This article has been imported from our web archive. As a result, it may contain formatting errors, broken links or images, or other inconsistencies from the original publication.
It's ordinary to be extraordinary
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
June 12, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
I once took a tour of an old church with a class of catechumens.
“Who can tell me what the focal point of the church is?” asked the guide, a priest.
“The tabernacle,” I said.
The priest made a face.
“Yes, unfortunately,” he said. “We really must cover it up. The focal point should be the altar. And can anyone tell me why?”
“Who can tell me what the focal point of the church is?” asked the guide, a priest.
“The tabernacle,” I said.
The priest made a face.
“Yes, unfortunately,” he said. “We really must cover it up. The focal point should be the altar. And can anyone tell me why?”
No one could tell him why.
“It is because the altar is the symbol of our Lord Jesus Christ!”
The sanctuary lamp was lit. Presumably in the tabernacle lay the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. Why, I wondered, would we privilege the symbol over the reality?
Of the many homilies I have heard, one of the few I remember was given by a very elderly priest in that same old church. It was a daily Mass, and he was cranky. He gave us a good tongue-lashing about our various faults, including lateness. And, he added, we had a terrible habit of changing lanes at communion time. Too many people were going to the priest to receive instead of to the lay ministers.
“There is no additional grace in receiving from a priest,” he shouted.
“Then he accused the lane-changers of superstition,” I told a friend a few years later. “Frankly, I always feel bad for the rejected lay ministers.”
“Maybe the lane-changers weren’t superstitious,” said the friend. “Maybe they were acting in obedience to Redemptionis Sacramentum.”
“What’s Redemptionis Sacramentum?”
“Oh,” he groaned. “Five years in theology, and she hasn’t heard of Redemptionis Sacramentum! Is this not more evidence that my school was clearly superior to—?”
“Never mind that,” I interrupted. “What is Redemptionis Sacramentum, and what does it say?”
“Redemptionis Sacramentum, you poor benighted soul, is an instruction from the Congregation for Divine Worship detailing various abuses commonly inflicted on the liturgy. And it says that only when there is a necessity may extraordinary ministers assist the priest celebrant.”
“But there’s always extraordinary ministers,” I said.
“Well, there’s not supposed to be,” said my friend. “That’s why they’re called ‘extraordinary’ ministers. Giving Communion is a priestly function, and priests are the ordinary ministers. Now go and read Redemptionis Sacramentum. It’s online.”
My husband, who is a pillar of the Men’s Schola in our Latin Mass community, avoids extraordinary ministers.
“Their hands aren’t consecrated,” he grumbles. But when he can’t make it to the Extraordinary Form of the Mass on Sundays, he goes dutifully to the Ordinary Form. There he finds much to confuse him, for he is a recent convert. His last visit to our village church was challenging.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he wailed. “First of all, at Communion everybody sort of ambled absentmindedly to the front as if they were queuing for fish.”
“They could have been praying,” I pointed out.
“And nobody reverenced the sacrament.”
“Nobody what?”
“Nobody genuflected except me, and since I was down there anyway, I decided to stay down and the priest looked confused.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “Poor priest.”
“So I opened my mouth, and for a second I thought he wouldn’t do anything, but then he communicated me, so that was alright. But then there was an extraordinary minister with the chalice.”
“Oh dear.”
“And I didn’t know what to do because I didn’t want to receive but I remembered that letter in The Catholic Register so I didn’t want to ignore the chalice, the Blood of Christ, completely.”
“Very proper, my dear.”
“So I genuflected in front of the extraordinary minister, and she looked very surprised, but now I think I shouldn’t have genuflected, for after all the Body of Christ was now in me.”
“There must be guidelines for all this,” I said. “Maybe I should have another look at Redemptionis Sacramentum.”
Redemptionis Sacramentum is both surprising and illuminating. It is surprising because it discourages practices that I see all the time: priests improvising on the words of the Mass, communicants dipping the Host in the chalice, laypeople helping the priest break up the consecrated bread. It is illuminating because it not only explains but supports practices that I once thought affected.
It says that “The faithful should receive Communion standing or kneeling… However, if they receive standing, it is recommended that they give reverence before the reception of the sacrament.” It also reads as if receiving Communion on the tongue is, in fact, the preferred devotion.
Why, you may ask, are these instructions important? Redemptionis Sacramentum says that everything that is said or done at Mass is meant “to instill anew in all of Christ’s faithful that sense of deep wonder before the greatness of the mystery of faith that is the Eucharist.”
Actions, I imagine, speak louder than words when it comes to our belief in the True Presence of our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament. Why then do we not all know of these norms?
“It is because the altar is the symbol of our Lord Jesus Christ!”
The sanctuary lamp was lit. Presumably in the tabernacle lay the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. Why, I wondered, would we privilege the symbol over the reality?
Of the many homilies I have heard, one of the few I remember was given by a very elderly priest in that same old church. It was a daily Mass, and he was cranky. He gave us a good tongue-lashing about our various faults, including lateness. And, he added, we had a terrible habit of changing lanes at communion time. Too many people were going to the priest to receive instead of to the lay ministers.
“There is no additional grace in receiving from a priest,” he shouted.
“Then he accused the lane-changers of superstition,” I told a friend a few years later. “Frankly, I always feel bad for the rejected lay ministers.”
“Maybe the lane-changers weren’t superstitious,” said the friend. “Maybe they were acting in obedience to Redemptionis Sacramentum.”
“What’s Redemptionis Sacramentum?”
“Oh,” he groaned. “Five years in theology, and she hasn’t heard of Redemptionis Sacramentum! Is this not more evidence that my school was clearly superior to—?”
“Never mind that,” I interrupted. “What is Redemptionis Sacramentum, and what does it say?”
“Redemptionis Sacramentum, you poor benighted soul, is an instruction from the Congregation for Divine Worship detailing various abuses commonly inflicted on the liturgy. And it says that only when there is a necessity may extraordinary ministers assist the priest celebrant.”
“But there’s always extraordinary ministers,” I said.
“Well, there’s not supposed to be,” said my friend. “That’s why they’re called ‘extraordinary’ ministers. Giving Communion is a priestly function, and priests are the ordinary ministers. Now go and read Redemptionis Sacramentum. It’s online.”
My husband, who is a pillar of the Men’s Schola in our Latin Mass community, avoids extraordinary ministers.
“Their hands aren’t consecrated,” he grumbles. But when he can’t make it to the Extraordinary Form of the Mass on Sundays, he goes dutifully to the Ordinary Form. There he finds much to confuse him, for he is a recent convert. His last visit to our village church was challenging.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he wailed. “First of all, at Communion everybody sort of ambled absentmindedly to the front as if they were queuing for fish.”
“They could have been praying,” I pointed out.
“And nobody reverenced the sacrament.”
“Nobody what?”
“Nobody genuflected except me, and since I was down there anyway, I decided to stay down and the priest looked confused.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “Poor priest.”
“So I opened my mouth, and for a second I thought he wouldn’t do anything, but then he communicated me, so that was alright. But then there was an extraordinary minister with the chalice.”
“Oh dear.”
“And I didn’t know what to do because I didn’t want to receive but I remembered that letter in The Catholic Register so I didn’t want to ignore the chalice, the Blood of Christ, completely.”
“Very proper, my dear.”
“So I genuflected in front of the extraordinary minister, and she looked very surprised, but now I think I shouldn’t have genuflected, for after all the Body of Christ was now in me.”
“There must be guidelines for all this,” I said. “Maybe I should have another look at Redemptionis Sacramentum.”
Redemptionis Sacramentum is both surprising and illuminating. It is surprising because it discourages practices that I see all the time: priests improvising on the words of the Mass, communicants dipping the Host in the chalice, laypeople helping the priest break up the consecrated bread. It is illuminating because it not only explains but supports practices that I once thought affected.
It says that “The faithful should receive Communion standing or kneeling… However, if they receive standing, it is recommended that they give reverence before the reception of the sacrament.” It also reads as if receiving Communion on the tongue is, in fact, the preferred devotion.
Why, you may ask, are these instructions important? Redemptionis Sacramentum says that everything that is said or done at Mass is meant “to instill anew in all of Christ’s faithful that sense of deep wonder before the greatness of the mystery of faith that is the Eucharist.”
Actions, I imagine, speak louder than words when it comes to our belief in the True Presence of our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament. Why then do we not all know of these norms?
Dorothy Cummings McLean