Every American is familiar with the words of 19th century poetess Emma Lazarus mounted on the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. Her memorable phrases are a portion of a longer poem entitled “The New Colossus.” Miss Lazarus wrote earnestly:
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she, With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Our current age, which is facing a new wave of controversial immigration, might well reflect on America's history of welcoming the great unwashed multitudes as well as a good number of exiled aristocrats from other lands. America is indeed a nation of immigrants, a society of displaced persons, so to speak. The humble roots of most Americans should never be ignored.
It is with this keen sense that most American families started out as riffraff that American Catholics should appreciate the change of terminology that is going to take place within the words of consecration at Mass this coming Advent. For almost 40 years, English-speaking priests have prayed, “This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant; it will shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.” Come December the celebrant will be heard uttering a slight alteration, “This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant; it will shed for you and for many so that sins may be forgiven."
Some observers have sensed the change from “all” to “many” hints that Christ did not die to save all peoples. They muse that the word “many” is somewhat exclusive, not quite as universal, as catholic, as the word “all.” In English the word “many” may stand in contrast to the word “all.” But if worshippers pause to remember that the New Testament was not written in English (with all due respect to King James) but rather in Greek, the word “many” reveals a deeper and significant meaning.
The Greek word employed by St. Matthew in his Last Supper narration is “pollos.” Readers who were never fortunate enough to study Greek in college will still be familiar with this word in the fairly common expression “hoi polloi,” meaning the masses, or the multitudes, or the crowds. The “hoi polloi” are "the sheep without a shepherd" with whom Jesus deeply sympathized.
They are the multitude whom Jesus amply fed in the wilderness. So St. Matthew's “hoi polloi” are precisely Emma Lazarus's “huddled masses,” “wretched refuse” and “homeless.”
Recall that in Jesus’ day wealth was a sign of divine favor. “The just shall prosper,” wrote the prophet. The well-to-do could take their salvation for granted. It was the poor, the needy, the disadvantaged that stood in need of celestial benevolence in the ancient world. And these, in particular, are the souls for whom Jesus died. The deliverance of the upper classes was assumed. Their earthly comforts proclaimed their predestination. But what about the beggars, the lepers, the blind, mute, deaf and lame? What would save them? Certainly not their own merits but the saving death of Jesus Christ would effect the salvation of the “hoi polloi,” the redemption of the faceless masses, the emancipation of the neglected many from the prospect of eternal doom.
In a careful analysis, the biblical “many” is deliberately more inclusive than the generic “all.” Jesus did indeed die to save all men. Yet singling out the masses, the multitudes, and the many as the special focus of Christ’s death indicates how truly inclusive his death and resurrection really were. Christ certainly died for all but especially for those whom ancient society so often ignored.
The words of Christ at the Last Supper and now the words of consecration at English-speaking Masses throughout the world proclaim evocatively and eloquently that the blood of Christ cleanses all men and women from the stain of sin including those who too often sit by the roadside, despised by the privileged, ignored by the busy, forgotten by society.
