A Roman fiddleback chasuble

From the 13^th century, the list of liturgical vestments was more or less complete, and what followed was a more detailed regulation of their use, a tendency to resort to ever greater degrees of decoration, and a growing preference for shorter vestments, so that instead of the fairly voluminous ‘Gothic’ chasuble we arrive at the Roman style – or ‘fiddleback’ after its distinctive cut-away shape, reminiscent of the shape of a violin.

The backs of some Roman vestments – which would be seen by the congregation, as the priest stood facing East – became ornamental works of art in themselves, objects for meditation like stained glass windows in embroidery.   An exception to this shortening was the bishop’s mitre, which tended to become taller and taller.

There has been a tendency which began in the 1920’s to reverse all these processes, favouring fuller Gothic vestments in which much of the ‘decoration’ is provided by the folds alone (as in the most ancient vestments).    This has been accompanied latterly by the development of the fitted white alb, which has tended to make redundant the use of the amice round the neck, and the cincture round the waist.   The use of this alb has also smudged the former distinction between Mass and non-Mass garments, for the alb used to be reserved for Mass, leaving the cassock and surplice/cotta – so called “choir dress” – for other services.

The late medieval period saw a growing understanding of the symbolic significance of vestments, taking as its cue the list of “spiritual armour” given by St. Paul in Ephesians 6:14-17:  “belt of truth, breastplate of righteousness, sword of the Spirit” etc.    This symbolism is preserved in the prayers at putting on the vestments, prayers which still – at least theoretically – remain in use:  the amice “the helmet of salvation”, the alb “wash me white, O Lord”, the cincture “the girdle of purity”, the stole “of immortality”, the chasuble “my yoke is easy and my burden light”.      In the Eastern Church, the priest, as we shall see, still wears a “sword” – sort of.

We can understand much of this more clearly if we look at what the Reformers gave up.   Firstly, the development of vestments was generally – and wrongly – seen by the Reformers to derive from the doctrine of Transubstantiation, which they rejected.    So Calvinists, who totally rejected the Mass, abandoned all vestments in favour of a civil gown.  Lutherans rejected the cincture (symbol of chastity) because they rejected clerical celibacy, likewise the stole and maniple, signs of the ‘higher orders’, but at least initially they were happy to retain the remainder.

In England the 1549 Anglican Prayer Book left vestments largely untouched;  it was only  the growing Calvinist influence (1552 Book) which saw their abolition, and their attempted reintroduction was a cause of major controversy before the Civil War (1642) and in the 19^th. century

The deacon wore the dalmatic, a square garment with short sleeves (named after Dalmatia – of 101 dogs’ fame – where the style developed), except during penitential seasons when, curiously, he wore a specially folded version of the priest’s chasuble.

The sub-deacon (for there were such in the Roman Rite until 1972) wore a tunicle, very similar to a dalmatic but with different banding.

The priest and bishop wore the chasuble, also, on the left arm, the maniple (now abolished), a hanging band of cloth whose exact significance was a mystery:  some said it represented the towel of Christ washing feet at the Last Supper, others that it was simply a stylised handkerchief (not actually to be used as such, I hasten to add), in lieu of the real handkerchiefs which clergy now push up their shirt sleeves in case their albs have no pockets.

It was also standardised that the chasuble was a garment for Mass only.   For solemn celebrations outside Mass, the ancient, long, cape (cope) was used.

It is strange to realise that for a long time the humble acolyte (whose role was almost universally usurped by the lay altar server) actually wore the same vestments as the priest.   It may also be strange to know that the bishop, to show the fullness of his orders, wore underneath his chasuble both the deacon’s dalmatic and the sub-deacon’s tunicle.   [Even now he may still wear the dalmatic underneath, though few do, and equipped as he was with all the other episcopal paraphernalia he was padded out as if for American football].

As bishops became increasingly important in civil life during this period, so their garments multiplied.   Apart from the garments they shared with the priest, they had:  the dalmatic, the tunicle, the sandals, the gloves, the gloves, the stockings – or ‘buskins’, the pallium (now reserved to Archbishops) and, of course, the mitre on the head.    Thus popular prayer cards which show ancient saints like St. Patrick decked out in all these regalia are anachronistic.   There were complex rules for the donning and discarding of these during certain services, which is how one priest (since laicised) who served at Westminster Cathedral described his time there as “dressing and undressing the Cardinal to music”.

For the first three centuries of Christianity, until when it became the official religion of the Roman Empire, there was no such thing as clerical dress.    To celebrate the Eucharist, normal dress was worn, albeit one’s best dress – rather as people did, and in some cases still do, wear ‘Sunday best’ to church.     At this time, fashion dictated that dress was worn long:  a tunic or toga which reached to the ankles, and an outer cloak or cape, cappa, likewise.

Towards the end of this first period, there is evidence that clergy were beginning to wear something distinctive for the Eucharist.   We are only talking about the deacon and the bishop at this stage;  as we have seen, the idea of the ‘priest’ was still in an embryonic stage.   In both cases, the distinctive object was worn round the neck:  for the deacon, the stole (a kind of scarf), for the bishop the pallium – which is still used today, made of wool, but given only to archbishops.    These practices derived in the East and spread to the West;  the Eastern names for the main vestments are different, but essentially the vestments are the same (this will be covered later).

The second period dates from the 6^th to the 9^th century.    This is the most important time for the development of separate liturgical dress.    In part this resulted from a refusal to go with secular fashion, which moved from a preference for long to a preference for shorter dress.    The Church stayed with the older style.   So we have, in essence, the alb (the long white ‘tunic’ reaching the ankles), the stole round the neck, and the chasuble, the outer, coloured ‘cloak’.    The chasuble, it is true, no longer reaches to the ankles, but there is still the cope, or long cloak, secured at the centre by a clasp, which is used for solemn occasions outside Mass, and is a throwback to the earliest times.

Evidence shows that all these vestments were of simple design without great adornment.   This is because they were voluminous in nature and so, when worn, hung with many folds.   The folds were enough to supply the contrast;  any other patterning would have been lost in the folds.

The third stage of development lasts from the 9^th. to the 13^th. century.   It sees the elaboration of the full range of vestments, the understanding, either by custom or reinforced by church law, of ‘who wears what’, and the formulation of a symbolic meaning for each vestment.   This period also saw the expansion of the actual degrees of ministry, including not only bishop, priest and deacon, but sub-deacon and the ‘minor orders’ such as lector and acolyte etc. [these all set aside in the West in 1972].    To this period we will turn in the second part.

We have seen that it is a basic human instinct to wish to ‘offer’ to God (or gods).  Do we make the offering ourselves, or commission others to do it for us?   Here is the origin of the idea of the “priesthood of all believers”, the “holy people”, or the “priesthood of the baptised” (a notion very much revived by Vatican II), set alongside the ordained priesthood, as something in some way distinct.

In history, when priesthood has been poorly exercised, it has lapsed into semi-magic or into a display of power.   It has clashed with the idea of the ‘prophet’ – in ancient Israel, prophets were often sharp critics of priests.   So, is the role of the priest to offer sacrifice, or to challenge, encourage, and speak out (‘prophesy’)?   Or both?

Medieval notions of the Mass emphasised the characteristic of ‘sacrifice’ to the exclusion of all else.   But there is also the concept of the ‘sacrifice of praise’ [Eucharistic Prayer No. 4], a wider vision based primarily on the Resurrection.

Then there is the ‘apartness’ of the clergy.   Celibacy, as we have seen, is not just a blind rule, but emerged from a wish to make the following of Christ a more demanding call, when the end of Roman imperial persecution made things all too easy.   Does that mean the particular nature of celibacy is inherent in the priesthood?   The debate continues.

Is priesthood a function or a state of being?   Does the priest ‘represent’ Christ in a different way from the laity – acting in persona Christi, ‘in the person of Christ’?    Does the priest symbolise Christ the head in the midst of his Body, the Church?   Or does ordination make him a Christ, indelibly, thus making ordination a kind of consecration parallel to that in the Mass?     St. Thomas Aquinas, after all, said that ordination was the “instrumental cause of grace” (i.e. the vehicle for bringing God’s gifts), but no more.

We call Christ the ‘High Priest’, as the Letter to the Hebrews does, but that is unique to him.   In what way did Christ ‘ordain’ his apostles?   There is so much in the Gospel story that is left unstated and is indeterminate.   He commissioned them to go out, certainly.

The question of women and the priesthood has not entered these columns, because it has never existed in our Church.   Is it true to say that there is an absolute distinction between men and women’s capacity for ordained ministry, as being determined by God before time began?     Such is the implication of the statement “Jesus Christ never ordained women”.

This is a watershed time, in the Church as in society.   The priesthood is no longer seen as tightly structured caste offering a life of certainties.   That is the probable reason why fewer are offering themselves at present:  to dedicate oneself to something which is ‘in flux’ is very demanding, however strong faith may be   Vocations are still copious in societies where life’s vision is more ‘certain’ – for the time being.

At some future time, the vision of priesthood will clarify again, and then the numbers will greatly increase.   That is my prophecy, and you first read it here.

Although some of the decrees of the Council seem to have been a ‘walk-over’ (the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy was passed by 2147 bishops’ votes to 4), in most cases there were painful compromises and lengthy re-draftings – the document on Divine Revelation took over three years to come to an acceptable text.

This tension between ‘ancient’ and ‘recent’ tradition is most marked in the document on the clergy.   It is called Presbyterorum Ordinis – “of the order of presbyters” – but the official English title is “The Ministry and Life of Priests”.    But if we go back to the early history of the Church, “Presbyters” (‘elders’ or advisers) and “Priests” (implying the sacrificing priesthood of the Temple, or of the Mass) are not exactly the same thing.    In the translation, at least, what had been given by the right hand was being taken back by the left.

It would be true to say that Vatican II sought to break down barriers between “them” and “us” – notably clergy and laity.   It stressed the “priesthood of all the baptised” – an ancient title, ultimately going back to the book of Exodus, where the people of Israel are called a “chosen race, a royal priesthood”.     If you have been following this series, you will remember that the question of the “apartness” of the priesthood was a thorny one from the earliest, pre-Christian, times – even setting prophets against priests when the latter sought power.

It would also be true to say that the previous Holy Father in particular sought to reverse this Vatican II emphasis:  in two documents (1988, 1994) Pope John Paul II taught that Christ was present in laity and in priests in an essentially different way.

Incidentally, those ‘in the know’ say that the insistence on retranslating “Et cum spiritu tuo” as “And with your spirit” (rather than “and also with you”) is to re-stress the different nature of the priest.   [The only trouble is that at the Gospel – which is properly read by a deacon – we would be saying it to the deacon, yet Pope Benedict XVI has only just recently ‘tweaked’ Canon Law to make it clear that a deacon is not a priest!]   This is getting very complicated!

Sometimes the Church was fearful of the world.   Secular education was advancing, and the Church withdrew its clerical students from universities and put them in separate seminaries, complete with monastic timetable and a monastic cloister, while also introducing distinctive clerical dress, which, contrary to common opinion, is not ancient at all.   The black cassock, which became universal, was formerly the dress of members of orders of Canons Regular.

At the same time, some in the Church were taking stock of their historic roots in order to engage better with the modern world.   A leading light among these is John Henry Cardinal Newman (1801-1890;  converted to the Catholic Church 1845, made a cardinal 1879).   He had been a pillar of the so-called “Oxford Movement” in the Anglican Church, which, appalled by the way that Church had become a puppet of Parliament – the particular issue was the appointment of bishops to sees in Ireland – sought to go back to the Fathers of the Church and resource itself from this ancient wisdom in order to re-engage more vigorously with the modern world.

Newman was no individualist Christian and would have been appalled by obstinate disobedience, but he recognised the emergence of an educated Catholic laity and knew that their “assent of faith” could not just be from blind obedience – as indeed it was not in the early Church.   As editor of the religious journal The Rambler he made it clear that the Church could not consist simply of the “teachers” and the “taught”.   What was important was the sensus fidelium – the awareness of the lay faithful – guided by the hierarchy.   At best this would create a “conspiracy” (literally, a “breathing together”) of clergy and laity.   It was not as if the hierarchy never consulted the laity;  they had done, albeit in a limited way, prior to the definition of the Immaculate Conception (1854), and there was no reason why this should not be universally applied.

The faith Newman promoted was highly mature.   It allowed for popular religion while leaving no room for superstition;  it supported the organisation of the Church while not condoning tyranny;  it saw theologians as people of faith, but free to explore the boundaries of faith, rather than just saying “what they were told to”.   At the same time, Newman is not being beatified (this year 2010) just for being an academic;  on becoming a Catholic he went to work for the urban poor in Birmingham.

Newman was no great enthusiast for the definition of Papal infallibility (1870), but was able to go along with it as he saw it was so tightly drawn.   At the same time, when the First Vatican Council (1868-70) ended, he saw that “a new Pope and a reassembled Council” would need to “trim the boat”.   Not for nothing is he seen as the ‘father’ of the Second Vatican Council (1962-5), which has so influenced our Catholic lives today.   The putting of faith, and Scripture, in a proper historical perspective – albeit temporarily retarded by the “anti-Modernism” scare (1907-10) – is Newman’s legacy, an inescapable feature of the life of the Church today.

The Romantic movement in particular looked back to the Middle Ages.   Although the word ‘medieval’ is often used negatively, the Middle Ages were thought – with a good deal of justification – to represent the high-water mark of the synthesis of human life:  supernatural, human and material, all interwoven.    This was taken up by a great German thinker, Johann Adam Möhler (+1838) who presented to the Church a renewed vision of the wholeness of Christ’s loving action in the world – compared with the Council of Trent’s tendency to lay everything out in narrow definitions.

When Möhler turned his attention to the Mass, he looked away from the over-emphasis on just one aspect – that of sacrifice – to the whole action of  thanksgiving in Christ’s name.

The Romantic movement in the Church re-emphasised the medieval style in architecture, looking back to the great days of the monasteries, which in some countries, like our own, had been laid waste by the Reformation.

Many clergy adopted enthusiastically this movement.   Möhler’s emphasis on the wholeness of worship gave rise to the so-called ‘Liturgical Movement’ which though hesitant at first was to lead eventually to the reforms of Vatican II.   One of its early centres was the German cathedral city of Regensburg (Ratisbon).   It is no coincidence that at this time there was re-founded the French Benedictine abbey of Solesmes (1833) which revived the proper use of Gregorian Chant in the Church.

Leading on from this, there was an enormous increase in the number of religious orders of men and women.  Many of the male orders would provide priests for parishes.  When the Jesuits, suppressed in 1773, were reconstituted in 1814, there were only 600 members left.   By 1890 there were more than 15,000.    Between 900AD and 1600, only 23 religious orders came into being;  in the USA by 1960 there were more than 400.    It is, however, true that many of these emptied of members as rapidly as they had once filled with them, once it became apparent that their monastic way of living (again, imitating the Middle Ages) was not appropriate for their particular vocation, to teaching, nursing, or suchlike.

A pen and watercolour image of Prémontré Abbey by Tavernier de Joniquières, 1780s

The French hierarchy was reserved for the aristocracy, the ‘common people’ being eligible only for the lower priesthood.   This explains the popularity of the French Oratory, a clerical congregation founded by Cardinal Bérulle (1611), which markedly raised standards – and opportunities.

At the same time, the lower French clergy were passive witnesses of the most vitriolic debate on the subject of God’s Grace between the Jesuits and the Dominicans.   To us it is scarcely believable that such a subject should have inflamed passions throughout a whole nation – indeed, continent – but the pamphlets flew thick and fast.   Essentially, the Dominicans, following their own St. Thomas Aquinas, taught that God’s Grace precedes all human good;  the Jesuits that God’s Grace accompanies all human good when we have willed to do it.

To their many enemies the Jesuits seemed to be promoting a kind of ‘apply-to-God-if-you-feel-like-it’ faith.   They were being ‘Jesuitical’, a synonym for ‘slippery’.  They were opposed by more rigorous believers who acquired the name of ‘Jansenists’ (a term of abuse given them by the Jesuits, and taken from their inspirational source, the Dutch theologian Cornelius Jansen).   These stressed the need for an unflinching acceptance of God’s will.  However, the Jesuits had the King’s ear, and in 1713, by order of King Louis XIV, the Jansenists’ ‘powerhouse’, the Parisian abbey of Port-Royal, was closed, demolished, and its cemetery dug up and the bones scattered.

The Jesuits promoted the role of reason as an accompaniment to the act of faith.   Unwittingly, they paved the way for those who would see Reason as an self-sufficient force, requiring no alliance with faith at all.   This principle blossomed into the so-called Enlightenment and its child was the French Revolution.

French clergy, who had witnessed these storms raging over them, rather like deep-sea creatures beneath a tsunami, now found themselves liable to lose their heads.

The net result of these confused times was to present a ‘two-tier’ image of the world, with “nature” on the ground floor and “super-nature” on the first floor.   The floors were connected, as it were, by a spiral staircase up and down which went the clergy, conveying messages from one realm to the other.

This was evidence in itself that the cult of the veneration of the Blessed Sacrament was here to stay.   Earlier centuries had reserved the Sacrament largely for the needs of the sick, either in a side cupboard [an “aumbry”], or in a pyx hanging above the altar (as at Quarr Abbey on the Isle of Wight today).   Now veneration became so pronounced that it actually upset the balance of the Mass – which became seen as a vehicle to ‘produce’ the sacred species for veneration, and where Communion was often received by the priest alone.

While the Council of Trent had stressed the primacy of divine grace over human effort, now such magnificence in building tended to suggest the reverse, especially when the actual celebration of the sacraments tended towards minimalism – cut back vestments, small hosts at Mass, baptism in drops of water, anointing with a smudge of oil.

The worldwide mission of the Church was in full flow, but it was very much a European mission.   Attempts to include elements of native ancestral worship in China were specifically banned by the Pope (Clement XI) in 1713

Contrary to what is sometimes thought, the Council did not summarise all Catholic belief, but dealt only with points raised by the reformers.     However, with hindsight it could be said that some opportunities were missed.   The Council Fathers took fright at Luther’s belief that the priesthood was a service rather than an ‘indelible mark’, and thus could not bring itself to say that it is in fact both.  And nothing was said about the laity at all.   These things had to wait another 400 years until Vatican II.

Council of Trent in Santa Maria Maggiore church

Nor was anything done about the liturgy, apart from tidying up loose ends.   The Mass retained its medieval heavily sacrificial emphasis,  and did not recover the other aspects – thanksgiving, community, a meal, unity with all creation – which were such features in the early Church.

To be fair, the study of liturgy was not then even in its infancy as a science in the Church.   For the reformers, things were even worse;  the liturgy was disembowelled, leaving only a bleeding trunk, the emphasis on the Word.   Perhaps it is understandable that the Church decided to leave well alone.

Instead, it was a case of “what we already know”, done with much more discipline and training.   Seminary formation was tightened up, Episcopal visitations – by such outstanding figures as St. Charles Borromeo and St. Francis de Sales – restored morale.  Confession was rigorously governed.   And the remarkable pastoral work of St. Vincent de Paul in Paris showed Counter Reformation spirituality at its best.

In the Papacy, personal austerity became the order of the day, reaching its height in the figure of St. Pius V (+1572).    But it was not long before a longing for an uplifting display and grandeur began to reassert itself in Rome – aided by the presence of the remarkable sculptor and architect Bernini.  This was also indirectly responsible for what then became a regular feature of priestly life – sometimes wrongly assumed to have existed from the year dot – Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.   To this we next turn.