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Chapter 4: The Chapter 4:
Symbolism of the Liturgy
In the liturgy
the faithful are confronted by a new world, rich in types and symbols,
which are expressed in terms of ritual, actions, vestments, implements,
places, and hours, all of which are highly significant. Out of this the
question arises--what is the precise significance of all this as regards
the soul's intercourse with God? God is above space; what has He to do
with directions as to specific localities? God is above time; what does
time, beginning with the liturgical hours and ending with the
ecclesiastical year, matter to Him? God is Simplicity; then how is He
concerned with specific ritual, actions and instruments? Let us desist
from the attempt to enter more fully into the question, and content
ourselves with asking: God is a Spirit--can matter therefore have any
significance in the soul's intercourse with Him? Is not the intervention
of material things bound to pervert and to degrade this intercourse? And
even if we admit that man consists of soul and body, that he is not pure
spirit, and therefore as a logical conclusion that a material element
will always play a certain part in his spiritual life--must we not
regard this as a defect against which we must strive? Should it not be
the task of all true religion to come to be the "worship of God in
spirit and in truth," and at least to aim at, if not to succeed in,
eliminating the bodily and material element as far as possible?
This question penetrates deeply into the essence and nature of the
liturgy.
What meaning has matter--regarded as the medium of spiritual receptivity
and utterance, of spiritual impression and expression--for us?
The question depends upon the manner in which the Ego, within its
bodily-spiritual personality, experiences the relationship between body
and soul.1 There exists a peculiar form of this self-experience, in
which the boundary between the "spiritual" and the "bodily" or
"physical" is sharply defined. In such cases the spiritual plane appears
as entirely self-contained, lying within--or perhaps it would be better
to say beyond--the physical plane, and having little or nothing to do
with the latter. The two planes--
spiritual and physical--are felt to be two distinct orders, lying
closely adjacent, between which communication certainly takes place; but
communication of such a nature that it rather appears as a transposition
from the one into the other, than as the direct co-operation of both.
Such is the frame of mind which has probably drawn its conception of the
external world from Leibniz's theory of monads, and its conception of
the soul from the teaching of psycho-physical parallelism.
It is obvious that people who favor such a system of thought will only
attach a more or less fortuitous significance to the relationship
between the physical and the spiritual. The latter, they consider, is
intimately bound up with the former, and is also in need of it, but as
far as the life of the soul proper is concerned, the physical has no
importance; it merely appears to encumber and to degrade spiritual
activity. The soul strives to attain its goal--
that is to say, truth, the moral impulse, God, and the Divine--by purely
spiritual means. Even when such people know that this endeavor cannot
possibly succeed, they still exert themselves to approach to the purely
spiritual at least as nearly as they can. To them the physical is an
alloy, an innate imperfection, of which they endeavor to rid themselves.
They may perhaps credit it with a limited external significance, and
look upon it as an aid to the elucidation of the spiritual, as an
illustration, or as an allegory; but they are all the time conscious
that they are making what is actually an inadmissible concession.
Moreover, the physical does not appeal to them as a medium of vividly
expressing their inner life. They scarcely even feel the need of
expressing that life in a tangible manner; for them the spiritual is
self-sufficing, or else it can express itself in a straightforward moral
action and in a simply uttered word.
People of such a turn of mind will inevitably have great difficulties to
face in the liturgy.2 Somewhat naturally, they gravitate towards a
strictly spiritual form of devotion, which aims at suppressing the
physical or material element and at shaping its external manifestations
in as plain and homely a manner as possible; it prizes the simple word
as the most spiritual medium of communication.
Facing these, and in contrast with them, are people of a different
mental constitution. For them, the spiritual and the physical are
inextricably jumbled together3; they incline to amalgamate the two.
While the former type of disposition labors to separate the physical and
the spiritual spheres, the latter endeavors to unite them. People like
this are prone to look upon the soul merely as the lining of the body,
and upon the body as the outside, in some sort the condensation or
materialization, of the spirit within. They interpret spiritual elements
in terms of physical conditions or movements, and directly perceive
every material action as a spiritual experience. They extend their
conviction of the essential oneness of the soul and the body beyond the
province of the individual personality, and include external things
within its sphere of operation. As they frequently tend to regard
externals as the manifestation of spiritual elements, they are also
capable of utilizing them as a means of expressing their own innerness.
They see this expressed in various substances, in clothing, in social
formations, and in Nature, while their inner struggles are reflected
even in conditions, desires, and conflicts which are universal.4
Of the two types of spiritual character, the second at the first glance
would seem to correspond the more closely to the nature of the liturgy.
It is far more susceptible to the power of expression proper to
liturgical action and materials, and can the more readily apply these
external phenomena to the expression of its own inner life. Yet in the
liturgy it has to face problems and difficulties all its own.
People who perceive the physical or material and the spiritual as
inextricably mingled find it hard to confine the manifestations of the
individual soul to set forms of expression, and to adhere strictly to
the clearly defined significance of the formulas, actions and
instruments employed in such expression. They conceive the inner life as
being in a perpetual state of flux. They cannot create definite and
clearly outlined forms of expression because they are incapable of
separating spiritual from physical or material objects. They find it
equally difficult to distinguish clearly the specific substance behind
the given forms of expression; they will always give it a fresh
interpretation according to varying circumstances.5
In other words, in spite of the close relationship which in this case
exists between the physical and the spiritual such people lack the power
of welding certain spiritual contents to certain external forms, which
together will constitute either the expression of their inner selves or
a receptacle for an extraneous content. That is to say, they lack one of
the ingredients essential to the creation of symbols. The other type of
people do not succeed any better, because they fail to realize how vital
the relationship is between the spiritual and the physical. They are
perfectly capable of differentiating and of delimiting the boundaries
between the two, but they do this to such an extent that they lose all
sense of cohesion. The second type possess a sense of cohesion, and with
them the inner content issues directly into the external form. But they
lack discrimination and objectiveness. Both--the sense of cohesion and
the power of discrimination--are essential to the creation of a symbol.
A symbol may be said to originate when that which is interior and
spiritual finds expression in that which is exterior and material. But
it does not originate when6 a spiritual element is by general consent
coupled with a material substance, as, for instance, the image of the
scales with the idea of Justice. Rather must the spiritual element
transpose itself into material terms because it is vital and essential
that it should do so. Thus the body is the natural emblem of the soul,
and a spontaneous physical movement will typify a spiritual event. The
symbol proper is circumscribed; and it may be further distinguished by
the total inability of the form selected as a medium of expression to
represent anything else whatever. It must be expressed in dear and
precise terms and therefore, when it has fulfilled the usual conditions,
must be universally comprehensible. A genuine symbol is occasioned by
the spontaneous expression of an actual and particular spiritual
condition. But at the same time, like works of art, it must rise above
the purely individual plane. It must not merely express isolated
spiritual elements, but deal with life and the soul in the abstract.
Consequently when a symbol has been created, it often enjoys widespread
currency and becomes universally comprehensible and significant. The
auspicious collaboration of both the types of temperament outlined above
is essential to the creation of a symbol, in which the spiritual and the
physical elements must be united in perfect harmony. At the same time it
is the task of the spiritual element to watch over and determine every
stroke of the modeling, to sort and sift with a sure hand, to measure
off and weigh together delicately and discreetly, in order that the
given matter may be given its corresponding and appropriate form. The
more clearly and completely a spiritual content is cast in its material
mold, the more valuable is the symbol thus produced, and the more worthy
it is of its name, because it then loses its connection with the
solitary incident which occasioned it and becomes a universal
possession. The greater the depth of life from which it has sprung, and
the greater the degree of clarity and of conviction which has
contributed to its formation, the more true this is in proportion.
The power of symbol-building was at work, for instance, when the
fundamental rules governing social intercourse were laid down. From it
are derived those forms by which one person signifies to another
interest or reverence, in which are externally expressed the inward
happenings of civil and political life, and the like. Further--and in
this connection it is specially significant--it is the origin of those
gestures which convey a spiritual meaning; the man who is moved by
emotion will kneel bow, clasp his hands or impose them, stretch forth
his arms, strike his breast, make an offering of something, and so on.
These elementary gestures are capable of richer development and
expansion, or else of amalgamation. They are the source of the manifold
ritual actions, such as the kiss of peace or the blessing. Or it may be
that certain ideas are expressed in corresponding movements, thus belief
in the mystery of absolution is shown by the Sign of the Cross. Finally,
a whole series of such movements may be co-ordinated. This gives rise to
religious action by which a richly developed spiritual element--e.g., a
sacrifice--succeeds in attaining external and symbolic expression. It is
when that form of self-experience which has been described above is
extended to objects which lie without the personal province, that the
material concrete factor enters into the symbol. Material objects are
used to reinforce the expressiveness of the body and its movements, and
at the same time form an extension of the permanent bodily powers. Thus,
for instance, in a sacrifice the victim is offered, not only by the
hands, but in a vessel or dish. The smooth surface of the dish
emphasizes the expressive motion of the hand; it forms a wide and open
plane, displayed before the Godhead, and throwing into powerful relief
the upward straining line of the arm. Or again, as it rises, the smoke
of the incense enhances the aspiration expressed by the upturned hands
and gaze of those who are at prayer. The candle, with its slender,
soaring, tapering column tipped with flame? and consuming itself as it
burns, typifies the idea of sacrifice, which is voluntarily offered in
lofty spiritual serenity.
Both the before-mentioned types of temperament co-operate in the
creation of symbols. The one, with its apprehension of the affinity
between the spiritual and the physical, provides the material for the
primary hypothesis essential to the creation of the symbol. The other,
by its power of distinction and its objectiveness, brings to the symbol
lucidity and form. They both, however, find in the liturgy the problems
peculiar to their temperament. But because they have shared together in
the creation of the liturgical symbol, both are capable of overcoming
these difficulties as soon, that is, as they are at least in some way
convinced of the binding value of the liturgy.
The former type, then, must abandon their exaggerated spirituality,
admit the existence of the relationship between the spiritual and the
physical, and freely avail themselves of the wealth of liturgical
symbolism. They must give up their reserve and the Puritanism which
prompts them to oppose the expression of the spiritual in material
terms, and must instead take the latter as a medium of lively
expression. This will add a new warmth and depth to their emotional and
spiritual experience.
The latter type must endeavor to stem their extravagance of sensation,
and to bind the vague and ephemeral elements into clear-cut forms. It is
of the highest importance that they should realize that the liturgy is
entirely free from any subjection to matter,7 and that all the natural
elements in the liturgy (cf. what has been previously said concerning
its style) are entirely re-cast as ritual forms. So for people of this
type the symbolizing power of the liturgy becomes a school of measure
and of spiritual restraint.
The people who really live by the liturgy will come to learn that the
bodily movements, the actions, and the material objects which it employs
are all of the highest significance. It offers great opportunities of
expression, of knowledge, and of spiritual experience; it is
emancipating in its action, and capable of presenting a truth far more
strongly and convincingly than can the mere word of mouth.
ENDNOTES
1. The more precise discussion of the question belongs to the domain, is
yet but little explored, of typological psychology.
2. This disposition does not, of course, actually exist in the extreme
form portrayed here any more than does that which is described later. We
are concerned, however, with giving an account of such conditions in the
abstract and not in detail.
3. It need hardly be said that no intention exists of discussing in this
connection the real relationship of soul and body. We are concerned with
describing the manner in which this relationship is felt and interiorly
experienced. It is not a question of metaphysics, but merely of
descriptive psychology.
4. Cf., for instance, the feeling of the Romantics for Nature.
5. Hence the tendency of people like this to forsake the Church, with
her clear and unequivocal formulas, and to turn to Nature, there to seek
an outlet for their vague and fluctuating emotions and to win from her
the stimulus that suits them.
6. As in allegory.
7. Such as is found in Nature-religions, for instance, which are
directly derived from Nature herself, from the forest, the sea, etc. The
liturgy, on the contrary, is entirely designed by human hands. It would
be extremely interesting to investigate in a detailed manner the
transformation of natural things, shapes and sounds into ritual objects
through the agency of the liturgy.
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