The Prayer Itself
We now look to the Office itself for the prayer rather than
to the circumstances and conditions of its celebration.
If the Little Flowers of St. Francis point to one
spirituality and the Introduction to the Devout Life point
to another, what is the spirituality of the Divine Office?
What does this long and sometimes complicated book say
about its own spirituality?
First of all we have to recognize this or any other
liturgical book as a specific spirituality. These are not
simply historical records or theological abstractions.
They, by their nature, communicate a spirituality. I
believe this whole-heartedly and my own personal
spirituality has been formed by the Office rather than a
particular devotion or piety. I know that this self-
revelation may seem to be different from the norm of the
schools of spirituality, all of which I value highly. The
emphasis of any one of these schools (e.g., Franciscan,
Marian, etc.) is not, however, in conflict with another or
with the liturgical spirituality of the Office. There may
at times in the history of the Church be small skirmishes
within these spiritual contours, a true spirituality does
not and certainly cannot exclude another. Many of these
schools in fact, have included the Office in some form or
another in their own piety. For example, the Oblates of the
Benedictines include in their spiritual program the Office,
mirroring the discipline of the Order. The popularity
(prior to Vatican II) of a modified Office of the Blessed
Virgin Mary witnesses to this as well.
The spirituality of the Office is the act of worship. It is
a spirituality of pointing to the Other. It is an
acknowledgment of the Creator in all ways and conditions.
Using the language of the Psalms, the Word of God itself,
it expresses all possible ranges of emotions in the human
heart. Within the context of the Divine, it brings these
states to the heart of God. The loneliness, contrition,
gratitude and even anger that are part and parcel of the
human soul are the matter of the prayer. Nothing need be
excluded from the prayer. But it is not only my own anger,
thanksgiving, sorrow, hope and joy that I bring to God. I
also bring those same feelings of each member of the Church
to the God of all the world. No one and no emotion is
excluded. I actually do not pray for specific "things" as I
would at another time of prayer. There are opportunities
for this as we will see, but the thrust of the Office is
far deeper then the "give-me" prayers.
The Psalms give expression to my deepest needs. They
communicate what others are feeling as well. I am not alone
in this prayer. Even in the first person singular, I am not
alone. I never pray "My Father who art in Heaven" at Lauds
or Vespers. "We", not "I", ask this through Christ our
Lord. Since there is a canonical obligation for many in the
Church to pray this prayer, I am not even praying alone at
a certain time. Like the old clock showing the "Mass around
the world" at any given time, I am praying Vespers with the
monks in the Trappist monastery, the nuns in the inner-city
convent and my fellow priest in my own Diocese as we each
sit in our own living rooms with the Breviary. To be part
of a "catholic" Church is to know the power of this union
as a spiritual as well as political or social reality.
The Office is an act of recognition. It acknowledges the
power, majesty and glory of God since its praise is
continuous. It sees the hand of God in the events of
history, both world and personal. It sees the creative
power of God in the universe and in the human spirit. It
sees the beauty of a restored creation as well as a
forgiven soul. It cries over the sad state of a down-
trodden people as well as a down-cast heart. It cries for
justice while it asks for our daily bread. And, for myself,
it points to the beauty of God who creates the beauty of
the earth and the wonder of my being.
The Office, on a more than practical level, tames my innate
tepidness. If I prayed only when I felt like it, I would
have more contact with some people on my Christmas card
list than I would with God. The Office calls each person
who has contact with it, to pray. And prayer places a
demand on us. Here I am not referring to the canonical
obligation I freely placed myself under in December of 1991
at my Diaconate Ordination. Rather, I am talking about the
call to prayer at the beginning of each day: "Come, let us
sing to Lord." The structure of the hours mirrors the order
I know my day should have and, if left to solely my own
devices, would not have. The Office gives to each person
who says it a beginning, middle, and end to each day. Yes,
there are times when the hours do not correspond to the
exact hours, but in general I try to make it so. Prior to
Vatican II's reform of the Office, Vespers were said in the
morning and Lauds in the evening before for fear that they
be missed for any possible reason. In my opinion, this is a
slavish if not neurotic fulfilling of the canonical
precept. Yes, say the office, but keep it real. My negative
reaction to the drive for "meaningfulness" does not exclude
the sensibility of practice.
Finally, the spirituality of the Hours is the consecration
of time. The Mass, as the heart of the worship of each
Catholic on a weekly or daily basis, is the "source and
summit" of all human activity. It is the place to which we
bring the goods and needs of our lives and from which we
carry away the blessings and graces which keep us going.
The Office is the cart that carries these whether for
ourselves or for others. The Church, regardless if we pray
the Office or not, is praying it with and for us. Every
time period (hours) of the day, then, is, as Pius Parsch
said, a planet which revolves around the sun of the Mass.
The overflowing abundance of the Mass is carried by these
streams of the Office to irrigate even the farthest fields
of our lives. To know that each day, each hour, is
consecrated to God (rather than the brief period of time at
Mass) is to offer each day to God and live in His presence
at all time. It is to pray, through Mass, Office and work,
constantly. There are many who say "my work is my prayer."
The Office makes it so.
The struggle of the discipline of the Office is the
struggle of familiarity and its sometime product, contempt.
The ease with which we are familiar with the most Sacred of
Mysteries, the Eucharist, is a cause for wonder. That God
Himself would be among us and present among us in that
Sacrament while outside the building where it is celebrated
drugs are dealt, is a contradiction crucial to faith. A
remote, so-totally-other God is not one that humans who
have senses and thought can relate to. It is the
contradiction of the King born in a borrowed stable, a Lord
upon a cross, an ever-living God who died.
The "frequent and fervent" prayer of the Office is a source
of consecration throughout the day which brings the sacred
to the secular. Perhaps it is for this reason that St.
Benedict described it as the opus Dei, the work of God. Not
only is praise using the Word of God His own action, but
even more so is this marriage of the eternal and the
temporal. It can even be said to be incarnational.
For each human, there are areas in our lives where we are
not too keen on the grace God showing up. The Office
prohibits this exclusion. The Office also prohibits the
departmentalization of life into the "God" and "Not-God"
sectors. No wonder, in our human weakness, the burden of
the Office can be so odious.
If we accept the spirituality, the contradiction and the
challenge of the Office, what can we do practically to
allow its blessing to come to fruition in our daily lives?
The Office is based in the context of daily, practical
living and so any help to us must be likewise.
