“O Virgin of virgins, how shall this be? For before you there was none like you, nor shall there be after.”
“Daughters of Jerusalem, why do you marvel at me? What you behold is a divine mystery.”
This antiphon is a bit different from the others and in fact it was not part of the original set, used across continental Europe in Medieval times. In England however, it was regarded as essential – the culmination of the previous seven antiphons and it was included in the ancient “Sarum Rite” prayer book, used in cathedrals and churches all across England, Wales, Ireland and eventually, Scotland, from the 11th C until the time of Mary I. Thomas Cranmer drew heavily on this, when he drafted the 1549 Prayer Book, which itself was the precursor of the 1662 Book Of Common Prayer, still in use today. It differs also from the previous antiphons in that it is in the form of a conversation, between the daughters of Jerusalem and Mary, the mother of Jesus, herself.
After the Reformation, the eighth antiphon tended to get left out. Perhaps it fell from use because of its focus on mystery and the fact that, in modern times, we are less comfortable with living alongside mystery than our Medieval ancestors were.
Mystery, by definition, lies beyond our comprehension and eludes complete understanding; it defies control and can disturb us with truth which we cannot pin down. But the Christian faith is exactly that – the mystery of God joining our world as a human being of flesh and blood, yet without losing the essentially non-human aspects of his divine nature. No one, from the earliest Christians, to those of our own day, have found that easy to grasp. Perhaps it’s important when confronted by mystery not to seek to understand it, or dissect it, but simply to allow ourselves to respond, at a gut level. As Mary herself did to the angel’s extraordinary news, in the Annunciation.
The modern American composer, Morten Lauridsen, whose music potently evokes the landscape of divine mystery, wrote one of his most famous pieces, inspired by the still life that you can see in the image above. It was painted in 1633 by Francisco de Zurbarán and is entitled “Still Life With Lemons, Oranges and a Rose”. The original painting is in the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, California. On one level, it is just a very beautiful still life but it also operates as an allegory on the divine mystery that Jesus’ birth represents for Christians.
The piece Lauridsen wrote was his “O magnum mysterium”, a setting for the Matins responsory for Christmas Day. For Lauridsen, the meaning and mystery of the painting were luminously apparent. Writing about the composition of “O magnum mysterium” and the painting that inspired it, in an article entitled “It’s a still life that runs deep.” (The Wall Street Journal, 21/2/2009), he wrote “the objects in this work are symbolic offerings to the Virgin Mary. Her love, purity and chastity are signified by the rose and the cup of water. The lemons are an Easter fruit that along with the oranges with blossoms, indicate renewed life. The table is a symbolic altar.”
The Christmas Day Matins responsory is not exactly the same as our eighth antiphon but the same theme of divine mystery lies at its centre. It is the mystery where we too are invited to gather at Christmas, by the Word made flesh. It is where Christmas Eve meets Christmas Day, where “evenings of tearfulness” are replaced by “mornings of joy”, where humanity meets divinity, where eternity meets mortality; and whether or not we understand the mystery, it can still thrum our heart-strings with extraordinary power.
The original text is as follows:
O magnum mysterium, et admirabile sacramentum
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum,
jacentem in praesepio! Beata Virgo cuius viscera
meruerunt portare Dominum Christum. Alleluia!
O great mystery and wonderful sacrament
that animals should see the newborn Lord
lying in a manger! Blessed maiden whose womb was worthy
to bear the Lord Christ. Alleluia!
Something to read: St John 1:1-15
Something to wonder about: Many of life’s pivotal events have an air of mystery about them – birth, death, falling in love, discovering a new gift in ourselves or others, experiencing the Providence of God in the ordinary fabric of everyday life. How do you feel about the mystery in such experiences? Does it excite you or trouble you, or may be both? Why do you think that is the case?
Something to take it further: Listen to Lauridsen’s spine-tingling piece sung by King’s College, Cambridge choir here