Fifth Gospel, Part 6

The final stop on the tour of the Holy Land

07/13/2024

Today we come to the last stop while riding onboard our train of homilies called the Fifth Gospel. We have been travelling through the Holy Land with the Scriptures as our tour guide, and now we consider the last lesson the land – the Fifth Gospel – has to teach us about the liturgy. To learn that final lesson we turn to the final book of the Bible, Revelation, or more ominously, the Apocalypse. Until now we have focused on the stones and surfaces of the earthly Jerusalem, but now we gaze upward to the heavenly Jerusalem. John the Seer writes: “And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God” (Rv. 21:2). That is, our homily train is no longer traveling horizontally but vertically.

But why is it necessary to avert our eyes from the old Jerusalem? Put simply: it had served its purpose and was scheduled to be retired. The old Jerusalem was a teacher who had completed its tenure. Scott Hahn summarizes how Revelation records this retirement party of the old Jerusalem: "The details of the destruction described in Revelation correspond closely to the history of Jerusalem’s destruction [in A.D. 70]. In Revelation 17-19, John shows a city destroyed by fire; Jerusalem was entirely destroyed by fire…Revelation closely tracks the Old Testament book of Ezekiel, and Ezekiel’s single outstanding message is that the curse of the covenant will come upon Jerusalem. We see this curse fulfilled in the Book of Revelation.”

In a word, the old Jerusalem was doomed. And doomsday came in A.D. 70 when General Titus led the Tenth Roman Legion and leveled the Holy City, and burned it to the ground. But Jerusalem’s story was not concluded in 70 A.D., just like Jesus’ death on Calvary was not the end of his story; indeed, it was only the beginning. That is, in a sense, just like Jesus’ Body would be gloriously resurrected, so John would see “a new heavens and a new earth” (Rv 21:1). These earthly stones would be transformed into streets of gold (Rv 21:21). Jesus had intimated this connection between his Body and the Jerusalem Temple when he told the Jews: “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (Jn 2:19).

Revelation, you see, is revealing a resurrection, not only of those born again in Christ by Baptism, but also of the land, and especially the Holy City of Jerusalem which would undergo an earthly death and heavenly resurrection. In other words, the true land of the liturgy is not Melchizedek’s ancient Salem, nor best understood as Moses’ manna in the desert, or King David’s bread for the bivouac, or even the apostolic traveling Masses moving between supper and sacrifice and celebrated on the rocks scattered on the road to Emmaus. All of these earthly liturgies were faint shadows and distant images of the eternal land of the liturgy, namely, the heavenly Jerusalem. And every time we celebrate the liturgy on earth – like we are right now! – we are lifted up into the liturgy of heaven.

Sometimes on my day off, I celebrate Mass by myself in a little chapel we have in the rectory. It feels like I’m talking to myself, because I say, “The Lord be with you.” And I reply back to myself, “And with your spirit.” A priest friend of mine insists that I should not say, “And with your spirit,” because our Guardian Angel makes that reply. In any case, we priests suffer from spiritual schizophrenia when we celebrate Mass by ourselves.

But it is theologically inaccurate to say, “I celebrate Mass by myself.” Why? Well, because if we look inside that little rectory chapel with the eyes of faith, we would behold it is crammed with all the angels and saints of heaven. And how many is that? Well, Rv 5:11 answers: “I looked again and heard the voices of many angels who surrounded the throne and the living creatures, and the elders. They were countless in number.” Vatican II taught: “In the earthly liturgy we share in the foretaste of that heavenly liturgy which is celebrated in the Holy City of Jerusalem toward which we journey as pilgrims.”

In other words, during Mass we mere mortals stand in that Holy City and rub shoulders with the glorious heavenly hosts, St. Peter and St. Paul, and with St. John Paul II and St. Mother Teresa, and with our deceased grandparents, and my beloved nephew Noah. The Eucharist sacramentally (but really!) unites us not only with those we can see (you and me), but also with those we cannot see, because this is the Mass of the heavenly hosts. The final location of the Mass, therefore, is heaven. Can you see how the land is one of the best professors of the liturgy? No wonder it is called the Fifth Gospel!

But if all this is true – and it is! – then why do so many Catholics find the Mass so boring? Because we bring little knowledge or understanding to the altar. Golf is boring to those who know nothing about birdies, eagles, and bogies. They don’t know, “How you drive for show but putt for dough.” Chess is boring to those who know nothing about how knights and bishops move, and how the most powerful piece is the queen. Chess is an elegant analogy for Catholic faith. Cooking is boring to those know nothing about spices, and seasonings, and side dishes. And why Emril Lagasse shouts, “Bam!” when he tosses spices to his dishes. But when you know these things, you fall in love with golf, and chess, and cooking.

This is what the land can teach us about the liturgy. By examining the locations of where the Eucharist was celebrated – travelling on the liturgy train horizontally from Genesis to Revelation, but also vertically from the Old Jerusalem on earth to the New Jerusalem in heaven - we can fall in love with the liturgy. Well, so what? Well, so that we can bring a little more knowledge of the liturgy when we celebrate Mass next Sunday. Why? Because you cannot love what you do not know. And once you know the meaning of the Mass, you cannot help but love it. Bam!

Praised be Jesus Christ!