The lost race of men

Gregory DiPippo, recently named editor of New Liturgical Movement, has a very interesting piece about the Neo-Gallican preface for Advent. The preface itself is quite lovely, as we’ll see in a second, but DiPippo gives us a neat summary of the history of the Neo-Gallican liturgical books. In short, the Church in France, especially the Archdiocese of Paris, kept on doing its own thing despite St. Pius V’s Tridentine reforms. The French had various reasons for their innovations, and, as all liturgical innovators do sooner or later, they made some archaizing arguments. But the amazing thing is that this state of affairs continued for hundreds of years after Quod a nobis and Quo primum. Indeed, the preface DiPippo quotes was written for the Parisian Missal of 1738. That is to say that, almost 170 years after Quo primum was issued, Ventimille, the archbishop of Paris, promulgated a new missal with new prefaces.

The preface itself is lovely (this translation was provided by DiPippo, though there are a couple other translations floating around out there):

Vere dignum … Per Christum, Dominum nostrum. Quem pérdito hóminum géneri Salvatórem miséricors et fidélis promisisti: cuius véritas instrúeret inscios, sánctitas justificáret impios, virtus adiuváret infirmos. Dum ergo prope est ut veniat quem missúrus es, et dies affulget liberatiónis nostrae, in hac promissiónum tuárum fide, piis gaudiis exsultámus. Et ídeo etc.

Truly…through Christ, Our Lord. Whom in Thy mercy and fidelity Thou didst promise as Savior to the lost race of men, that His truth might instruct the ignorant, His holiness justify the wicked, and His power help the weak. Therefore, since that the time is nigh that He Whom Thou art to send should come, and the day of our liberation should dawn, with this faith in Thy promises, we rejoice with holy exultation. And therefore etc.

We particularly like the reference to the perditum hominum genus—the lost race of men—which points up the gravity of the situation immediately before the Nativity. (This is perhaps something we lose sight of in Advent occasionally.) The three parallel clauses pointing to three different attributes of Christ—whose truth might instruct the ignorant, whose sanctity might justify the unholy, whose strength might help the weak (our translation)—tell us how God is going to save the lost race of men. It’s nothing particularly elaborate or complicated, but it a nice, elegant expression of a fundamental truth: without the Incarnation, mankind would be doomed.

“Þu wysdom þat crepedest out”

A Clerk of Oxford has a fine piece about Middle English renderings of the great O Antiphons, which are said beginning tomorrow, December 17, in both forms of the Roman Rite. We won’t spoil the fun by quoting them. (Except, of course, for the little bit we spoiled with the title.)

One of our (several) idées fixes is that the Church lost something valuable—and probably irreplaceable—when it lost the regular, public celebration of the Divine Office. Part of that loss is the fact that the trajectory of the great seasons of Advent and Lent is shortened and hastened tremendously. We hop along, from one Sunday to another, moving toward Christmas and Easter in a few short weeks. To put it another way, a good deal of the expectation and penitential character of Advent is found in the Office. And the O Antiphons are an example of that expectation, “ancient songs of longing and desire,” as the Clerk puts it.

Neoplatonism and the rose/pink question

Pater Edmund Waldstein, O.Cist., takes on the rose/pink distinction that pops up in the Catholic blogosphere, especially the priestly blogosphere, oh, about twice a year. Some bloggers insist that the rose vestments worn on Gaudete Sunday and Laetare Sunday are not pink. But Pater Waldstein ventures through etymology— Antonio Telesio’s short treatise De coloribus, in fact—and historical examples to counter this notion that rose is not now and never has been pink. That’s simply not the case. And he comes to the point: some folks may prefer rose because pink has, well, effeminate connotations that rose doesn’t have. Don’t ask us why, though. If we’re judging things by American notions of masculinity, neither rose nor pink are especially masculine.

We write simply to note a (James) Burkean connection here. Pater Waldstein says this,

Indeed, as soon as one begins to think about the naming of colors, one’s native Platonism begins to give way, and one begins to suspect that there is something to the structuralist argument for the division of reality by naming as being a bit arbitrary. One doesn’t have to swallow de Saussure’s theories whole to see that the imposition of color names involves a certain amount of arbitrary choice. To Homer, after all, the sea was the color of wine.

However, Pater Waldstein strikes an apparent blow for “one’s native Platonism.” As we noted above, he cites the Renaissance poet Antonio Telesio’s De coloribus in support of the argument that rose is simply the mixture of red and white, just like pink. One may note, furthermore, that Telesio’s De coloribus cites, on the cover page no less, Marsilio Ficino’s commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, which, of course, includes a theory of colors. Now, Ficino was a Florentine priest and a driving force behind the resurgence of Neoplatonism during the Renaissance. Ficino prepared, in addition to his enormous Platonic Theology and commentaries on Platonic dialogues, an interesting translation and commentary (in elegant Latin) on Dionysius the Areopagite’s Mystical Theology and Divine Names. (The I Tatti Renaissance Library, an imprint of Harvard University Press, has, one suspects out of a spirit of altruism that ignores one’s bottom line, brought out a bunch of Ficino works, in handsome bilingual editions. They’re available on Amazon.) Thus, while the shock of the rose/pink debate may shake one’s Platonism, Pater Waldstein’s road back passes through some very heavy hitters, so to speak, in Neoplatonic circles.

Just one of those connections.

A point of correction

In “Preces meae non sunt dignae,” we referred to the Dies irae as “a splendid old hymn.” It has been brought to our attention—by a source we respect very much and have quoted here from time to time—that this is not quite correct. The Dies irae is a sequence historically used in the Requiem. (This is, of course, why your copies of the Mozart and Verdi Requiems have settings of the Dies irae, for example.) It was dropped from its venerable position in the Mass in the Bugnini revisions, though, which is why it got transported over to the Liturgia Horarum as an optional hymn for the thirty-fourth week of Tempus Per Annum, according to the same source.

We regret the error, not least on account of who pointed it out.

Crux quem beata diligit

St. Andrew’s feast falls on November 30, which means it is either right before or right after the first Sunday of Advent. Dom Prosper Guéranger reminds us that Andrew is the apostle of the Cross; therefore, Dom Guéranger notes, the Christian year begins and ends in a sense with the Cross. Of course, Andrew was martyred by crucifixion at Patras in Greece

Dom Guéranger also notes that Andrew has inspired devotion throughout the Church. He quotes two sequences, including one by Adam of St. Victor, one of the great medieval poets, and prefaces from the Ambrosian and Gallican rites. He also quotes a hymn he attributes to Pope St. Damasus. It may interest you to know that St. Damasus, who succeeded Pope Liberius in 366 in a hotly contested election that produced an antipope (the matter was not resolved until a synod in 378), employed a clever young priest, Jerome by name, as his secretary. St. Damasus also encouraged Jerome in his project of revising the Vetus Latina bible in light of the Greek texts then available.

However, we note that A.S. Walpole, in his Early Latin Hymns, informs us that the attribution to Pope St. Damasus first appeared in Baronius’s 1603 edition of Martyrologium Romanum. Moreover, Walpole asserts that, at the time of his writing, the attribution had determined, for the most part, to be spurious. The last author to support the attribution, “and he doubtfully,” made an interesting biographical point. Before his accession to the papacy, Damasus’s fortunes were linked to Pope Liberius’s. So, when Constantius II, ever taken in by all manner of Arians, sent Liberius into exile in Beroea, in Thrace, for the “crime” of defending Athanasius and rejecting Arianism, Damasus went too. When Andrew’s relics were translated from Patras, where he was martyred, to Constantinople, around 357, they may well have passed through Beroea. Or so the author asserts. And, as far as it goes, it would make sense—to us, anyway—for a priest with time on his hands to compose a hymn for the occasion. But the timing is all important for the theory, it seems. The Catholic Encyclopedia informs us that Liberius’s exile was not very long, only a couple of years, and that he was recalled to Rome sometime in 357. (It turned out, to Constantius’s dismay, that Archdeacon Felix, his preferred Arian pope, never quite captured the hearts of the Romans.) So, whether Damasus was in Beroea when Andrew’s relics passed through—if they were taken by road—depends on when, exactly, Liberius was recalled to Rome. An amusing detective story, to be sure, but one best left to the historians.

At any rate, the key to this interesting hymn is to know that Andreas includes among its meanings beauty.

Decus sacrati nominis,
Vitamque nomen exprimens,
Hoc te Decorum praedicat
Crucis beatae gloria.

Andrea, Christi Apostole,
Hoc ipso iam vocabulo
Signaris isto nomine,
Decorem idem mystice.

Quem Crux ad alta provehit,
Crux quem beata diligit,
Cui Crux amara praeparat
Lucis futurae gaudia.

In te Crucis mysterium
Cluit gemello stigmate,
Dum probra vincis per Crucem,
Crucisque pandis sanguinem.

Iam nos foveto languidos,
Curamque nostri suscipe,
Quo per Crucis victoriam
Coeli petamus patriam.

Amen. 

It is a shame that this fine hymn, which is apparently ancient, and which points up the identity of Andrew’s cross with the Cross, was left out of the Breviary of 1960 and the Liturgia Horarum, which so often restored ancient hymns.

Preces meae non sunt dignae

While, on the whole, we prefer the Breviary of 1960, we think that some aspects of the Liturgia Horarum are clear improvements upon the preceding schemes for the Divine Office. One such aspect is the use (optional, unfortunately, like almost everything else) of the Dies Irae during the thirty-fourth week of Tempus Per Annum—the last week of the Church’s year, which is followed (of course) by the first Sunday of Advent. The wonderful old hymn, attributed to the Franciscan Thomas of Celano, is divided into three parts and sung at the office of readings, lauds, and vespers. This, of course, serves very neatly to emphasize the eschatological aspects both of the end of the Church’s year and of Advent.

Imagine stepping out of the holiday bustle into a church for lauds of Saturday in the thirty-fourth week of Tempus Per Annum, where you hear, after the usual beginning of the hour, the Dies Irae chanted in an austere plainchant. Puts rather a different spin on things, no? Bit of a shock to the system, even. But it is certainly something you’d remember when the deacon chants the Gospel for the first Sunday of Advent in Year C. (Especially if, after a day of shopping, you went back to the same church for the vigil Mass that same Saturday.) One might even get a whole new appreciation for Advent, wholly separate from Advent calendars, wrapping paper, and hot chocolate.

A few observations on Christ the King

Gabriel Sanchez has, at Opus Publicum, a very good piece, explaining the differences between the Feast of Christ the King as Pius XI originally intended it and as it exists today. In short, the collect was rewritten substantially, the hymns were hacked apart, and the selections from Quas primas at Matins were replaced with a reading from Origen of Alexandria on the Adveniat regnum tuum from the Pater Noster. The rewrite goes beyond that, in fact: the readings for the first nocturn of matins in the 1960 Breviary are taken from the first chapter of Paul’s Letter to the Colossians, verses 3–23. This has been replaced in the Liturgia Horarum with a composite selection from Revelation. And, of course, the feast was moved from the last Sunday of October to the last Sunday in Tempus Per Annum (i.e., the end of the Church’s year). The upshot of all these changes is to emphasize strongly the eschatological aspect of Christ’s kingship. In other words, the Feast of Christ the King serves to remind us today that at the end of time, Christ will reign as king. Just what Pius XI intended when he gave us Quas primas, no?

No. In Quas primas, Pius answered the suggestion that Christ’s kingdom was purely spiritual (and eschatological):

It would be a grave error, on the other hand, to say that Christ has no authority whatever in civil affairs, since, by virtue of the absolute empire over all creatures committed to him by the Father, all things are in his power. Nevertheless, during his life on earth he refrained from the exercise of such authority, and although he himself disdained to possess or to care for earthly goods, he did not, nor does he today, interfere with those who possess them. Non eripit mortalia qui regna dat caelestia.

(Emphasis added.) In other words, Christ’s kingship extends to the civil realm, even to this moment in this place. And the sooner we recognize that, the happier we will be:

When once men recognize, both in private and in public life, that Christ is King, society will at last receive the great blessings of real liberty, well-ordered discipline, peace and harmony. Our Lord’s regal office invests the human authority of princes and rulers with a religious significance; it ennobles the citizen’s duty of obedience. It is for this reason that St. Paul, while bidding wives revere Christ in their husbands, and slaves respect Christ in their masters, warns them to give obedience to them not as men, but as the vicegerents of Christ; for it is not meet that men redeemed by Christ should serve their fellow-men. “You are bought with a price; be not made the bond-slaves of men.” If princes and magistrates duly elected are filled with the persuasion that they rule, not by their own right, but by the mandate and in the place of the Divine King, they will exercise their authority piously and wisely, and they will make laws and administer them, having in view the common good and also the human dignity of their subjects. The result will be a stable peace and tranquillity, for there will be no longer any cause of discontent. Men will see in their king or in their rulers men like themselves, perhaps unworthy or open to criticism, but they will not on that account refuse obedience if they see reflected in them the authority of Christ God and Man. Peace and harmony, too, will result; for with the spread and the universal extent of the kingdom of Christ men will become more and more conscious of the link that binds them together, and thus many conflicts will be either prevented entirely or at least their bitterness will be diminished.

(Emphasis supplied and footnote omitted.) This is, of course, hugely interesting and hugely significant. Pius argues that if we accept Christ as our king here and now, the entire political order changes fundamentally. Rulers rule in Christ’s name, and subjects obey not flawed, partisan men, but Christ the King himself. This is what they might call in another context a “game-changer.” Given the exhausted, exhausting political scene in the United States (and many other countries, frankly) today, can anyone say that the blessings that flow from the proper ordering of the state would be unwelcome? Can anyone say that they prefer partisan hacks pursuing narrow, political objectives, while disgruntled subjects protest almost constantly? Of course not.

But it goes beyond that. Pius XI makes it clear that proclaiming Christ the King will be good medicine against what he calls anti-clericalism—a definite problem in the 1920s and 1930s—and what today could be called the soft, liberal indifferentism so popular in the educated West these days:

 If We ordain that the whole Catholic world shall revere Christ as King, We shall minister to the need of the present day, and at the same time provide an excellent remedy for the plague which now infects society. We refer to the plague of anti-clericalism, its errors and impious activities. This evil spirit, as you are well aware, Venerable Brethren, has not come into being in one day; it has long lurked beneath the surface. The empire of Christ over all nations was rejected. The right which the Church has from Christ himself, to teach mankind, to make laws, to govern peoples in all that pertains to their eternal salvation, that right was denied. Then gradually the religion of Christ came to be likened to false religions and to be placed ignominiously on the same level with them. It was then put under the power of the state and tolerated more or less at the whim of princes and rulers. Some men went even further, and wished to set up in the place of God’s religion a natural religion consisting in some instinctive affection of the heart. There were even some nations who thought they could dispense with God, and that their religion should consist in impiety and the neglect of God. The rebellion of individuals and states against the authority of Christ has produced deplorable consequences. We lamented these in the Encyclical Ubi arcano; we lament them today: the seeds of discord sown far and wide; those bitter enmities and rivalries between nations, which still hinder so much the cause of peace; that insatiable greed which is so often hidden under a pretense of public spirit and patriotism, and gives rise to so many private quarrels; a blind and immoderate selfishness, making men seek nothing but their own comfort and advantage, and measure everything by these; no peace in the home, because men have forgotten or neglect their duty; the unity and stability of the family undermined; society in a word, shaken to its foundations and on the way to ruin. We firmly hope, however, that the feast of the Kingship of Christ, which in future will be yearly observed, may hasten the return of society to our loving Savior. It would be the duty of Catholics to do all they can to bring about this happy result. Many of these, however, have neither the station in society nor the authority which should belong to those who bear the torch of truth. This state of things may perhaps be attributed to a certain slowness and timidity in good people, who are reluctant to engage in conflict or oppose but a weak resistance; thus the enemies of the Church become bolder in their attacks. But if the faithful were generally to understand that it behooves them ever to fight courageously under the banner of Christ their King, then, fired with apostolic zeal, they would strive to win over to their Lord those hearts that are bitter and estranged from him, and would valiantly defend his rights.

(Emphasis supplied.) Good medicine, indeed.

The Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Gregory DiPippo has another very fascinating piece at New Liturgical Movement about the feast of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The story of the feast itself derives from non-canonical gospels, and it is, for that reason, pretty interesting. (Especially if you are not very familiar with the non-canonical material out there. We are not.) However, we are particularly interested to note the tumultuous history of the feast. It appeared early in the eleventh century in England; then, in the late fifteenth century, Pope Sixtus IV added it to the Roman books (along with the Immaculate Conception); but, in the late sixteenth century, St. Pius V suppressed it as part of the Tridentine reforms; then, Pope Sixtus V reinstated the feast in 1585. (St. Pius suppressed several Marian feasts as part of the reforms of 1568/70; all of them were reinstated by 1622.)

O beatum Pontificem qui totis visceribus diligebat Christum Regem

If you sing or recite the Divine Office according to the Roman Breviary of 1960, as we do, then you may have noticed something strange today. November 11 is the feast of St. Martin of Tours, Bishop and Confessor, a third-class feast. But St. Martin’s office is nothing like the usual third-class feast. Martin’s office is different—and has been since the earliest days of the Roman Rite as it has existed since Trent.

The third-class feast in the 1960 Breviary is, in some way, a compromise between celebrating the saints’ feasts and preserving the order of the psalter. That is, the third-class feast, as you probably already know, uses the antiphons and psalms from the occurring feria. The rest of the third-class office is supplied by the common of the saints, more or less. This represents not only the longstanding objective of preserving the order of the psalter as closely as possible but also the horror of repetition, which will find fuller expression ten years later. It also is but one of the reasons why some folks, devoted to older forms of the Roman Breviary view the 1960 Breviary as transitional and, to be blunt, part and parcel of the reforms that led to Paul VI’s Mass and the Liturgia Horarum. But St. Martin’s office is different.

To begin with, it has proper antiphons for the psalms of matins, lauds, and vespers. It also has elaborate proper antiphons for the Benedictus and the Magnificat. But it doesn’t stop there. Not to get too technical, but: the psalms for matins are taken from the common of one martyr, though the hymn is Isti confessor Domini, not Deus tuorum militum; there are proper responsories; the psalms for lauds are the psalms from lauds of Sunday in the first place, not the occurring feria; the psalms and antiphons for the little hours are taken from the occurring feria, but the little chapters, short responsories, and verses are taken from the common of a confessor bishop, not the common of one martyr; and the psalms for vespers are the psalms of second vespers of Sunday (with a substitution for the fifth psalm), but compline is of the feria. While one can trace the individual components of St. Martin’s office to their original sources, their combination means, essentially, that St. Martin’s feast has a proper office. (Which resembles a second-class feast much more closely than a third-class feast.) This is no ordinary third-class feast.

So we did a little digging, and found that Gregory DiPippo anticipated our curiosity today with a fascinating article at New Liturgical Movement on St. Martin’s office. In short, St. Martin’s feast has always, for our purposes, had special treatment in the Roman Rite. Discussing William Durandus‘s commentary, DiPippo observes,

only Martin’s was considered important enough to be kept with an octave, as was the general custom in the Middle Ages, and in many places well beyond that. It was also the only feast of a Confessor kept with a proper Office in the medieval use of the Papal chapel at Rome, which formed the basis of the Tridentine liturgical books; not even the four great Doctors or Saint Benedict have their own Offices in the Roman Use.

(Emphasis supplied.) DiPippo tells us the astonishing fact that Isti confessor Domini—the great hymn for confessors—was originally composed for St. Martin. Dom Prosper Gueranger fleshes this bit of information out and tells us that St. Odo of Cluny, a canon of Tours before going to Cluny, composed Isti confessor Domini for Martin, to whom he had no small devotion—no doubt as he was imploring Martin’s help in converting the monks and canons of Tours from their laxity. (As you might expect, Urban VIII improved Odo’s composition in Papa Barberini’s inimitable, impeccable Latin. Immeasurably, no doubt.) DiPippo and Gueranger tell us also that there were other compositions dedicated to Martin, particularly Adam of St. Victor’s sequence Gaude Sion, which DiPippo discusses at some length. At any rate, the office of St. Martin was (essentially) a proper office well before 1568/1570, when the Tridentine books were established. As we said, St. Martin’s feast has always received special treatment in the Roman Rite as we know it today.

And it still does. In the Liturgia Horarum, St. Martin’s feast is an obligatory commemoration, with proper antiphons and psalms at morning prayer and evening prayer, proper antiphons for the Benedictus and the Magnificat, and Isti confessor Domini as the proper hymn for the office of readings and evening prayer, instead of the hymns set forth in the common of pastors with the verses for bishops (another point in favor of the contention that Isti confessor Domini was Martin’s hymn before it was most confessors’). We find this point really extraordinary, given the fact that the Liturgia Horarum generally minimizes the saints’ offices in favor of the occurring offices. (As we noted above the revisions to the office beginning with Pius X have favored preserving the integrity of the psalter over the saints’ offices; the Liturgia Horarum just carries that idea forward a little bit.) But not Martin’s office. Acknowledging the major differences between the 1960 Breviary and the Liturgia Horarum, Martin’s office still looks like Martin’s office.

And it is easy to understand why with a little digging. The excellent Veneremur Cernui (A Blog for Dallas Area Catholics) this time last year had a post recounting Gueranger’s entry for St. Martin’s feast. From Gueranger:

Has that history of the brightest days of the Church, of the reign of Christ as King, come to an end, O Martin? Let the enemy imagine he has already sealed our tomb: but the story of thy miracles tells us that thou canst raise up even the dead. Was not the catechumen of Ligugé snatched from the land of the living, when thou didst call him back to life and baptism? Supposing that, like him, we were already among those whom the Lord remembereth no more, the man or the country that has Martin for protector and father need never yield to despair. If thou deign to bear us in mind, the angels will come and say again to the supreme Judge: “This is the man, this is the nation, for whom Martin prays,” and they will be commanded to draw us out of the dark regions where dwell the people without glory, and to restore us to Martin, and to our noble destinies.

Thy zeal, however, for the advancement of God’s kingdom knew no limits. Inspire, then, strengthen, and multiply the apostles all over the world, who, like thee, are driving out the forces of infidelity. Restore Christian Europe, which still honors thy name, to the unity so unhappily dissolved by schism and heresy. In spite of the many efforts to the contrary, maintain thy noble fatherland in its post of honor, and in its traditions of brave fidelity, even though it now be so sadly fallen. May thy devout clients in all lands experience that thy right arm still suffices to protect those who implore thee.

(Emphasis and a few alterations supplied.) Gueranger’s full prayer to St. Martin may be found through Google Books, too.  With that in mind, it seems entirely appropriate that St. Martin is entitled to his privileged place in the Roman Rite. And with that in mind, it seems entirely appropriate at this moment to beseech Martin’s intercession for both Church and state.

O beatum Pontificem qui totis visceribus diligebat Christum Regem, et non formidabat imperii principatum: o sanctissima anima, quam etsi gladius persecutoris non abstulit, palmam tamen martyrii non amisit!

On the Feast of Dedication of the Archbasilica of the Most Holy Savior

There is something special, we think, about celebrating—as both the Forma Ordinaria and the  Forma Extraordinaria do today—the Dedication of the Archbasilica of the Most Holy Savior, known, more commonly, as “St. John Lateran.” (We’ll call it the “Archbasilica” here, though we acknowledge that “St. John Lateran” is what everyone calls it.)

As most folks know, the Archbasilica is the cathedral church of the bishop of Rome and, therefore, the “mother church and head of all the churches of Rome and the world.” And the Lateran basilica traces its foundation back to Constantine’s gratitude to Pope Silvester for his baptism and miraculous cure. The feast of its dedication therefore points to the unity of the Church throughout the world and to the history of the Church, as the persecutions ended (for the most part) and the Church began its progress in the light of day.

It seems to us that the feast of the Dedication of the Archbasilica is exactly the sort of salubrious ultramontanism that we ought to celebrate more. Not the sort of super-dogmatic ultramontanism that devolves quickly into what Elliot Milco has called Mottramism—after the hapless convert Rex Mottram in Brideshead Revisited. You know the sort. “Everything the Pope says must be absolutely true and correct no matter what.” “This Pope is the best exponent of such-and-such doctrine.” So on and so forth. Such Mottramism does a real disservice to the Church, which is forced to depend on one man’s off-the-cuff statement, to the pope, who may not have signed up for the job if he knew his every thought was going to be treated as dogma, and to the faithful, who ought not to be deprived of the teachings of so many good and holy popes over the centuries. This is not a good ultramontanism. But the feast we celebrate today is good ultramontanism.

The feast of the Dedication of the Archbasilica reminds us first that we are members of one Church. We can look at the Archbasilica and see the church of the bishop of Rome, who is, ultimately, our bishop, too. This is a key point from Milco’s exposition of Pastor aeternus: the pope is everyone’s bishop—that’s what universal, immediate, and ordinary jurisdiction means—he is not merely the bishops’ bishop or some higher, appellate instance of the Church. He’s our bishop and your bishop and our bishops’ bishop, too. Thus, when we look at our bishop’s church, we see a building that represents in some way the unity of the Church.

The Archbasilica reminds us also that there is an unbroken—if a little bruised, frankly—cultural trajectory from ancient Rome through the Church to the present day. We can look at the Archbasilica and see an unbroken path leading all the way back to Constantine’s baptism by Silvester all those years ago. The Archbasilica represents, to put it another way, continuity between ancient Rome, those parts of it worth saving, at any rate, and the Church of today.

This is a sort of ultramontanism that we need more of. Not the pope as some sort of magical figure, but the pope, and his cathedral church, as a sign of unity and continuity.

Postscript:

We were in the process of writing this post when we were called away from our desk on some business. When we got back to our desk, we found that Pater Edmund Waldstein, O.Cist., had reposted his 2011 piece, “The Dedication of the Lateran as the Feast of the Church Militant,” from his blog, Sancrucensis. A brief selection:

The Apostles shed their blood in Rome, but their blood became the seed of the conversion of the whole city and all that was great in it. And the symbol of all this is the dedication of the Lateran Basilica to ‘Christ the Savior’.

While we hope for the final peace of the heavenly Jerusalem we are at war. The Church on earth is Roman, She is militant. The daily combat combat waged in our souls against the false gods of this world is more than a merely individual struggle; it is one battlefield of a great war that is to spread the new pax romana throughout the world. It is sweet and noble to fight and suffer for such a City!

(Emphasis supplied.) Read the whole thing there.