As I mentioned during a Christmas post last year, the O Oriens Antiphon gets reinterpreted in Old English, to the well-known "Eala Earendel engla beorhtast" which so stirred Tolkien that it gave birth to his Earendil myth, so of course this illustrations is getting the full Tolkien treatment, with our little Lord playing at being Earendil:
The words "oriens" and "earendel" seem to be related, (I went down the linguistic rabbit hole last year on this) and are a part of a whole legion of ear/eos based words and names which all seem to have a fiery/daystar/ dawning meaning to them. For those who care about such things, Carl F. Hostetter has a very good article dealing with this matter (my rabbit holing seems to have been a reduplication of his research) and he lays it all out far better than I could.
And here is the antiphon being sung-- it amuses me very much that "oriens" in German becomes "morgenstern". I mean, it means morning star but morgenstern has such a German banker quality to it. (And since we are on a slightly linguistic track here.... that "or" element in 'morgenstern" could be related to "oriens" and "earendel")
I did not post yesterday, and for that I apologise. I am making up for it by posting yesterday and today's antiphons together.
I am also not going to write anything at all about them, though I shall recommend again that you visit A Clerk of Oxford read all of her delightful research about the O Antiphons and their poetic English adaptions. Instead, I shall tell a story about why I did not post yesterday, and how very indulgent our dear Lord can be towards His idiotic children.
I must begin with, I must admit that I am not, by nature, a particularly social creature. I do not generally enjoy big get togethers (with rare exceptions for family shindigs and the like... and even with those, I tend to require some down time afterwards), and my dislike of them increases the bigger they are, and the more people in attendance whom I do not know. Yesterday, we were scheduled to have a get together at work-- and while I can usually deal with the regular old staff Christmas party (though, again, I do not enjoy them) I get anxious when the invitations start going out to people I do not know, even if they are technically coworkers (insofar as they are employed by the same county as I am). Yesterday's do was a combination of a farewell luncheon for our Library Director, who is retiring at the end of this month, a Branch Managers' meeting with at least 6 people who are effectively strangers (for all I have seen them occasionally over my many years of service) and the usual staff party. And I have been dreading it for months. I would have rather been sick, go to therapy, have a root canal, etc, than to attend this thing... in spite of the fact that for a rarity, it was not on an Ember Day in Advent, and that it boasted a very delectable spread (my coworkers being a very foodie group of people). I was actually praying I would catch the virulent cold going around, so that I would not have to put in an appearance, and make small talk with people whose interests are almost guaranteed to be nothing at all like mine. It wasn't a terribly wild hope-- several people at work have already succumbed, and I might be the single remaining healthy person in my family.
And yet, to my great discouragement, I remained obdurately hale and robust.
.... Until yesterday.....
When I woke up with a slightly scratchy throat, a feeling of great tiredness, and a weariness in my joints, that turned into just a bit of an achiness as I was up an about.
It was all very mild. I have soldiered through much worse. And so I got myself up and to work, feeling rather sad that the cold I was obviously getting, was going to be behind schedule, and I was going to be even less inclined to be around people, thanks to all that tired.
I felt worse once I got to work. This is usual for me. By that time I've been up about 2 hours and am starting to lose the morning sluggishness I have even on the best of days. That is when I find out if my general malaise is a fleeting thing, or if I am actually going to have a bad day. In this case, I did not trust my own judgment in the slightest, as I so desperately wanted to not be there. and figured I was psyching myself into feeling worse than I was. I made a deal with God: I wasn't going home unless I got sent home-- and unlikely contingency, as my boss was in her meeting, and everyone else was excited about morning break, and the coffee cake in the back. Besides, I was healthy, just not wanting to be at work.
... Only, one of my coworkers noticed I was dragging..... and then another..... and before I really knew what was happening, I found one of them ladling up a bowl of soup and another putting a rib and mashed potatoes on a plate to take home with me, and though I protested that I felt bad leaving them, and that I was scheduled to work the desk for 4 hours that afternoon, I was gently but firmly shown the door.
So I went home, feeling only slightly bad about it, because I had made a deal with God, figuring that I was going to be spending the day Offering Things Up, and He sent me home.
And I slept for 3 hours, which tends to mean I truly am getting sick.
And woke up today feeling fine.
So that just goes to show-- Our very silly, sentimental God can be ridiculously indulgent of His idiot children, even when they do not deserve it in the slightest.
And now, the O Antiphon from yesterday: O Radix Jesse, and the Antiphon for today: O Clavis Dauvid, along with their appropriate music:
The word "Adonai" is an interesting one. It Hebrew, and means "My Lord", though, if you go to this website, you will see there is more to it than a straightforward translation. I like that it more literally means "My Foundation", tough I find the idea of calling God "sir" or "mister" rather more amusing than I ought. But the same root that gave us Adonai (adon) also gives us Adonis. That juxtaposition has always produced a "Miles Christus" image in my mind, so you are getting a sketch featuring what is meant to be a Lordly personage, and though it doesn't show up so well, there is a sword upon Him. The Middle English text translates " Dux domus" as "Chieff Duke" which makes me smile somewhat, in its comfortable familiarity.
Today, December 17th, marks the beginning of the Great O Antiphons. I have written about these days before Christmas elsewhere on this blog, and shall not repeat myself here. Instead, I am intending to do something slightly different this time around: I am going to make little drawings of them, but the wording on them will be in both Latin, and in Old, or Middle English as well. There was a long tradition of English poetry based off these Antiphons, that I find very beautiful, and also, rather homely-- in the British sense. Also, rather than posting a Gregorian Chant of each antiphon, I will be highlighting the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt's compositions.
Today's Antiphon runs thusly: O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodidisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviter disponensque omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae. In Modern English it translates: O Wisdom, who came from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from end to end and ordering all things mightily and sweetly: come, and teach us the way of prudence. For some inexplicable reason, the Middle English source I discovered today (On the incomparable Clerk of Oxford blog) translates "viam prudentiae" as "way of flight). And while I am quite aware that Latin 'p' becomes 'f' in English, and that 'l' and 'r' can be somewhat interchangeable (think of how we pronounce "colonel") I can see no way that prudentiae could every become flight. Nor has an admittedly cursory etymological dig about ze internets turned up anything that might even slightly shed light upon this oddity. Still, I liked the imagery-- the flight of God's Wisdom teaching us to fly as He does-- and so, Wisdom, in my doodle, is an odd, winged thing.
As I have mentioned recently, I am exceedingly delighted by the effect of drawing in white on a black background. I love how that interplay gives off such a delightful impression of light-- moonlight, starlight, snowlight, the gemlight of pearl and crystal. It isn't a particularly warm combination-- you will notice all the examples I give are of quite cold, clear lights. And yet, that is part of the charm of it: stars are brightest in the cold, clear air of winter, and are their most beautiful. The pale light that snow gives off has no warmth to it, but by it, the darkest time of the year is brightened, and the heart is cheered by the sight. (Not, of course, that I am suggesting my own doodling carries anything of that with it; but drawing in this reverse fashion gives me the same sort of feeling.) Therefore, this year's Antiphons shall be done up in white on black:
Today marks one week until the Vigil of Christmas, and the beginning of the recitation of the 'O' Antiphons. I have mentioned the Antiphons before, but in the interest of thoroughness, I offer you this short history, from that most excellent website, Hymns and Carols of Christmas.
I always think I am going to mark this Advent posting each of the Antiphons on this blog, on their respective days. I have yet to manage it, but this year, I am off to a decent start by providing not only a link to O Sapientia, but also a little sketch of my own creation, to go along with the hymn.
Normally, of course, I would post a bit of plain chant for your enjoyment, however, the idea of a being flashmobbed with a bit of Advent-tide polyphony so tickled my sense of delight, that I decided to post this one instead. Enjoy:
I tried to think of something inspirational to say, but the mind is not what she used to be. Just listen to this, and read the translation, and tell me if you are not ready for Christmas. (Yes, this one ends the same way as the last - the O Antiphons are sung before the Magnificat , and these videos include that is well. There were shorter ones to chose from, but I liked the quality of these, and the translation. So there.)
That begins today, and is commemorated by a series of special Antiphons which are sung during the Divine Office. They are called the Great O Antiphons as each on starts with the exclamation "O".
O Sapientia
O Adonai
O Redix Jesse
O Clavis David
O Oriens
O Rex Gentium
O Emmanuel
The practice of sing the Antiphons goes back at least to 5th century, but the origin of the custom is unknown. There is a good - albeit brief article here, if you'd like more information.
The traditional Catholic Holy Week ceremonies are among the most beautiful of the whole liturgical year. During the Holy Tridiuum - which is Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday - the recitation of the Divine Office is replaced by the office of Tenebrae, a very solomn series of psalms and antiphones deeply lamenting the death of Christ and His betrayal at the hands of His friends, mitigated by exaultant passage, rejoicing in the triumph of Christ. Tenebrae for Good Friday is particularly dynamic. At the beginning of the service, there is a lighted candleabra before the altar, which is gradually extiguished between the chanting of the office, which focuses primarily on the Passion and Death of Christ. The last candle is extinguished to coincide with the reading of the Death, leaving the church in darkness.... then, in imitation of the earthquake that happened on the first Good Friday, the congregation knocks on the back of the pews, and stomping on the floor. It is incredibly stirring. Here is a video of it on youtube. It is bit on the long side, running to nine minutes or so, but if you skip forward to about 7:45 - 8:00 minutes, you can hear the earthquake.) I have only ever had the chance to attend all of the Holy Week services, including Tenebrae, one time in my life, but it made a tremendous impression on me, and gave me a life long devotion for the Catholic liturgy.
