S AUTUMN BREAKS, I am overwhelmed by the magnificence of God’s creation as I look out the window, drive to work, or walk about. The variety and beauty of trees and various forms of greenery is astonishing throughout the spring and summer, but it is especially poignant when the foliage begins to take on a vibrant, kaleidoscopic color palette of deep reds, orange, yellow, and chartreuse colors. The harvest season is a time in which God’s lavish and manifold providence is on display even in nature. I once heard a seminary professor and priest posit in a homily that one can learn more about God in looking closely at a tree than from a theology textbook. Rest assured, this priest was in no way minimizing or downplaying the importance of such crucial teachings such as the Trinity or Incarnation. Rather, he was simply making the point that God makes his infinite and intangible goodness known to us through his creation, as St. Paul states in Romans 1:20:
For since the creation of the world
His invisible attributes, that is,
His eternal power and divine nature,
have been clearly perceived.
It is interesting to note the manner in which human beings come to know about God. The theory of knowing—or epistemology—that I am laying out comes from the Ancient Greek philosopher, Aristotle, who lived about 300 years prior to the birth of Christ. An apt picture of Aristotle is given to us in Raphael’s painting entitled The School of Athens, where he is shown walking alongside his famous (and slightly older) contemporary Plato. In this fresco, Plato as portrayed as pointing to the heavens, whereas Aristotle is seen pointing to that which is before him. While Plato looks beyond the physical, created realm for enlightenment and knowledge, Aristotle takes as his starting point the tangible, concrete objects that are before his very eyes. While an in-depth comparison of the teachings of these great philosophers is far beyond the scope of this post, it must be acknowledged that both of them had tremendous influence on the Christian tradition. The Apostle Paul and St. Augustine were deeply rooted in the tradition of Plato, and St. Thomas Aquinas’ sacramental theology—most importantly his articulation of the Transubstantiation—owed a tremendous debt to the metaphysical teachings of Aristotle.
The Aristotelian and Thomistic theory of knowledge can be understood as a “common man’s” approach: we know things not initially on the basis of lofty theories, but because we have seen them with our own eyes. Unlike angels, whose knowledge is transmitted in a purely intellectual manner, God created human beings in such a way that obtain knowledge through the senses, and often in a gradual manner. For example, before a human being can begin to comprehend the self-sacrificial agape love of God in any full sense, they experience a lesser (though still substantial and often heroic) form of love as an infant through the tenderness of a mother or father. Furthermore, before we humans can know any concept in a general or universal sense, we must encounter it through a particular instantiation. For example, returning to the topic of trees, as a child, I came to know about trees not through first understanding an abstract category or definition, but because my parents taught me that the word for the towering evergreen outside our window was “tree.” It was after I had this basic knowledge of a particular that I was able to understand that there was a broader category of trees with different subsidiary species. For example, even though it looked a little different, I came to know that the sugar maple that was across the yard from the evergreen was also a tree.
Speaking of trees, I think they are one of God’s most apt didactic tools for teaching us humans about the iterative and expansive nature of tradition. It is important to note, when viewing a tree, that we actually see only a portion of it. One of the most structurally crucial elements of the tree—namely, its root system—is completely hidden. Throughout the course of the tree’s life, the roots organically expand and circumnavigate obstacles in order to ensure that proper support is given to the towering structure above. Interfering with a tree’s root system poses substantial threats to life and stability of the tree. A skilled arborist may guide the growth of a tree by pruning certain branches, but certainly never by altering the root system or making numerous major and rash alterations. While it is true that occasional course corrections optimize the growth and shape of the tree, excessive intervention can very easily threaten the vitality of the tree.
The Church’s Liturgy, like a tree, is built upon the foundation of a proverbial root system that is largely invisible to the onlooker. Similarly, it has been tended and watered by saints and martyrs, many of whom are not even known to us by name. Despite its expansive growth from its seedling years, it maintains general structure, even though some particularities have been changed over time. In the same way that a tree develops a system of separate branches to channel its life, the Church has not only the Latin Rite, but twenty-three different Eastern Rites. The Church firmly planted in Christ’s sacrificial death—which was on a tree, and we have been assured that “the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” (Matthew 16:18) Nevertheless, we must not be naïve to the reality that there are dangers confronting the Church and it’s Liturgy.
While I could say much about particulars, I would rather simply make the point that the Church’s Liturgy must be understood receptively. As a fan of the Downton Abbey series, I have always been struck by the attitude of protagonist, Lord Robert Grantham, who views himself not as an owner of his estate, but as its caretaker. Such should be the manner in which all of us understand our relationship to the liturgy. It must be understood as something that we steward, not something that we reinvent or reshape. When I mentioned a “careless arborist” above, the carelessness is not a symptom of quietism or neglect, but from an overactive intervention. Trimming too many branches from a tree or trying to reshape a trees growth to abruptly can be problematic. Even if one’s intentions are wholesome, the wrong approach can be problematic.
I strongly suspect that most of the readership of this blog would not find themselves in the category of people who are looking to try a “clown Mass” or some other dubious experiment! I hardly have to sit down and chronicle the liturgical abuses that have plagued the Church for the past several decades. I have generally tried to avoid falling into the trap of using “traditional vs. progressive” nomenclature, as this terminology can be painfully imprecise or mirror the manner in which we understand politics. Nevertheless, I’m breaking from that momentarily to say that those of us (myself included) who fall more squarely into the “traditional” category must exercise prudence. All of us, progressive and traditional alike, have been formed in an era during which the liturgy has fallen prey to the whims of subjective preference. Wherever any Catholic falls on the “traditional vs. progressive” spectrum, it is crucial to remember that Divine Worship of the Church transcends our personal preferences.
I conclude by stating another painful reality about the life of trees as well as the life of the Church: growth is generally slow. Painfully, dreadfully, torturously slow—or, at least so it seems at times. For us fallen human beings, delayed gratification is a crucial part of our sanctification. Recall this line from Christ’s Parable of the Sower:
“Other seed fell on rocky ground, where it did not have much soil, and it sprang up quickly, since it had no depth of soil.” (Mark 4:5)
Is it better for us to clamor after fast results, or play the long game? Let us instead be like the “blessed man” of Psalm 1:
“He shall be like a tree which is
planted near the running waters, which
shall bring forth its fruit, in due season.
And his leaf shall not fall off: and all
whatsoever he shall do shall prosper.”
