The Spirit Of The Liturgy by Romano Guardini

5. THE PLAYFULNESS OF THE LITURGY

GRAVE and earnest people, who make the knowledge of truth

their whole aim, see moral problems in everything, and seek

for a definite purpose everywhere, tend to experience a

peculiar difficulty where the liturgy is concerned.1 They

incline to regard it as being to a certain extent aimless,

as superfluous pageantry of a needlessly complicated and

artificial character. They are affronted by the scrupulously

exact instructions which the liturgy gives on correct

procedure, on the right direction in which to turn, on the

pitch of the voice, and so on. What is the use of it all?

The essential part of Holy Mass--the action of Sacrifice and

the divine Banquet--could be so easily consummated. Why,

then, the need for the solemn institution of the priestly

office? The necessary consecration could be so simply

accomplished in so few words, and the sacraments so

straight-forwardly administered--what is the reason of all

the prayers and ceremonies? The liturgy tends to strike

people of this turn of mind as--to use the words which are

really most appropriate--trifling and theatrical.

The question is a serious one. It does not occur to

everyone, but in the people whom it does affect it is a sign

of the mental attitude which concentrates on and pursues

that which is essential. It appears to be principally

connected with the question of purpose.

That which we call purpose is, in the true sense of the

word, the distributive, organizing principle which

subordinates actions or objects to other actions or objects,

so that the one is directed towards the other, and one

exists for the sake of the other. That which is subordinate,

the means, is only significant in so far as it is capable of

serving that which is superior, the end. The purpose does

not infuse a spiritual value into its medium; it uses it as

a passage to something else, a thoroughfare merely; aim and

fulcrum alike reside in the former. From this point of view,

every instrument has to prove in the first place whether,

and in the second to what extent, it is fitted to accomplish

the purpose for which it is employed. This proof will

primarily be headed by the endeavor to eliminate from the

instrument all the non-essential, unimportant, and

superfluous elements. It is a scientific principle that an

end should be attained with the minimum expenditure of

energy, time, and material. A certain restless energy, an

indifference to the cost involved, and accuracy in going to

the point, characterize the corresponding turn of mind.

A disposition like this is, on the whole, both appropriate

and necessary to life, giving it earnestness and fixity of

purpose. It also takes reality into consideration, to the

extent of viewing everything from the standpoint of purpose.

Many pursuits and professions can be shown to have their

origin almost entirely in the idea of purpose. Yet no

phenomenon can be entirely, and many can be, to a minor

degree only, comprehended in this category. Or, to put it

more plainly, that which gives objects and events their

right to existence, and justifies their individuality, is in

many cases not the sole, and in others not even the primary

reason for their usefulness. Are flowers and leaves useful?

Of course; they are the vital organs of plants. Yet because

of this, they are not tied down to any particular form,

color, or smell. Then what, upon the whole, is the use of

the extravagance of shapes, colors and scents, in Nature? To

what purpose the multiplicity of species? Things could be so

much more simple. Nature could be entirely filled with

animate beings, and they could thrive and progress in a far

quicker and more suitable manner. The indiscriminate

application to Nature of the idea of purpose is, however,

open to objection. To go to the root of the matter, what is

the object of this or that plant, and of this or that

animal, existing at all? Is it in order to afford

nourishment to some other plant or animal? Of course not.

Measured merely by the standard of apparent and external

utility, there is a great deal in Nature which is only

partially, and nothing which is wholly and entirely,

intended for a purpose, or, better still, purposeful.

Indeed, considered in this light, a great deal is

purposeless. In a mechanical structure--a machine, say, or a

bridge-everything has a purpose; and the same thing applies

to business enterprises or to the government of a State; yet

even where these phenomena are concerned, the idea of

purpose is not far-reaching enough to give an adequate reply

to the query, whence springs their right to existence?

If we want to do justice to the whole question, we must

shift our angle of vision. The conception of purpose regards

an object's center of gravity as existing outside that

object, seeing it lie instead in the transition to further

movement, i.e., that towards the goal which the object

provides. But every object is to a certain extent, and many

are entirely, self-sufficient and an end in itself--if, that

is, the conception can be applied at all in this extensive

sense. The conception of meaning is more adaptable. Objects

which have no purpose in the strict sense of the term have a

meaning. This meaning is not realized by their extraneous

effect or by the contribution which they make to the

stability or the modification of another object, but their

significance consists in being what they are. Measured by

the strict sense of the word, they are purposeless, but

still full of meaning.

Purpose and meaning are the two aspects of the fact that an

existent principle possesses the motive for, and the right

to, its own essence and existence. An object regarded from

the point of view of purpose is seen to dovetail into an

order of things which comprehends both it and more beyond

it; from the standpoint of meaning, it is seen to be based

upon itself.

Now what is the meaning of that which exists? That it should

exist and should be the image of God the Everlasting. And

what is the meaning of that which is alive? That it should

live, bring forth its essence, and bloom as a natural

manifestation of the living God.

This is true of Nature. It is also true of the life of the

soul. Has science an aim or an object in the real sense of

the word? No. Pragmatism is trying to foist one upon it. It

insists that the aim of science is to better humanity and to

improve it from the moral point of view. Yet this

constitutes a failure to appreciate the independent value of

knowledge. Knowledge has no aim, but it has a meaning, and

one that is rooted in itself--truth. The legislative

activity of Parliament, for instance, has an end in view; it

is intended to bring about a certain agreed result in the

life of the State. Jurisprudence, on the contrary, has no

object; it merely indicates where truth lies in questions of

law. The same thing applies to all real science. According

to its nature, it is either the knowledge of truth or the

service of truth, but nothing else. Has art any aim or

purpose? No, it has not. If it had, we should be obliged to

conclude that art exists in order to provide a living for

artists, or else, as the eighteenth century German thinkers

of the "Aufklarung"--the "age of enlightenment"--considered,

it is intended to offer concrete examples of intelligent

views and to inculcate virtue. This is absolutely untrue.

The work of art has no purpose, but it has a meaning--"ut

sit"--that it should exist, and that it should clothe in

clear and genuine form the essence of things and the inner

life of the human artist. It is merely to be "splendor

veritatis," the glory of truth.

When life lacks the austere guidance of the sense of purpose

it degenerates into pseudo-aestheticism. But when it is

forced into the rigid framework that is the purely

purposeful conception of the world, it droops and perishes.

The two conceptions are interdependent. Purpose is the goal

of all effort, labor and organization, meaning is the

essence of existence, of flourishing, ripening life. Purpose

and meaning, effort and growth, activity and production,

organization and creation--these are the two poles of

existence.

The life of the Universal Church is also organized on these

lines. In the first place, there is the whole tremendous

system of purposes incorporated in the Canon Law, and in the

constitution and government of the Church. Here we find

every means directed to the one end, that of keeping in

motion the great machinery of ecclesiastical government. The

first-mentioned point of view will decide whether adjustment

or modification best serves the collective purpose, and

whether the latter is attained with the least possible

expenditure of time and energy.2 The scheme of labor must be

arranged and controlled by a strictly practical spirit.

The Church, however, has another side. It embraces a sphere

which is in a special sense free from purpose. And that is

the liturgy. The latter certainly comprehends a whole system

of aims and purposes, as well as the instruments to

accomplish them. It is the business of the Sacraments to act

as the channels of certain graces. This mediation, however,

is easily and quickly accomplished when the necessary

conditions are present. The administration of the Sacraments

is an example of a liturgical action which is strictly

confined to the one object. Of course, it can be said of the

liturgy, as of every action and every prayer which it

contains, that it is directed towards the providing of

spiritual instruction. This is perfectly true. But the

liturgy has no thought-out, deliberate, detailed plan of

instruction. In order to sense the difference it is

sufficient to compare a week of the ecclesiastical year with

the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. In the latter every

element is determined by deliberate choice, everything is

directed towards the production of a certain spiritual and

didactic result; each exercise, each prayer, even the way in

which the hours of repose are passed, all aim at the one

thing, the conversion of the will. It is not so with the

liturgy. The fact that the latter has no place in the

Spiritual Exercises is a proof of this.3 The liturgy wishes

to teach, but not by means of an artificial system of aim-

conscious educational influences; it simply creates an

entire spiritual world in which the soul can live according

to the requirements of its nature. The difference resembles

that which exists between a gymnasium, in which every detail

of the apparatus and every exercise aims at a calculated

effect, and the open woods and fields. In the first

everything is consciously directed towards discipline and

development, in the second life is lived with Nature, and

internal growth takes place in her. The liturgy creates a

universe brimming with fruitful spiritual life, and allows

the soul to wander about in it at will and to develop itself

there. The abundance of prayers, ideas, and actions, and the

whole arrangement of the calendar are incomprehensible when

they are measured by the objective standard of strict

suitability for a purpose. The liturgy has no purpose, or,

at least, it cannot be considered from the standpoint of

purpose. It is not a means which is adapted to attain a

certain end--it is an end in itself. This fact is important,

because if we overlook it, we labor to find all kinds of

didactic purposes in the liturgy which may certainly be

stowed away somewhere, but are not actually evident.

When the liturgy is rightly regarded, it cannot be said to

have a purpose, because it does not exist for the sake of

humanity, but for the sake of God. In the liturgy man is no

longer concerned with himself; his gaze is directed towards

God. In it man is not so much intended to edify himself as

to contemplate God's majesty. The liturgy means that the

soul exists in God's presence, originates in Him, lives in a

world of divine realities, truths, mysteries and symbols,

and really lives its true, characteristic and fruitful

life.4

There are two very profound passages in Holy Scripture,

which are quite decisive on the point. One is found in the

description of Ezekiel's vision.5 Let us consider the

flaming Cherubim, who "every one of them went straight

forward, whither the impulse of the Spirit was to go . . .,

and they turned not when they went . . ., ran and returned

like flashes of lightning . . ., went . . . and stood . . .

and were lifted up from the earth . . .. the noise of their

wings was like the noise of many waters . . ., and when they

stood, their wings were let down." How "aimless" they are!

How discouraging for the zealous partisans of reasonable

suitability for a purpose! They are only pure motion,

powerful and splendid, acting according to the direction of

the Spirit, desiring nothing save to express Its inner drift

and Its interior glow and force. They are the living image

of the liturgy.

In the second passage it is Eternal Wisdom which speaks: "I

was with Him, forming all things, and was delighted every

day, playing before Him at all times, playing in the

world...."6

This is conclusive. It is the delight of the Eternal Father

that Wisdom (the Son, the perfect Fullness of Truth) should

pour out Its eternal essence before Him in all Its ineffable

splendor, without any "purpose"--for what purpose should It

have?--but full of decisive meaning, in pure and vocal

happiness; the Son "plays" before the Father.

Such is the life of the highest beings, the angels, who,

without a purpose and as the Spirit stirs them, move before

God, and are a mystic diversion and a living song before

Him.

In the earthly sphere there are two phenomena which tend in

the same direction: the play of the child and the creation

of the artist.

The child, when it plays, does not aim at anything. It has

no purpose. It does not want to do anything but to exercise

its youthful powers, pour forth its life in an aimless

series of movements, words and actions, and by this to

develop and to realize itself more fully; all of which is

purposeless, but full of meaning nevertheless, the

significance lying in the unchecked revelation of this

youthful life in thoughts and words and movements and

actions, in the capture and expression of its nature, and in

the fact of its existence. And because it does not aim at

anything in particular, because it streams unbroken and

spontaneously forth, its utterance will be harmonious, its

form clear and fine; its expression will of itself become

picture and dance, rhyme, melody and song. That is what play

means; it is life, pouring itself forth without an aim,

seizing upon riches from its own abundant store, significant

through the fact of its existence. It will be beautiful,

too, if it is left to itself, and if no futile advice and

pedagogic attempts at enlightenment foist upon it a host of

aims and purposes, thus denaturizing it.

Yet, as life progresses, conflicts ensue, and it appears to

grow ugly and discordant. Man sets before himself what he

wants to do and what he should do, and tries to realize this

in his life. But in the course of these endeavors he learns

that many obstacles stand in his way, and he perceives that

it is very seldom that he can attain his ideal.

It is in a different order, in the imaginary sphere of

representation, that man tries to reconcile the

contradiction between that which he wishes to be and that

which he is. In art he tries to harmonize the ideal and

actuality, that which he ought to be and that which he is,

the soul within and nature without, the body and the soul.

Such are the visions of art. It has no didactic aims, then;

it is not intended to inculcate certain truths and virtues.

A true artist has never had such an end in view. In art, he

desires to do nothing but to overcome the discord to which

we have referred, and to express in the sphere of

representation the higher life of which he stands in need,

and to which in actuality he has only approximately

attained. The artist merely wants to give life to his being

and its longings, to give external form to the inner truth.

And people who contemplate a work of art should not expect

anything of it but that they should be able to linger before

it, moving freely, becoming conscious of their own better

nature, and sensing the fulfillment of their most intimate

longings. But they should not reason and chop logic, or look

for instruction and good advice from it.

The liturgy offers something higher. In it man, with the aid

of grace, is given the opportunity of realizing his

fundamental essence, of really becoming that which

according to his divine destiny he should be and longs to

be, a child of God. In the liturgy he is to go "unto God,

Who giveth joy to his youth."7 All this is, of course, on

the supernatural plane, but at the same time it corresponds

to the same degree to the inner needs of man's nature.

Because the life of the liturgy is higher than that to which

customary reality gives both the opportunity and form of

expression, it adopts suitable forms and methods from that

sphere in which alone they are to be found, that is to say,

from art. It speaks measuredly and melodiously; it employs

formal, rhythmic gestures; it is clothed in colors and

garments foreign to everyday life; it is carried out in

places and at hours which have been co-ordinated and

systematized according to sublimer laws than ours. It is in

the highest sense the life of a child, in which everything

is picture, melody and song.

Such is the wonderful fact which the liturgy demonstrates;

it unites art and reality in a supernatural childhood before

God. That which formerly existed in the world of unreality

only, ant was rendered in art as the expression of mature

human life, has here become reality. These forms are the

vital expression of real and frankly supernatural life. But

this has one thing in common with the play of the child and

the life of art--it has no purpose, but it is full of

profound meaning. It is not work, but play. To be at play,

or to fashion a work of art in God's sight--not to create,

but to exist--such is the essence of the liturgy. From this

is derived its sublime mingling of profound earnestness and

divine joyfulness. The fact that the liturgy gives a

thousand strict and careful directions on the quality of the

language, gestures, colors, garments and instruments which

it employs, can only be understood by those who are able to

take art and play seriously. Have you ever noticed how

gravely children draw up the rules of their games, on the

form of the melody, the position of the hands, the meaning

of this stick and that tree? It is for the sake of the silly

people who may not grasp their meaning and who will persist

in seeing the justification of an action or object only in

its obvious purpose. Have you ever read of or even

experienced the deadly earnestness with which the artist-

vassal labors for art, his lord? Of his sufferings on the

score of language? Or of what an overweening mistress form

is? And all this for something that has no aim or purpose!

No, art does not bother about aims. Does anyone honestly

believe that the artist would take upon himself the thousand

anxieties and feverish perplexities incident to creation if

he intended to do nothing with his work but to teach the

spectator a lesson, which he could just as well express in a

couple of facile phrases, or one or two historical examples,

or a few well-taken photographs? The only answer to this can

be an emphatic negative. Being an artist means wrestling

with the expression of the hidden life of man, avowedly in

order that it may be given existence; nothing more. It is

the image of the Divine creation, of which it is said that

it has made things "ut sint."

The liturgy does the same thing. It too, with endless care,

with all the seriousness of the child and the strict

conscientiousness of the great artist, has toiled to express

in a thousand forms the sacred, God-given life of the soul

to no other purpose than that the soul may therein have its

existence and live its life. The liturgy has laid down the

serious rules of the sacred game which the soul plays before

God. And, if we are desirous of touching bottom in this

mystery, it is the Spirit of fire and of holy discipline

"Who has knowledge of the world"8--the Holy Ghost-Who has

ordained the game which the Eternal Wisdom plays before the

Heavenly Father in the Church, Its kingdom on earth. And

"Its delight" is in this way" to be with the children of

men."

Only those who are not scandalized by this understand what

the liturgy means. From the very first every type of

rationalism has turned against it. The practice of the

liturgy means that by the help of grace, under the guidance

of the Church, we grow into living works of art before God,

with no other aim or purpose than that of living and

existing in His sight; it means fulfilling God's Word and

"becoming as little children"; it means foregoing maturity

with all its purposefulness, and confining oneself to play,

as David did when he danced before the Ark. It may, of

course, happen that those extremely clever people, who

merely from being grown-up have lost all spiritual youth and

spontaneity, will misunderstand this and jibe at it. David

probably had to face the derision of Michal.

It is in this very aspect of the liturgy that its didactic

aim is to be found, that of teaching the soul not to see

purposes everywhere, not to be too conscious of the end it

wishes to attain, not to be desirous of being over-clever

and grown-up, but to understand simplicity in life. The soul

must learn to abandon, at least in prayer, the restlessness

of purposeful activity; it must learn to waste time for the

sake of God, and to be prepared for the sacred game with

sayings and thoughts and gestures, without always

immediately asking "why?" and "wherefore?" It must learn not

to be continually yearning to do something, to attack

something, to accomplish something useful, but to play the

divinely ordained game of the liturgy in liberty and beauty

and holy joy before God.

In the end, eternal life will be its fulfillment. Will the

people who do not understand the liturgy be pleased to find

that the heavenly consummation is an eternal song of praise?

Will they not rather associate themselves with those other

industrious people who consider that such an eternity will

be both boring and unprofitable?

ENDNOTES

1. In what follows the writer must beg the reader not to

weigh isolated words and phrases. The matter under

consideration is vague and intangible, and not easy to put

into words. The writer can only be sure of not being

misunderstood if the reader considers the chapter and the

general train of thought as a whole.

2. Even when the Church is considered from its other aspect,

that of a Divine work of art. Yet the former conception is

bound to recur in this connection.

3. The Benedictines give it one, but do so in an obviously

different system of spiritual exercises to that conceived by

St. Ignatius.

4. The fact that the liturgy moralizes so little is

consistent with this conception. In the liturgy the soul

forms itself, not by means of deliberate teaching and the

exercise of virtue, but by the fact that it exists in the

light of eternal Truth, and is naturally and supernaturally

robust.

5. Ezekiel i. 4 et seq., especially 12, 17, 20, 24, and x. 9

et seq.

6. Proverbs viii. 30, 31.

7. Entrance prayer of the Mass.

8. Responsory at Terce, Pentecost.