It is quite evident that the ‘new’ Mass arouses so much comment and genuine interest that people approach many of us older ‘pioneers’ with a sincere expression of good will on their lips. Naturally they want to know how it feels to belong to the winning team ! But could it be that we find it disappointing to witness what is only a superficial outward change? That the outward changes should attract so much comment, favourable and unfavourable, is only natural: we cannot look inside people and can only judge what appears. Nevertheless we maintain that a truly internal reform will follow naturally if things are left to develop. After all, that has always been our whole thesis. Things were left to the ‘unliturgical’ forces for too long and never had a proper chance to follow a theology inspired by the Bible and the sacramental system. Quod erat demonstrandum finds its first chance only now. While the unexpected vote on all phases of the Constitution on the Liturgy was in itself almost miraculous, we cannot pin our hopes of a ‘follow-through’ on another miracle. What we now need is hard work and intelligence (and, above all, prayer).

The slightest contact with the liturgical movements of forty years ago gave the impression that few ‘liturgists’ had any changes or reforms in mind which would give the people a more profound understanding of what they were supposed to do with their ‘whole hearts and minds'.

There is one side to the transformation of the Church going on today which might seem to have a purely liturgical bearing but which in fact goes wider and deeper – the general abandonment of the Latin language. This doesn't just imply the return to an intelligible and genuinely public liturgy but the abandonment of the lingua franca of what has been for centuries a clerical world and the moving out into the open and as yet largely unchartered waters of a lay and secular church – a church of the people, fully in the world.

Anti-clericalism is a lot easier to recognize than clericalism and therefore a lot easier to deprecate. Rather than merely deprecating it, however, with its long and ugly history especially in some Latin countries, we would be better employed in finding out to what extent it was justified and in fact at times made necessary by circumstances. It might, for instance, be considered rather significant that the part of Italy where communism and anti-clericalism is strongest, where there are still people who ‘baptize’ their children in wine out of contempt for the Church's sacraments, is precisely that part which formed the Papal states.

Clericalism is a historical phenomenon and has to be studied historically. It is, of course, a pejorative term and does not refer to the existence in the Church of a section of people called clerics, those who, in the definition of canon 108 of the Code, are ‘tied to divine service, having received at least first tonsure'.

What effect have the new theological insights on our understanding of the life of prayer? It is a question of impact on the spirit of man. Theology deals with God, but it concerns man, and therefore, if a theology is to have any impact on the age it lives in, it must answer the questions which men of that age ask. Otherwise, however wide its research and valid its conclusions, it will remain outside the current of life. The best way. therefore, to examine the spirituality of the new theology is to begin by by examining the needs of modern man. From our understanding of the latter will grow our appreciation of the former.

Man's understanding of himself has developed in the modern age. A hundred years ago, if you said ‘person’ you conjured up the image of separateness. Words like ‘sovereignty’ and ‘inalienable’ rose to the lips. Man was thought of primarily as an individual with rights of his own, an island in a sea of other islands. But now we understand things differently. Without denying the inalienability and essential separateness of a person, we think it equally necessary to stress that he is only a person because he can enter into relations with other persons; that, as well as existing in himself, he also exists for other people; that ‘the most vital core of man does not consist in the solitary and hardened affirmation of his individual autonomy, but in availability, welcome, receptivity'. (Charles Moeller). In fact that man is not an island, but part of the main.

At one time to call any one an automaton was by no means a compliment; today the term may be used to praise exemplary behaviour. What has brought about this change of meaning?

If we take the question on the practical side, the answer seems to lie in an analysis of the achievements of modern engineering. Today engineers can make, and do make, machines which control themselves and each other. Such machines recognize the requirements of a given situation and adapt their behaviour to those requirements by selecting the means most fitting to the end. In process of such adaptation, they apply rules which they have previously learnt and some machines can even find a new rule to meet a fresh situation and ‘remember’ the rule when the need occurs.

In all this machines resemble men in their behaviour and, although they have not man's variety of response, they outstrip him in accuracy and speed. They are largely self-directing and the need for supervision is reduced to a minimum. Once his machines are set up, the engineer's job is reduced to the task of keeping them in first-class condition and when necessary, ‘telling’ them what they are expected to do.

If we translate the behaviour of machines into human terms, we shall find what is ideally the goal of those in control of men and of those who are controlled.

In April of the year 1518 a young Augustinian friar was summoned by the order of Pope Leo X to attend the Chapter of his Province at Heidelberg. Four years previously. Martin Luther had reached his radical conclusions on justification and by 1517 they were beginning to cause a stir in the University of Wittenberg, where, in his capacity as professor in the faculty of theology, Luther had been lecturing on the Epistle to the Romans. In May 1517 he had become so confident as to write to the prior at Erfurt: ‘The lectures on scholastic theology are deserted and no one can be sure of an audience who does not teach our theology’.

Then, on the eve of All Saints that same year, Luther announced his 95 theses on indulgences – these, together with the earlier and more fundamental theses on faith and works, were the occasion of his summons to Heidelberg where Luther himself presided over the disputation and won the support of most of his brethren.

These Germanic vibrations reached the Netherlands and in particular a man – perhaps the most learned in Europe – who stood at the pivot of affairs, supported by the Pope and sought after by kings and bishops – Erasmus of Rotterdam. In the summer of 1518 Erasmus wrote to the Rector at Erfurt where Luther had studied:

‘Luther has said many things excellently well. I could wish, however, that he would be less rude in his manner. He would have stronger support behind him, and might do real good ... I can give no opinion about his positive doctrines ...’

Satan was the first to begin to question the commands of obedience. ‘Why’, he said, ‘did God command you not to eat of the tree of good and evil ?’ (Gen. 3). Before this, man who was without guile obeyed without reserve, not so much because of the reasonableness of the command but because of the authority of the commander. For just as faith in what human reason has experienced is not meritorious, so obedience is separated from the virtue of humility when the reason for the command is in agreement with it. But you wish to hear why we should act or cease to act in accordance with another's will or command. The reason is because in this way especially we are imitators of Christ, as dearest sons; and we walk in the love with which we loved us. He was made obedient in all things for us, not only to assist us but also to be an example, so that as he behaved so may we behave in this world.