4 | NOVEMDIALES LUCTUS
4 NOVEMDIALES LUCTUS The Frankincense scent wafting around the altar is both bitter and sweet, dry as the desert wind, yet warm, like the old pages of a Bible. It ascended, curling slowly through the air with a dignity as ancient as Mount Sinai, where Moses received the Ten Commandments from God, or the Mount of Beatitudes, where Jesus often prayed in a grotto in solitude on the southeastern side of this mountain, near Tabgha and Capernaum. The thurible, emitting the incense, had in it the resin of suffering and the echo of sacred things in psalms or canticles. Absent of frivolity in a sacrifice of scent, it carries within it the breath of prophets, the sorrow of mothers, the prayers of forgotten saints. There were theologians who looked at the rising smoke as the material world being spiritualized, the finite matter consumed in flame, exuding fragrant offering to the Infinite. The incense became the outward sign of the “divinization of the universe”—the slow, aching process ...