Matins in Bed

One should pray in secret, lest any merit thereof be lost; then again, to share a little of my simple, eccentric joys is the purpose of this blog, as I seek to "psalm wisely", and to speak of matters that may edify, all self-congratulation being excluded, is surely permissible; especially when the matter speaks more of human weakness, and a hesitant step, than of any amazing ascetical feat.

To confess, then: I read Matins and Lauds in bed ere I arose this morning; and the half-hour I spent on this from six o'clock onwards (the sky still dark outside at the start, lightening as I ended) was a most pleasing blessing, a grace more than any self-merited benefit.  In this practice, I followed the good example of an old friend of mine, Bernard, whom I met with in Melbourne last month: he told me long ago that that was his rule, in order to begin the day with prayer in the only time available.  In considering this, let not the perfect be the enemy of the good!  Of course, to arise and pray is better than to lie in bed to do so; but to do so at all is better than not to do so at all.

Nocte surgentes [well, sort of] vigilemus omnes, 

Semper in psalmis meditemur, atque

Viribus totis Domino canamus 

Dulciter hymnos.

Of the various Matins psalms, I particularly like those read on Wednesday, so it was a pleasure to pray Pss 44, 45, 47, 48 and 49.

Then, of course, off I went to Mass at Carmel, to be marked with the blessed ashes and so begin the Christian warfare of Lent, strengthened by the Sacrifice offered and Sacrament received.  So many sins to expiate, so many vices to conquer, so many virtues to gain...

Memento homo

Mass this morning at Carmel was solemn and sombre, as is fitting for the opening of Lent.

While the words were said to me in English at the imposition of ashes, I had re-echoing in my mind the Latin: Memento, homo, quia cinis es, in in cinerem reverteris.

But of course, my memory was playing tricks on me: in the Dominican and other Uses (such as the Carmelite as late as 1733), homo is omitted, while cinis ("ashes") is the word used, but in the Use of Rome, it is instead Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.  (Pulvis means dust.)

I had unconsciously conflated the two versions.  (Oh, and the Carthusians apparently said Recognosce, homo...)

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...

These awful words remind us proud sinners, who even affect that declaration "I'm a sinner" as a shrug-of-the-shoulders way of avoiding coming closer to God (lest we leave our comfort zone), and likewise of shirking our strict responsibility to fight manfully against sin, that we are mortal men doomed to die, and that it is only by God's power that there is any hope.

Indeed, the Lord told Adam this horrifying truth, that his Fall entails the fearful dissolution that is death (Genesis iii, 19), only after His Divine Mercy first revealed the Protoëvangelium (Genesis iii, 15), lest Man despair: first He curst the serpent, signifying Christ's future victory over the Devil by being born of a Woman to redeem the subjects of the Law at the price of dying on the Cross; only then God gave the sentence of death to Man, that it might be seen as a just punishment, but not one without hope or end.

St Augustine for Ash Wednesday

Here is an extract from the first of to-day's Lessons at Matins, from St Augustine's work on the Lord's Sermon on the Mount:

Maniféstum est... omnem nostram intentiónem in interióra gáudia dírigi: ne foris quæréntes mercédem, huic sæculo conformémur, et amittámus promissiónem tanto solidióris atque firmióris, quanto interióris beatitúdinis, qua nos elégit Deus confórmes fíeri imáginis Fílii sui.

...it is evident that our every action should be directed towards the attainment of an interior life, which alone giveth true happiness. For if contrariwise we seek our reward in outward things, we shall be conformed to the fashion of this world [Romans xii, 2], and thus forfeit God's promise of happiness, to wit, that we shall be conformed to the image of his Son [Romans viii, 29]. Such happiness, inasmuch as it concerneth inward things, is all the more certain and enduring.

Ashes or the Cup?

Driving off to work after attending the early Mass at Carmel, I saw a giant pint of beer floating in the sky - no, I hadn't had an attack of the D.T.'s; to-day is Launceston's "premier social event" (as The Examiner put it this morning), the Launceston Cup, and presumably said cunning balloon was an advertisement (how inappropriate given our local newspaper also reporting on various places of refreshment deciding to close early rather than deal with rude inebriates "partying on" after the races).  

Furthermore, this afternoon, having left work, I was breathalysed on the way home by a posse of police (and of course was let pass on my lawful way); later, once I'd bought a coffee and read a few other newspapers (I like to read the Herald-Sun and The Australian, plus occasionally The Mercury - Hobart's daily), upon leaving the café to go back to my car I saw a policewoman dealing with two young ladies, all tizzed up for the Cup, who were sitting on the asphalt looking rather the worse for wear (I trust they'll be alright).  How glad I am my place of work did not close for the half-day holiday!

What a contrast between the worthily revered solemnities of fasting begun this day with appropriate piety, that the great race be run with secure devotion by the faithful who beg God's aid (cf. Collect of Ash Wednesday), and the gaudy, even tawdry glitter of a provincial racemeeting with its associated excessive imbibing, constituting one trusts at best some innocent pastime - what a contrast between the sacred and the secular.  There were about 40-odd laity at Carmel for the 7.30am sung Mass (the carpark was overflowing); who knows what crowds were at the racetrack this afternoon?

"A vain hope for safety is the horse; despite its power, it cannot save."  (Ps 32:17)  "Some trust in chariots or horses, but we in the Name of the Lord."  (Ps 19:8) - How wise is David!  And how wise, Solomon:

Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas.

(Ecclesiastes i, 2 & xii, 8)

Perhaps it would be wise for this phrase to be in our minds as we receive the blessed penitential ashes at the liturgy this solemn day: "Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity".

I recall that Jeremy Taylor, or some such Anglican Divine, recommended the reading of Ecclesiastes (or St Gregory the Wonderworker's metaphrase thereof) for Lent, as a healthful antidote to the drugging effect of the vain pomps of our passing world: we ought wake up to what's really real, and what is but mist and shadow.

The last verses of Ecclesiastes (xii, 13-14):

Let us all hear together the conclusion of the discourse.  Fear God, and keep His commandments: for this is all [i.e., the whole business and duty of] man: and all things that are done, God will bring into judgement for every error, whether it be good or evil.

Day of Ashes

Lent began, for me, with Office of Readings read in our chapel, followed by Lauds sung with the guys - our office hymn was "The glory of these forty days", with its stirring words. Then, off to work...

In the evening, Andrew, Justin and myself formed the choir for Fr Rowe's Missa Cantata, preceded of course by the blessing and imposition of ashes. Missa XVIII and Gregorian Propers - we only sang the "Emendemur in melius" sans Gloria, since there weren't that many to be ashed - with Offertory motet "Attende Domine et miserere", and the Communion sung with psalm-verses. For a recessional we sang James McAuley's "May this Lenten discipline", a favourite of mine.

Several of us got together to 'break' the fast with a (Lenten) meal afterwards.