September 9th, 2026 (Continued): “...Still today, the solemn prayers of consecration are said in the lowest of tones, a mere whisper, as the drama of their jail falls. The innocence intrinsic to the Mass, with an iconostasis of the visiting writer, was common to all energies in some form many centuries ago. It summoned the atmosphere of mystery. In our age, which demands to see in order to be, like the Vatican calls it, God is offering us a chance to rediscover mystery, the mystery of the Mass as I see it. I see it. We must rely on an invisible medicine for our ultimate salvation. At the time of the so-called Reformation, Protestants, who conducted it, stood by and gave it over to Christ. As the stories have shown, partly in response to the Protestant Church, and partly in response to changing the aesthetic ideas of the pilgrim, the Church, before the Reformation, created churches and sanctuaries so that the laity could have an unheeded view of the world. Nevertheless, a more subtle and, I would argue, equally effective set of separators remained in place. I'd like to highlight a small iconostasis, a separator that you hear. This iconostasis is made up of three elements, the Latin language, Gregorian chant, and silence. Pontius Pilate's testament to many Church followers that these three languages are meant to play a special role in salvation history. St. Thomas Aquinas noted that it is fitting for the Roman writer of the past, which contains the representation of the Passion of Christ, to combine all three languages, Hebrew, in words such as: ‘Alleluia’, ‘Sabaoth’, ‘Hosanna’, ‘Amen’, Greek: ‘Kyrie’, ‘Eleison’, and Latin, and the rest. Even in ancient times, many people spoke Latin, and as the centuries rolled on, it acquired the status of a secret language, that is, one second part of the Roman language, where we leave behind the everyday to come in place and enter into the sphere of history. By the use of a narrow archaic and changing tongue, we are driven out of ourselves, out of our own place, time, culture, and society, to the foot of the cross, where human salvation is accomplished in its essence. Unlike our ever-changing grammatical history, Latin is universal. It does not belong to us. It belongs to all, and to none. It is the same everywhere, and yet still important, like God Himself, who is present everywhere and transcendent of all creation. To the extent that He is vast, He leads our grasp. We are reminded that He is omnipotent, for that would be to reduce Him to our level. As St. Augustine said: ‘If you can wrap your mind around Him, it's not God.’ Gregorian chant is the musical clothing in which the Latin liturgical text is addressed, or better yet, the musical body and soul of the liturgical form for itself during its slow dissipation for several centuries. With its unsurpassed variety of global melodies and its unbeaten free rhythm, this chant instantly recognizes the whole scene of music, signals the very presence of God, and are there to offer the incense of our lips and our hearts. There is no other type of music that even comes clos to the Gregorian chant for the out-of-the-world uniqueness of the Latin text. Silence. How much we can say about it without finding out-of-the-words as we would expect. ‘My soul waits in silence for God alone. From Him comes my salvation.’ says the psalmist. The profanity of the long silences of the traditional Latin mass are like oases where we can find refreshment for our spiritual souls. They open up a time and space of encountering God, as began in 1 Corinthians 3. More interior than what is innermost of the being, higher than what is highest of the being. The silence encourages an attentive watch, listening, talking. It allows for the complex of ceremonies when we use the sacrifice to make an impression on us. It frames the words of the chants so that they resonate with all our souls. Part of the reason the silences of the old mass are so poignant is that they result naturally in the unfolding of the liturgical action instead of being interrupted by uplifting and suspensions of action. The silence of the final work lets us acknowledge the importance of the silence is a sort of spiritual frustration of the senses of the human faculties in the most climactic moments of worldly sacrifice. Without identifying the actions, the chants, and the beautiful things we can and should do through religion, we must acknowledge that there are points when we are simply struck with doubt. By observing these moments of thoughtlessness, we enhance our realization of the unspeakable miracle that can take place in the sanctuary, which is the very heart of the silent life process. So, let's look at the eastward orientation. Worship ad orientim. It's not about the doctrine, the rights of the doctrinal foundations, or the traditions. It is not a statement or a text. Now, it's more basic. In God, worship, a disposition or a stance with God, a wordless act can be taken with our entire being, serving as an experiential foundation for much of what would be true about Christ. Christians have been worshiping God ad orientem for centuries before anyone even thought to write down a Bible textbook. In the year 875, so quite early on, St. Basil of Caesarea, one of the greatest fathers of the Church, speaks of the apostolic custom of returning to the East after years of prayer. This practice called for inspiration and confirmation in scripture passages that called Christ the Orient, or saying he ascended to the East so that he will return from the East. Jesus says of himself in Matthew 24, Prophesying the ascension of Christ, Psalm 67 tells us, Zechariah announced to the Messiah in this way, Zechariah is his name, while Malachi calls Christ the Son of Justice, as human. As the sun rises in the East, so the Son of God is the true light that vanishes in the darkness of error, sin, and death. As St. John's Gospel teaches us, the location of true worship is in the crucified risen Christ. He is the true machine. As man is the way to the Father's house, he is God, the destination. So we place East, not because we are referencing any other sacred place on earth, such as Jerusalem or Hebron, in that case we have to turn in all sorts of directions, but because we are turning to the one who is the temple in his body, Christ the Holy One, and turning with him to the Father. The East functions as the cosmic and scriptural symbol, Christ himself, of his ancient birth, his return to glory, and his heavenly kingdom, for which we yearn. The return to glory, the deification of the cosmos, of nature, is such a fascinating location we find. Facing the East together is perhaps the most striking and immediate way of symbolizing that we need to recognize the higher power, the higher ourselves, even though we stand by our bodies to the church, higher approaching. When the priests stand at random in the same direction as the congregation, it features both his individuality and ours. It emphasizes that he is standing in Christ, the high priest, the head of his body, by himself, the rest of the congregation. He is the head of a body. The priest, the tabernacle, underlines that he is not doing anything. He is doing something for that. And in his honor, shielding the miracle that in any case the naked eye cannot perceive, harmonizes with the sensible barriers already mentioned in the sign of the Anastasis. It is as if the celebrating priest, eager to promise by virtue of his probation, becomes the living iconostasis before the altar, an image standing there, revealing not himself. The kind of chasm that has led him to the seat of the High Priest. The priest disinterheres into his role, so that when the servers reach the edge of the chasm by the elevations of the most of the chalice, they know that he, too, is the pool of the garment. In this double elevation, the hole of creation. Third, let's consider the Roman rites. I think this, I think it's that expression. Because of the Latin, chant, silence, and peaceful orientation, the traditional mass transmits a sreal womang sense of worship of deity, ego-centered, directed to God. This expression is reinforced by its multiple layers of text and ceremonial meaning. Facing with this density of processing and the sign of the deity that is made exactly at the same time, man is in the intuits that this liturgy tells us about. He is finally able to be part of God. He concludes with this, by means of intuition, that there must be something far above him. Often many things are going on simultaneously, with different ministers exercising different roles, as happens in the reality of the cosmos, with its hierarchies of angels and men, as well as interconnected organisms, partners, forces, and systems. The chanting of this ritual simmers while the priest and servant recite the prayers included in the altar. And as the priest ascends the altar steps, saying the private prayers, a haunting melody of interior music is heard. Such overlapping and over-expansions take place throughout the entire mass. This is all good. The more we are surrounded by an immersive prayer, the more our hearts and aspirations are stirred up in our time. Part of this improvement in the fullness or density of the intrusive mass is the number of symbolic actions. In addition to the altar of the Sanctuary of Shasta, he places the amulets over his shoulders, the mannequin on his left wrist, the parasol, and the coat of arms around his neck. The best way to view it is to compare it with a rock. Signs of subtle, shitoko evading devotion and adoration, such as the priest kissing the altar eight times during the mass instead of only twice, bowing his head to honor God or saints at significant raises, may be many generations before the blessed sacrament...” - Kwasniewski
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