"Anima Christi"

When I was seven, I had my first introduction to Gregorian Chant. My mom enrolled me in a small children’s choir as an extracurricular. The choir was run by a kind woman with unbounded enthusiasm. Armed with several copies of “The Parish Book of Chant,” a pitch pipe, and some colorful stickers to reinforce good behavior, she aspired to initiate our motley crew of half tuneful, half tone-deaf singers into the art of traditional liturgical chant. I was one of the youngest in the group, and I will admit I never actually figured out how to read the chant notation. Instead, I grew proficient at copying the movements of the older children as they followed along in their hymnals, and I simply memorized the songs from repetition.

Amid the hushed sacred moments of our liturgical performances and the spirited hijinks of my elementary school friends during our choir practices, my young self was deeply touched by the gravity and transcendent nature of the chants we learned. I remember being particularly struck by the “Anima Christi.” The simple, almost repetitive notes of the Mode VIII musical arrangement gave me time to ponder the Latin words as I struggled to pronounce them correctly. The sheet music I had been given had both the lyrics’ Latin original and the English translation. I remember rolling the foreign words over in my mind, captivated by the imagery they evoked.

Anima Christi, sanctifica me. “Soul of Christ, sanctify me.” Soul of Christ? I had never heard that exact phrase before. I pictured something pure white and wispy like a cloud floating from my head to my toes, making me holy.

Corpus Christi, salva me. “Body of Christ, save me.” That line I understood. Preparing for my First Communion, I knew that God would give His body to me as the Bread of Life, and in doing so, fill me with His grace.

When we came to Sanguis Christi, inebria me: “Blood of Christ, inebriate me,” I wasn’t quite sure what ‘inebriate’ meant, but I had a vivid mental image of the next line: Aqua lateris Christi, lava me. I could see the gush of water flowing from Jesus’ lance-pierced side. I was standing under it, letting it wash over me like the stream from a shower hose. It was so refreshing and clean that it could wash away all the dirt and grime from my soul.

I especially gravitated towards the image from the seventh line: Intra tua vulnera absconde me. I had seen paintings of St. Thomas the Apostle placing his finger inside the wound in Christ’s side, but I wondered what it would look like if I crawled into that wound, if I curled up very, very tightly and felt the protection of Jesus’ body on every side. Maybe I would even be close enough to hear His Sacred Heart beating!

It has been some time since I first stumbled through the words of “Anima Christi.” The simple tune from the Parish Book of Chant still weaves through my mind every so often, and many of these first impressions from choir practice have stayed with me. Now, as I study Theology, I hear new meaning in the words of “Anima Christi.” But I think there is a unique beauty in hearing Gregorian Chant with a child’s imagination. I recall that when I was still learning the chant, the Latin words from one line in particular would always trip up my tongue: Ne permittas me separari a te. “Separated from Thee let me never be.” I hope these words continue to ring in my head every time I hear the “Anima Christi” sung or recite the prayer by myself. Let me never be separated from You, Jesus, that I might sing your praises more beautifully in heaven than I could ever hope to on earth!