Just this past week I finished a course at the Liturgical Institute of St. Mary of the Lake University, Mundelein, with the Institute’s assistant director Dr. Denis McNamara. Dr. McNamara just recently published the groundbreaking book Catholic Church Architecture and the Spirit of the Liturgy through the Institute’s ‘Hillenbrand Books’, which was the main text for the course.
Ultimately, Dr. McNamara’s book is focused on the practical issue of new church architecture and church renovations, but he sets out to achieve it in the first place by means of an applied study in liturgical theology, architectural theology and a theology of beauty. This first part of his book provides a lens, a hermeneutic, for the rest of his study which journeys through the scriptural foundations of church architecture, the timeless applicability of the Classical tradition, the eschatological nature of iconic images, and a historical survey of modern church architecture.
McNamara’s perspective for the study of sacred art is sacramental (small “s”), according to the Church’s classic definition of a sacrament: “a visible sign of an invisible reality”. This means that sacred art, in this case architecture, uses visible signs to reveal the building’s ontology: its nature, its reason for being. (Dr. McNamara loves to use the word ontology in the classroom, it’s sort of as a catch phrase. One day, in a prayer led by one of the priests in the class, the word ontology managed to show up twice! When we finished the sign of the cross and opened our eyes we saw Denis smiling ear to ear.) Ontology: “What makes a church a church?” “What does sacred art say about its reason for being?”
I heard at one point in the course the axiom coined by the theologian Fr. Edward Oakes, SJ “art doesn’t lie”. In other words, seen from a sacramental perspective, art always signifies some reality: beauty is not in the the eye of the beholder, dependent on the viewer’s subjective state and experience in order to give it meaning. Art always says something about its intention, it communicates, it reveals something, it signifies something; the question is “what reality does it signify?”
In the case of the language of classical church architecture the elements used in design seek to signify the heavenly liturgy; the church building becomes a “sacramental building” which signifies the union of heaven and earth during the liturgy, it shows through its art and design the earth restored to heavenly order, its beauty represents the beauty, perfection, and other-worldliness of heaven, and it invites the liturgical participant to “actively participate” in the heavenly liturgy which is made present in the most excellent way in the holy sacrifice of the Mass. In contrast, in the case of post-modern deconstructivist architecture, which is based on a philosophy of despair, of chaos, which focuses on the disorder of fallen humanity, something else is signified; it represents the fall, it exhibits chaos in built form, it does not look to heaven, but further enables the viewer to “actively participate” in the effects of the fall.
“Architecture is the built form of ideas”, says McNamara. “Art doesn’t lie”. “Art invites the viewer to participate in the reality which it signifies”.
As I reflected on how sacred art assists or detracts from one’s active participation in the sacred mysteries that are celebrated in the liturgy, I couldn’t help but to stop and think of how these ideas could be applied, mutatis mutandis, to sacred music. What followed was somewhat of a revelation.
If architecture is the built form of ideas, it could be said that (in the case of sacred music) music is the sung form of ideas.
It seems that in many of our contemporary debates over liturgical music we can’t seem to get too far away from the subjective elements of musical style. I have heard very prominent exponents of modern “contemporary” liturgical music say to proponents of sacred music: “Why don’t you stop ragging on people who happen to like contemporary musical styles? I respect your stylistic preferences, why can’t you respect mine?” (You may not believe this, but this is an argument given by one of GIA’s most widely published composers–and he attributes it to Fr. Gelineau, with whom he studied). Sacred musicians might respond furiously saying “it’s not a question of style!” but then they might produce a counter-argument, or maybe even post a video on the internet, which compares contemporary and sacred musical styles. This usually amounts to the belittling of pop styles, and it makes an appeal to Gregorian chant, asking the viewer “which one seems more beautiful?” Well, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder then this amounts to an argument over personal taste and preference.
But if one asks the question “what does this musical repertoire, or musical style sacramentally represent?” then we might actually develop a grammar for properly analyzing liturgical music.
If music is the sung form of ideas, this means, in liturgy, that music represents theology. In other words, the music that is sung in liturgy reveals what those who participate in it believe that the liturgy is. Art doesn’t lie.
If the liturgy is an earthly participation in the eschatological reality of heaven; a bursting forth of the heavenly liturgy that takes place at the end of time into the earthly liturgy of the fallen world, then its music should be eschatological. The music of this earthly liturgy would seek to provide a foretaste of the liturgy of heaven, the wedding banquet of the Lamb. It would be transcendent and other-worldly, its noble beauty would befit the heavenly King, it would be ordered music free of the effects of the fall, it would transcend the popular musical styles of the world and would actively engage its participants in a foretaste of the heavenly life that is to come.
On the other hand, if the music in the earthly liturgy sounds like the music of the popular culture, is like the music that would be sung or heard at a festive family dinner party, or perhaps at a concert or in a retail store, if the music is reflective of the music that is on top 40 radio, and so on, what does this say about what the liturgy is? Art doesn’t lie. This music would suggest that the liturgy is like a gathering for a family meal, is entertaining, is immanently bound up with the “now”, or with a particular time period (as is perhaps is the case with 70’s folk music), it may have the effect of persuading people to walk in the doors much like the shops in a mall. A liturgical theology that prefers music that says these things or has these effects would be one that views the earthly liturgy not as a participation in the glories of heaven, but one that is immanently bound up in the effects of the fall.
What all of this is saying to me is that perhaps we need to stop arguing about musical styles. Instead let’s take a step back and take a look at the music that is being sung in the liturgy and ask ourselves what theological reality it is expressing. If a liturgist or pastor or musician or anyone believes that the liturgy is simply a communal meal shared between friends that is bound up in this time and place, well, guess what, their liturgical music is probably going to reflect that. Instead of trying to convince them that certain musical styles and repertoires are appropriate for Mass, through persuasion or worse yet through beating them over the head with Church documents, perhaps we should enter a conversation about the ontology of the liturgy. Our time might be better spent giving a sound liturgical catechesis, in praying for conversion of hearts, for the evangelization of souls, and in becoming, ourselves, imbued with the spirit of the liturgy.
Art doesn’t lie. Music doesn’t lie. Let us know what we’re saying with the music that we sing in the earthly liturgy and let us always strive for a sacramental participation in the liturgy of heaven where God is all-in-all, and where the earth is restored and sings his praise eternally.
