It is a Saturday morning. I wake while it is still dark and blindly shuffle into my clothes. My children sleep. The world is still as I step into the chill morning air to attend the early morning Low Mass at the Abbey of Our Lady of Clear Creek. 

I arrive at the monastery while the moon still sheds its pale light in the sky, surrounded by a blanket of stars. It is dark inside the monastery, chill. Only a few dim lights illumine the blackness from above. Two candles are lit on a nearby altar, their flames dancing gently and casting a thin light on the brassy metal of gothic crucifixes. 

Monks noiselessly appear from the darkness, their faces shrouded beneath ghostly white hoods. They take their places at the side altars dispersed throughout the sanctuary. This is the ancient way of concelebration—each priest-monk celebrating his own Mass, at his own altar, in unison with his brothers. Gold and white vestments shimmer in the half light as black-robed lay brothers shuffle busily around the altars, preparing them for the sacrifice that is to come. 

Mass begins. The monk whose mass I attend signs himself and bends low at the waist. He whispers the words to the ancient prayer of contrition, the Confiteor. 

Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatæ Mariæ semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistæ…quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist…I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word and deed: through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. 

The Mass begins as it will end: in near perfect silence. The priest gestures slowly, reverently, with movements at once opaque and pregnant with meaning. His is a silence of intimacy, a whisper of love. God alone hears his words. 

The mysterious drama of the Mass is not lessened by this absence of audible words and music, as some might think, but rather heightened and intensified. Here unfolds the ancient and eternal Sacrifice, the world’s salvation. Here is a joy the world cannot comprehend, even finds strange and foolish. It is the delight of all the saints and all those who know it is the banquet of unending love. For the power of God comes not in a storm of excitement or nervous enthusiasm. It is a noiseless peace, the revelation of a God both hidden and humble; the marriage of heaven and earth in sensible signs. 

In a moment of distraction, I look around the dimly lit church. Through the large windows at the end of the sanctuary I see the sky beginning to turn pink as the molten orange globe of the sun begins its ascent. Monks silently gesture at each altar in the growing light, carrying on their hidden conversation with God. 

How far it all seems from the noisy bustle, the hungry discontent of the outside world. Here is a peace few will know. And yet, it seems to me that it is this very place of peace that keeps the world on its axis. Without these prayers, without this sacrifice of praise, without the oblation of these monastic lives, the world very likely would have ceased to exist long ago, drowned and destroyed by the sins of men. 

There is a pause, and then the priest begins the solemn prayer of the preface. 

Sursum corda. Habemus ad dominum.
Gratias agamus Domino Deo nostro.
Dignum et justum est.

Vere dignum et justum est, aequum et salutare, nos tibi semper et ubique gratias agere: Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus:…
 

Lift up your hearts. We have lifted them up to the Lord.

Let us give thanks to the Lord our God. 

It is right and just. 

It is truly right and just, proper and fitting for our salvation, that we should always and everywhere give You thanks, holy Lord, almighty Father, eternal God…

Thanksgiving. It is the heart of life. It is what we, and all creation were made for. Our hearts will always ache with emptiness until we discover the secret of all contentment, the power of praise. 

The Sanctus is prayed. Then begins the ancient prayer, the canon of the Mass, unchanged for centuries and considered by some liturgical scholars to be the most ancient liturgical prayer in existence, dating back to the very earliest days of the Church. Names of martyrs are mentioned, men and women like Clement, Anastasia, Lucy.

These early martyrs were not written into this prayer as an ancient memory, but rather because they had died recently and the Church was remembering them and asking for their intercession. But because this prayer has remained nearly unchanged, we still remember their names today. An extraordinary fact. 

The consecration approaches, and an even greater silence seems to descend on the cold stones of the abbey walls. The priest leans over the altar, whispering the most powerful words in the universe, the words of consecration that transform ordinary bread and wine into the body and blood, soul and divinity, of the Eternal Word, Jesus Christ. 

HOC EST ENIM CORPUS MEUM.

For this is my body.

HIC EST ENIM CALIX SANGUINIS MEI, NOVI ET AETERNI TESTAMENTI : MYSTERIUM FIDEI : QUI PRO VOBIS ET PRO MULTIS EFFUNDETUR IN REMISSIONEM PECCATORUM. 

For this is the chalice of my blood of the new and everlasting covenant, a mystery of faith: it will be shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. 

It is a wonder that the walls do not quake at such words. And yet such is the humility of God that he allows this miracle to occur in stillness. For the voice of God is not heard in fire and storm or in great commotion, but in humility and silence. 

The priest genuflects in front of the mysteriously transformed elements. And then something wonderfully unexpected occurs, a startling coincidence of time. As the priest elevates the pale host high above his head, the rising sun appears just at that moment through the windows at the far end of the sanctuary. It appears directly behind the host, as if illuminating the hidden reality that is there. The light blinds me, and I cannot gaze for long. But the effect is profound. The God whom the angels cannot gaze upon is hidden in this host. How quickly I forget it, and how casually I receive him. Yet, for one dazzling instant, it was is if I could see his blinding glory shine through, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus. 

Finally, the moment of communion draws near. Striking his breast, the priest says three times: Domine, non sum dignus…  Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed. 

This beautiful prayer was not simply written by a holy man long ago. It is directly from the words of the Gospel. Even more profound, they were spoken by a Roman Centurion, a battle-hardened man of worldly power. Doubtless he had seen many battles and defeated many foes to achieve his rank. Doubtless he was courageous and feared no man. And yet, he bowed his knee before a wandering prophet from a backwater town. 

This commander of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men, saw the greatness of Jesus. He knew he was not simply a rabbi, a teacher. He knew he had authority, and that this authority came not from men, but from God himself. He saw in him the Savior of mankind and the Son of God. And he could not but humble himself before him, bowing his knee and declaring his unworthiness. Domine, non sum dignus. Lord, I am not worthy. 

It is this same humility that is the strength of every true man. For before God, we are all nothing but grass—even the strongest of us. Yet, acknowledging our humility before the Lord is not degrading. It does not diminish us. Paradoxically, there is something in humility that enlarges the heart, that leads to freedom and genuine strength. We must bow the knee to become our true selves, to become men of full stature. For when we are weak, it is then we are strong. 

The Mass draws to a close. The priest says the final prayers of blessing and we are dismissed. I step in the bright clear air of the breaking morning. Birds sing, seemingly continuing prayers of praise with their cheerful melodies. Joy fills my heart, and peace too. Though I am the most unworthy of all, I have received the Lord of Life—and have been healed.

Back in the nineteenth century Father Frederick Faber famously wrote that the Mass was the “most beautiful thing this side of heaven.” As every Mass is a re-presentation of Calvary, and the altar itself the place where heaven and earth meet, one can understand why Saint Peter Julian Eymard called the Holy Sacrifice the “holiest act of religion.” Understanding all of this to be true, is it any wonder that more of the faithful are seeking a liturgy which seeks to restore a sense of the sacred?

For many, the Traditional Latin Mass is fulfilling just such a need. Rediscovering the manner in which the Church has worshipped for centuries has helped a growing number of Catholics to encounter the Lord more deeply. What many are realizing is just how effectively, and beautifully, the traditional Masses engage our senses. Indeed, it is a Mass for all senses.

Sight

The Latin Mass presents a visual which immediately speaks to the true focus of our adoration and worship. As the priest offers the Mass ad orientem (facing the altar or the liturgical east) we immediately recognize that the liturgy is not about us. This is something that simply must be experienced by the faithful to fully appreciate. In the past I have called this a true “game changer”, and it is. There is a significant liturgical catechesis in the simple fact that the priest is facing with the congregation, instead of facing the congregation. Far too many Catholics have experienced anthropocentric masses over the years, liturgies in which priest and faithful seem to focus their gaze upon each other. Malcolm Cardinal Ranjith, the former Secretary for the Congregation for Divine Worship, said that often in the modern liturgy the priest has become a “showman”. As the priest spends much of the Traditional Mass facing the same direction as the faithful, speaking Latin the entire time, there is little confusion as to who he is speaking to.

Hearing

The use of a liturgical language is another manner in which the traditional Mass effectively engages our senses. Maintaining an aura of mystery and antiquity, the liturgical use of Latin immediately transports the faithful from the secular into the sacred. The familiarity and comfort of the vernacular is left behind as we enter into the Holy Mass.

However, it is also the absence of sound that catches our attention. This becomes most obvious during that most venerable of prayers, the Canon of the Mass. Dating back at least to the sixth century and Pope St. Gregory the Great, the Roman Canon (called Eucharistic Prayer 1 in the New Mass) is spoken nearly inaudibly by the priest. The great nineteenth century Benedictine liturgist Dom Prosper Guéranger describes this silence by stating that the priest “then enters within the cloud” with his voice not being heard again until the “Great Prayer is concluded”. This silence is only interrupted at the moment of consecration by the ringing of sanctus bells, signifying Our Lord’s presence on the Altar.

Many newcomers to the Latin Mass are struck by this absence of sound. Our culture puts a premium on noise. Silence, intentional silence, can be quite jarring at first. However, over time, the faithful learn once again how to use this silence to pray the Mass, instead of simply going to Mass.

Finally, if one is so blessed as to hear a High Mass, they will be treated to some of the most beautiful music ever created. A few years back Archbishop Alexander Sample noted that not all religious music is sacred music, but rather that which possesses three qualities: sanctity, beauty and universality. While seventies Haugen and Haas music, or nineties Praise and Worship songs, might be about God, we can objectively say that they are not sacred music. Liturgical music, true sacred music, is Gregorian chant and polyphony. The liturgical movement of the twentieth century sought to recover this musical heritage of the Church. From canonized popes (St. Pius X) to ecumenical councils (Vatican II), Holy Mother Church has consistently reaffirmed that this music is most appropriate for the Mass.

Smell

The use of incense within the Mass communicates to our olfactory receptors that we have entered into the sacred as this is not a scent identified with the hum drum of daily life. We find incense referenced all the way back in sacred scripture by St. John in the Apocalypse as he describes his vision of the heavenly worship, where an Angel holds a golden censer near the altar, upon which stands the lamb. The Church incorporates the use of incense during the Mass to symbolize the smoke of purification and sanctification. Incense is also understood to represent the prayers of the faithful rising to heaven.

Touch

Our sense of touch is most fully realized through the frequent posture of kneeling within the ancient rite. Simply put, we kneel more at the old Mass. During a Low Mass the faithful kneel from the prayers at the foot of the altar in the beginning all the way until the reading of the Gospel. During the Creed we also kneel when professing that Christ was incarnated and born of the Virgin Mary. Most notably, the faithful kneel to receive Holy Communion.

Taste

The final of the five senses is taste. The reception of Holy Communion, kneeling and on the tongue, fosters a true sense of awareness in the faithful. We are more clearly able to perceive what it is (or more accurately Who it is) we cannot touch. In the Traditional Mass only the consecrated hands of the priest touches Holy Communion. This was the universal practice of the Church for over a thousand years and, now more than ever, speaks to the sacredness of the moment. The children of Holy Mother Church are spiritually nourished by the Bread of Life.

Concluding Thought

This most sublime moment of Holy Communion concludes our walk through the Mass of all senses. Understanding and appreciating that we are indeed both body and spirit, the Traditional Mass engages each of our five senses, thereby drawing us even deeper into the Eucharistic mystery. In the field of education many readily accept that people learn through a variety of senses: some are more visual, some auditory, others more tactile. Stepping outside of the more contentious liturgical skirmishes of recent decades, let us extend that same understanding of communication to the Sacred Liturgy. It is my hope that more faithful Catholics would seek out and avail themselves to the traditional Mass. May the Mass of the Saints lift our spirits toward heaven through the engagement of our senses.

Editor’s Note: It is indeed possible for the Novus Ordo be offered in a reverent and sensory-immersive way. That said, it very easily can be offered in a way that is both irreverent and banal (and unfortunately frequently is). While abuses can occur at any Mass, we would argue that the ancient Mass offers a more consistently transcendent and solemn experience. 

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Brian Williams is a convert who entered the Catholic Church in 2006. He is a graduate of Long Beach State University with a BA in History. Brian blogs on life, liturgy and the pursuit of holiness at liturgyguy.com. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with his wife and five children.