A Word Fitly Spoken

I have not seen the New Zealand edition of the new Roman Missal, so when I read that the Bishops’ Conference had banned the use of iPads by priests celebrating Mass, I dug a little deeper.

It appears that the New Zealand missal is not liked by some of its users. The layout is allegedly poor, making it difficult to use when presiding at Mass. Typographically, it sounds a mess. Some priests have therefore taken to using the Universalis app on their iPad, and the bishops have objected. They have issued an instruction stating that the (printed) books proper to the liturgy must be used. Now, in principle, I agree. Sacred texts have always been given a place of honour in our churches, and there is  a long tradition of producing books of great loveliness for use in worship. Sadly, however, liturgical books can and do suffer the same typographical and other misfortunes of any printed book: ill-judged combinations of typeface, ink and paper; mean margins; awkward turnovers; shoddy binding.

The New Zealand bishops’ decision has highlighted a problem of our time: what constitutes a book? Paper, wood and parchment are traditional materials. They can be used to produce of objects of great beauty and distinction; but there can also be great beauty in digital books, created using current technologies. As one who has designed books for both traditional and new media, I would hesitate to say that only the printed book is fit for liturgical use. True, I balk at the idea of an iPad being lifted up, incensed and kissed, as we do with the Book of the Gospels during Mass; but I have seen too many priests celebrate the sacred mysteries using old, tattered missals to be overly concerned about the medium of the message. ‘A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.’ Indeed: better the Word from a silver screen than a cracked and yellowed page.


The Assumption of the B.V.M.

In previous years I have written about the Catholic Church’s teaching on this subject. Rather than go over that again I thought I would spend a minute or two this morning reflecting on the position that Mary holds in the life of ordinary Catholics. For a fuller treatment, take a look at one of my earliest eBooks, Magnificat (link opens in new window).

Our essential belief about Mary is that she is the Mother of God, Theotokos, God-bearer. Everything else flows from that. Her preservation from the stain of original sin, her assumption, body and soul, into heaven after death, her invocation as greatest of the saints: all these derive from her role as Mother of God. The Church describes the reverence we show Mary as hyperdulia, not to be confused with latria, the adoration given to God alone, or dulia, the reverence we show, or should show, one another as human beings.

What this teaching doesn’t really convey is the warmth of Catholic devotion to Mary. She is both God’s Mother and ours: someone whose prayers we ask with confidence because she knows exactly what it is like to cope with the multitudinous demands of ordinary life. She is one of us, yet shows us what it means to be truly blessed. Hence all that tacky ‘art’, those sentimental hymns, the slightly over-the-top expressions of love and devotion. They are our imperfect human way of rejoicing in the gift she has given us: Jesus Christ our Saviour. Perhaps because we are women ourselves, or perhaps because we belong to such an ancient tradition in the Church, Benedictine nuns tend not to talk much about Mary. We have no special devotions, no flamboyant gestures. We don’t need them because Mary is very close. She is, in truth, Our Lady.