into my mind is the Ascension chapel in the Shrine Church at Walsingham, of that little moulding on the ceiling of two feet taken up into cloud. The reredos of that chapel is gilded wood and the impression is one of movement upwards, guiding the heart to what is above, beyond the low ceiling of the chapel to the heavens above, where Christ reigns in glory.

I love the Ascension, because it’s imagery and readings are so physical, so personal. Just like Christ showing his wounds to the disciples, and inviting them to touch them, the Ascension was a tangible, real event, with the resurrected body of Christ on full view. Like Easter, the Ascension is also the fulfilment of a promise, and invites us to trust in Christ, and to be a friend to Him.

At S. Magnus, we kept the Feast with an evening Low Mass from the English Missal. Although every Sunday we use the Anglican Missal for Solemn Mass, we do not employ all of the ceremonial of the ‘Western Use’. However, during Lent, we started offering Low Mass from the English Missal and celebrated precisely according to the rubrics of the rite. This has meant many hours poring over Fortescue’s Ceremonies of the Roman Rite Described, specifically the 1958 edition which corresponds to our edition of the English Missal. I’ve also spent hours on youtube and google video watching recordings of Masses celebrated according to the 1962 Missale Romanum. As a server, I’ve also availed myself of countless small booklets and guides to serving the Tridentine Mass, and I often wonder why the information doesn’t stick in my mind, especially since most of those guides were written for children of about twelve years old.

So far, this has been a success. Although I do panic slightly before Mass that I might forget where I am supposed to be at a certain point, or that I might mess up the ablutions or miss a response, but yesterday’s Mass was very moving, especially as we were lucky enough to have a member of the choir chant the Introit, Kyrie, Gloria, Gradual, Offertory and Agnus Dei unaccompanied. It is very humbling to know that the prayers of the canon are the same prayers, unaltered over the ages, as were uttered by S. Augustine when he said his first Mass in England, and humbling too to know that this rite is the one with which so many of the saints would be familiar. It is truly the Mass of Ages, the unique heritage of the Church.

We all know that the Tridentine Rite of the Roman Catholic Church is increasingly in demand these days, but in our own Communion, the interest in ‘traditional liturgy’ has been somewhat more vaguely attached to the general visual aspect of the Liturgy, the indices of Anglo-Catholicism for the uninitiated: Birettas, incense and that sort of thing. Still, it seems there are plenty of people who are interested in doing things properly, and appreciate the timeless and transcendental quality of the Old Rite, offered with the complete and correct ceremonial directed in the rubrics.

It has long seemed to me, especially since a post on Anglican Wanderings about the use of the American Missal in Nashotah, that we would benefit greatly from an Old Rite Society, parallel to something like the Latin Mass Society, to promote the use of the various Anglican Missals (without preferring any particular one) and to provide listings of Old Rite Masses offered regularly or on Solemnities. You’ll notice I’ve been using the term Old Rite quite vaguely, and it’s basically a catch-all term I’ve settled on. I think the term Usus Antiquior belongs specifically to the Roman Missal and Extraordinary Form belongs to the Roman Communion. Our Missals are a much more diverse grouping of books incorporating various amounts of the Book of Common Prayer, which as we know, exists in various manifestations in different parts of the world. Still, what I believe constitutes an Old Rite Missal, is anything based on or translated from the Roman Missal in its various editions between 1570 and 1962 and incorporating any amount of Sarum or BCP material. I suppose that would include, apart from the Missale Romanum, which I know some people use, the English Missal, the Anglican Missal (published by the SSPP) and the American Missal among others.

To that end then, I would like any priests who offer public masses according to any Old Rite, or people who know of such celebrations, to email me Mass times to be published every Thursday or Friday (for the weekend) and at least two days before any Feast or Solemnity. I know of some parishes in the US who regularly use the English Missal, and I know of one in the UK, but please help by letting me know who I can contact for confirmation before advertising the Masses.
Either post the regular Mass times in the comments box of this post, or email me if you know of a particular celebration coming up. There are many people who would love to attend an Old Rite Mass, but who simply don’t know which parishes offer them, so with your help they’ll be able to attend the Traditional Liturgy as they wish.