Rector's Notes: Fr. Patrick T. Twomey

The Sweat of Blood

2008-02-11T11:33:00.000-08:00

Immediately following the story of Jesus’ baptism in the River Jordan, we hear the story of his temptation in the wilderness. This period of trial, analogous to the forty year wandering of the Children of Israel in the Sinai Peninsula, is a preparation for the public inauguration of Jesus’ ministry. The temptation story concludes: “The devil left him, and suddenly the angels ministered to him.”

The ministration of angels does not, however, signal an end to his trial. After John’s arrest Jesus starts his public ministry of preaching, teaching and healing, stories in which demonic powers are commonly mentioned. In what is generally regarded as a summary statement of Jesus’ ministry, we hear this summary of a single day’s work: “And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons, and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.”

The gospels themselves do not sort out, at least to our satisfaction, the relationship between demonic possession, sin, and illness. The story of the man born blind in John’s gospel certainly raises a caution about any straight and logical connection between sin and disease. And Jesus’ own commitment to those, who in virtue of their illness, were regarded as ritually unclean, gives a telling example of how we ought to regard the sick, as persons deserving our care and not our blame.

Still, though in admittedly strange language, the stories about Jesus are stories about conflict, about his rebuking the powers that bind and imprison people, the powers that leave people excluded, ignored, or the object of public ridicule. It isn’t entirely alien to modern thought, to acknowledge we find ourselves, both from within and without, caught up in patterns of thought and behavior, both personal and social, by which we feel caught. Simply, we ask, “Why did I DO that?” “What was I thinking when I SAID that?” And there is always the larger question about the social and environmental ills of which we are, in part, guilty, but not by open and conscious intention. We have not decided to increase global temperatures, and what role did we have in deciding whether the United States would invade Iraq. Our destruction isn’t a simple matter of choice; it is something into which we are drawn and caught. At this level, I think it makes good sense to consider the rigor of Jesus’ conflict. He did not save us by being nice. He saved us by breaking the chains that bind us.

In a sense, Jesus, because he is incarnate, because he takes our human flesh from the womb of his mother, is in the conflict which we know to be our own lives. He is one of us. He feels what it is to be pulled and torn, his empathies go out to all our sufferings and doubts as if each is his own. He who knew no sin could nonetheless feel the full weight of it. The mystery here needs to be seen from two directions. On the one hand he is what we are, and receives his humanity from his human mother. Yet he is the Son of the Father, and therefore, in being united to us, gives us something we cannot have on our own. He confers his own life. This divine life enters each and every conflict.

In his desert temptations, he acknowledges that he is to live “from every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Toward the end of the story, he says, “Worship the Lord your God and him only shall you serve.” His total self-dedication to the Father, which is his eternal vocation, is felt with all human anguish. His conflicts were real. One of his most significant struggles, the one to which I want to focus special attention, though with very few words, is his struggle in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Following the Last Supper in which he again predicted his betrayal and death, Jesus went out to pray, “as was his custom,” St. Luke says. In this time of prayer, seeing a real truth of his impending passion, his humanity not only runs in his veins, but falls from his body upon the ground. St. Luke says, “and he prayed the more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling on the ground. (Lk. 22:43) Here we see it for the first time—his body and blood—which is at the same time our body and blood. He has entered into all of human history. He is in agony.

Of course the great temptation is to leave. “Father let this cup pass from me.” But then he lives only from the words that come from the mouth of the Father, “not my will, but your will be done.” Jesus’ life was a sustained conflict felt with full human emotion. But to every single suffering, to every hurt, to every disease, to every torment of mind or soul, he brings the balm of a divine grace, and he acts as the great Physician.

The Lord's Prayer: Another Reflection

2007-11-28T09:35:00.001-08:00

A quite different context, that of the nineteenth century and the ministry of Fredrick Denison Maurice, offers a complementary view to that of St. Cyprian. While Cyprian’s emphasis is focused on our status as sons and daughters of God who are privileged to say “Our Father,” thus drawing special attention to the intimate and mystical dimension of the prayer, Maurice gives special consideration to the moral implications of the opening address. One ought to recall that sharp class division is the social context in which he writes. So the prayer seems to suggest a reassessment of how we regard our neighbor, whoever he or she may be. To say “Our Father” is to suggest that there is one Father of one human family. Maurice writes:

How can we look round upon the people whom we habitually feel to be separated from us by almost impassible barriers; who are above us so that we cannot reach them, or so far beneath us that the slightest recognition of them is an act of gracious condescension; upon the people of an opposite faction to our own, whom we denounce as utterly evil; upon men whom we have reason to despise; upon the actual wrong-doers of society, those who have made themselves vile, and are helping to make it vile—and then teach ourselves to think that, in the very highest exercise of lives, these are associated with us. That when we pray, we are praying with them and for them. . . . Think how many causes are at work every hour of our lives to make this opening word of the prayer a nullity and a falsehood. –Sermons on the Prayer Book and the Lord’s Prayer, London 1902, 283-293

The divisions at present in American society and reflected, in some measure, in the Church are now so deep and so vehemently felt, civil discourse is becoming painfully difficult, many people simply opting for a political correctness and coded politeness as a way of avoiding each other. It may be of some help to recall that those who dare to say “Our Father” thereby commit themselves to the conviction that we are inexorably bound together by the providence and love of one God. Radical as it may seem, we need our adversary, our opponent, our enemy. We are praying with them and for them. Some solid meditation on this point may start to carve out room for a God who is infinitely beyond our grasp and whose love cannot, by our standards, be constrained. Is this easy? No. The easy response, always posing as the reasonable response, is to fight, argue, win, and, if necessary (and how often are we told this is necessary), kill. But God’s ways are not ours, for which we might give thanks. There is, I should add, some real civic benefit to this universal vision of the human family. St. Augustine once remarked that we do not love our enemies to the end that they should remain our enemies, in which case nothing has really changed. Rather, he asserted, we love them to the end that they should become our friends. Therefore, a real transformation is under way in saying “Our Father.” .

Cyprian’s Emphasis in his Tract on the Lord’s Prayer

2007-11-26T11:27:00.000-08:00

Cyprian’s Emphasis in his Tract on the Lord’s Prayer

In teaching a course on the Lord’s Prayer drawn principally from a tract by St. Cyprian, I have been especially stuck by the significance of the opening words of the prayer. No less, however, I found very helpful Cypian’s counsel that those who are praying give adequate attention to preparation. The prayer is to be “modest” and “decent.” “Let us think that we stand in the presence of God.” The “composure of the body” and the “manner of voice” ought to be pleasing to the divine eyes. “The imprudent person roars with cries.” On the other hand, “It befits modesty to pray with modest prayers.” Finally, “The Lord has commanded us to prayer in secret . . . that we may know that God is present everywhere."

This preparation is not unlike what one might do prior to vigorous physical exercise or attending a play or concert. Some initial planning and transitioning can add immensely to the experience and even enjoyment of a task that requires one’s full attention. Some attention to the body, to the voice, to the quieting of distractions, to an awareness of God’s presence everywhere may help the significance of the words to open themselves more deeply at both a conscious and unconscious level.

After giving Jesus a series of titles, he turns to the body of the prayer. It is worth pausing, however, to think of Jesus as “The Doctor of peace,” “The Teacher of Unity,” “The Teacher of Concord.” These titles and our background knowledge that Cyprian wrote an important treatise entitled “The Unity of The Catholic Church” gives ample evidence of the emphasis he gives to the prayer.

Finally, he quotes the opening line of the prayer, “Our Father who art in heaven.” Immediately he tells us that “A new Human Being” dares to say these words. “A new Human Being, reborn by his own God, restored through his grace, says Pater in the first place because he (she) has begun to be a son (daughter). “From this he ought to begin to give thanks and confess that he (she) is a son (daughter) of God, while he calls God his Father in heaven.” Earlier he remarked that “The God of peace and teacher of concord wants each one to pray for all, just as Jesus carried all in one (himself).”

The emphasis upon our status as sons and daughters of God, that is, our position as persons reconstituted by the forgiveness and grace of Christ, suggest that we pray in union with Christ and share in the intimacy of his prayer to the Father. Again, Cyprian: “We call the Lord Father, so in fact we name ourselves sons (daughters) of God.”

There is, of course, some quite striking spiritual implications to this teaching. While Cyprian commends our being deeply award of “standing in the presence of God,” and so is not commending an excessively casual or complacent approach to prayer, he is presenting for special attention something he believes is completely new, fitted for a “New Human Being.” This person is restored and reconstituted in Christ, drawn up into the life of Christ, and so prays with the freedom of Christ’s own prayer to the Father.

So a New Human Being has a New Prayer. Our Father who art in Heaven.

A Prayer on Mothers’ Day

2007-05-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

A Prayer on Mothers’ Day

[A parishioner, whose father, during the period of the Second World War, was the Rector of the parish which I currently serve, has delivered to me a file containing many of his papers, sermons, meditations, and prayers. Fr. Spicer was a powerful and influential leader in establishing the Eucharist as the primary service throughout the Episcopal Church. Toward the end of his active ministry, he received an honorary doctorate from Seabury-Western Theological Seminary for his efforts to renew the liturgical life of the church, and particularly for his leadership as a tireless teacher. The following is a prayer he wrote for Mothers’ Day. I used it to honor the women of my parish, and also as a reminder of our distinguished past. May God continue to bless the women of the church. And thanks be to God for Fr. Spicer’s life of devoted service in Christ’s name.]

“O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life: send thy blessing on all the mothers of the world in whatever need they may have, physical, spiritual, or mental; grant them light and strength so to teach and love and care for their children that they may grow in truth and love; when the time comes for them to go their own way, give the mothers serenity of heart and confidence in thee, that what they have done in doubts and uncertainties, may be fulfilled in the comfort of Thy Name, that human frailties and inadequacies may be swallowed up in they love and forgiveness; and, we beseech thee, O Father, to grant to all women who have not been granted the privilege of motherhood so to be joined together in thy human family of the Body of Christ that they may reflect in their lives the spirit of motherhood to all thy children, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Monica in the Church of St. Augustine

2006-11-04T08:52:00.000-08:00

Walking north the full length of Piazza Navona, I discovered the small street Via di San Augustino. Turning right only thirty or forty yards, I found, as I had been told the day before by a fellow classmate, the Church of Saint Augustine. In spite of his fame as a pillar in the Western Church, the edifice dedicated to his memory is not even mentioned in my “Eyewitness Travel Guide.” The map shows the location marked with a cross, but omits even the name. It is one of hundreds of churches in the eternal city, and not one, presumably, of great significance. But who decides? I entered the church and immediately began looking, not only at the general layout and artwork of the building, but specifically for the place where the body of St. Monica rested. Having looked at each of the side altars and not finding her, and being somewhat disheartened by the scaffolding covering much of the western wall, I wondered if I would see her tomb. Was I (a tourist/student doubts easily) in the right place?

I decided to seek assistance from the caretaker. Italian would help, of course, and though I had done some reviewing before the trip, my Latin studies promptly drove it from my mind, leaving only a few intelligible words at my disposal when needed. Truthfully, Italy, unless one is living with an Italian family and sworn solely to the use of the native tongue, or otherwise forced to do something more difficult than shopping and buying food, doesn’t help much with Italian fluency. Provided you have the money, you can eat and purchase most anything you want with little or no Italian. But in this situation, I had to ask where the body of Monica was laid. “Dove’ Santa Monica?” A flourish of Italian and pointing made it quite clear that her tomb was closed because of the construction. These things happen. When visiting Rome in 1999, I made peace with the fact that I would not see the façade of St. Peter’s. At the end of my eight week stay, workers began to take the scaffolding down that obscured it to reveal an incredibly clean image of Christ and the apostles. I saw a fraction of the total façade, a loss which was duly corrected upon my return in 2002. You can’t see everything, not in one trip, not in many.

But I wanted to see her grave. So I explained myself. English was pointless, and Italian too rough. So I spoke in Latin, though using a couple Italian words “HERI Ostiae fui DOVE Monica mutua est.” (Yesterday I was in Ostia where monica died.) Incomprehension is easy to spot, in any language. As I turned away, however, the man touched me on my shoulder. His hands at his side, he discretely waved for me to follow him toward the high altar, then to the left. We were stopped by boards and yellow caution tape. He waved for me to step over, then, pointing north to an apse left of the high altar, he said something that remains one of the more significant words I carry from this trip, I carry it with me even now. He said, “Monica,” and then walked away.

I walked over debris and parts of disassembled scaffolding until I reach the apse containing the altar under which a portion of her remains have rest since their transfer from Ostia to the Eternal City in 1430. There I remembered Augustine, beseeching his future readers, “to remember at your altar my mother, Monica, your servant, with Patrick my father. . . Remember with deep affection my parents in this transitory light.” The few minutes alone at this site, amidst deep silence, provided one of my most vivid memories, and clear justification for a path I began in earnest eight years earlier. Latin is long and hard. But it miraculously rolls away the stone of a history presumed dead by a modern church impetuously concerned with relevance. The patience required to let Augustine speak on his own terms, even if in an idiom our ears can barely hear, brings him and his story fully to life. It was a good and strong experience, to stand among the dead, who, in Christ, are yet living, real persons, who give life to the Church. Augustine and his mother. I stood amidst relics and debris. It is really one church spanning all these centuries.

Lenten Sermon by Leo the Great

2006-03-29T09:11:00.000-08:00

From a Lenten sermon by Leo the Great

N.B. Reading ancient theologians often requires bending one’s mind to patterns of thought and modes of expression which seem quite strange. Behold, for your meditation, this Lenten sermon by Leo the Great. I’ve tried to set forth a clear but quite literal translation.

____________________

On the Goodness of Love

In the gospel of John the Lord says, “In this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another:” and in an epistle by the same apostle we hear: “Beloved, love one another, because love is of God, and all who love, are born from God, and know God: and those who do not love, do not know God, for God is love.”

So – Let the minds of the faithful scrutinize themselves, and let them judge with a true examination the affections of their hearts. And if they find in their consciences some treasure from the fruits of love, they should not doubt that God is present within them, and that as they make themselves more and more open to such a divine guest, they will become more abundant in works of preserving mercy.

If in fact God is love, charity ought to have no end, because divinity is hemmed in by no limitation.

Although all times are fitting for exercising love, in these Lenten days we are especially encouraged: Those who desire to receive the Paschal mystery with holiness of soul and body, they should try especially to acquire this gift of love in which is contained the highest of all virtues and by which a multitude of sins is covered.

So, as we are about to celebrate that sacrament shining above all others, in which the blood of Jesus Christ absolves all our iniquities, let us first of all prepare offerings of mercy. And just as the goodness of God has forgiven us, so we ought to forgive those who have sinned against us.

Let a more open generosity be extended toward the poor and also to those bound by any infirmity, so that thanks may be offered to God with the voice of many, and by our fasting let refreshment be offered to the hungry. No devotion of the faithful is more pleasing to God than that which is extended to his poor, and wherever God finds an act of mercy, there he recognizes an image of his piety.

Don’t worry that you will exhaust your resources, because kindness is a great substance and the resources of kindness cannot be utterly spent when Christ nourishes and is nourished. In all these works the hand is found which increased the bread by breaking it and multiplied it by giving it away.

Let the one who distributes assistance be secure and happy. Indeed he will have the greatest riches, when he saves the least for himself, as blessed Apostle Paul says, “He who administers seed to the sower, will give bread for eating, and will multiply your seed, and will increase the growth of fruits of your justice,” in Christ Jesus our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit for ever and ever. Amen.

To Be Drawn

2005-10-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

Turning to Christ? It is never, as with all important changes, simply a question of amassing information and moving toward an apparent and obvious conclusion. A host of complex feelings and thoughts attend any important decision or change. Indeed, the precise reason why we choose one option over another may not even be clear. What moves a person in turning toward Christ?

While knowledge has an important role in Christian conversion and nurture, its role has never been preeminent. Reason helps and attends, but something else gives a decisive pull, something which, again and again, theologians have called “love”. A person is drawn to God, pulled by God’s own love to see and sense more and more what God gives, which again is God’s love. The love which draws is given, but given in such a way that it inflames a deeper love which heightens longing. Of the saints who have turned to this question—how we come to faith—St. Augustine stands as a giant and a great champion of “love.” In a sense, Augustine shows the allure and beauty of God as the cause of all salvation.

In a tract on John’s Gospel, commenting on the phrase “No one comes to me, unless the Father draws him.”, Augustine says that “the soul is drawn by love.” To the objection, still voiced today, particularly among Evangelical Christians, “How do I believe with the will [my free will or choice] if I am drawn?” Augustine answers, “It’s not enough to use the will, you are drawn by desire.” Augustine turns his focus on faith’s origin in God, not in oneself. God draws by love, prompting a loving response. He calls this inner working of emotion “a certain desire of the heart to which is this sweet celestial bread.” Continuing, he identifies attraction as a defining influences. “A person is drawn to Christ who is delighted by the truth, is delighted by beauty, is delighted by justice, is delighted by eternal life, for Christ is all these things.” The passive verbal construction is significant, highlighting that the person drawn is not “doing” something, but rather being pulled by the hidden and mysterious subject, which is God. Is this difficult to understand? Not in the least, Augustine says. We have examples all about us.

“Show me someone who loves, he knows what I mean. Show me someone full of desire, someone hungering, some thirsty wayfarer in the desert desiring the fount of an eternal homeland. Give me such. They know what I mean.” He gives an illustration, “Show a leafy branch to a sheep, and you draw it. Nuts are shown to a child and he is drawn. And where he runs, he is drawn by loving.” Augustine is careful to avoid any sense of compulsion which would override human freedom. “He is drawn without provocation of the body.” Rather, “he is drawn by the chain of the heart.” Speaking in the first person as if for God, he says “I give what he loves; I give what he hopes for.”

Throughout this subtle discussion of God’s alluring love, Augustine has in mind that salvation is rooted from first to last in the loving desire of God for the world. A passive response, though rendered without violation to free will, is a response inspired entirely by God’s love.

This is not only an insight for personal reflection, even prayer, but also a needed corrective to any version of Christian life which seems to make the whole enterprise dependent upon US. Rather, God who is all in all does all the loving and drawing. We, like someone thirsting or hungering, or someone newly in love, are drawn into the mystery of God’s love and beauty and justice.

Almost always, Augustine comes to our aid.

Always and Everwhere

2005-05-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

An old Johnny Cash song, recording by Khris Kristofferson, paints a picture of a man, who, having used and abused himself on Saturday night, walks the street alone on Sunday morning. Has the time already passed when people at least felt haunted by Sunday, pursued in their conscience by a Lord who summoned them? The song has this striking line:

"And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down."

We have now drifted a long way even from this, from not attending but at least knowing that something is out of joint. Today Christians in large numbers, at least in our part of God’s vineyard, greet each and every Sunday as an open question. Will we go to church today? Given what competes for our attention, and given that the marketplace of purchasing and entertainment is poised for our presence, what decision, honestly, can we expect people to make. As long as we are asking, weighing Church in relation to other options, Church is sure to come out on the losing side, and the liturgy is to suffer greatly, and no less the spiritual health of those who confess the name of Christ. “God is not mocked,” St. Paul remarked, “that which we sow, we will reap.” And if little is sown in the way of religious observance, participation, and public prayer, we can hardly expect lives to be conformed to the gospel.

But the culture is moving, and the tolling of the church bell may seem an empty gesture. Now the mega-churches make gains, but primarily by an unabashed imitation of popular culture. They attract and hold people in ways not unlike a mega-mall, giving a bit of this and that, doing, in some instance very good work in Christ’s name, and proclaiming a saving gospel. But what they do is quite intentionally cut-off from the historical pattern of the Church’s worship. Simply, it is not what the church has done—almost—always and everywhere.

We, on the other hand, along with millions of other Christians, worship in a way and according to a pattern which is nearly as old as the Church. We listen to readings, carefully selected so as to provide a comprehensive overview of the bible, not simply the weekly selection of the presiding minister. Our preaching is rooted in both the readings and the time of the church year, again according to a well formed and ancient liturgical calendar. Our Creed is the most ancient ecumenical creed of the Church, said throughout the world both as an act of worship and as a safeguard of the Church’s teaching. We pray for everyone, the Church and the world. We celebrate the Holy Communion and receive Christ’s body and blood according to his own direct command. All of this is done because the Church in any period receives what has been handed on. And yet, as St. Augustine remarked, “the Church is ever ancient and new.” And so this form of worship can be and must be imbued with life and energy, commending itself to each new generation.

But the liturgy will not live and prosper apart from the living commitment of the members of the church. Notwithstanding the anecdotal evidence that Anglicans cannot be convinced that Sunday morning worship is, as the prayer book has it, "our bounden duty," I cannot concede or relent in calling this community to a full and consistent worship of God every Sunday morning. In the long run, habit is far more important than episodic visits. Christ wills to claim his Church and has paid a dear price in doing so. But, ultimately, it is not simply a matter of duty or obligation, although these maligned words could use some new consideration. For a Christian, worship is, as St. Bernard remarked, “the business of business,” it is the thing most needful because it is our encounter again with a living Lord. “Living” is perhaps the word. Christ lives in his Church, Christ is present when the Church gathers, Christ gives his life again in a new sacramental way every time the Church breaks bread in his name. Christ wills to gather us so that he may again appear and speak and nourish.

One Body and One Spirit--The Papacy and Anglican Ecumenism

2005-04-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

The outpouring of affection toward Pope John Paul II, during the final days of his life, and the striking pilgrimage of millions of people to Rome to view his body and participate in his funeral, was an unmistakable sign of the love and respect he garnered from the world, particularly the young. With the election of his successor, Pope Benedict XVI, the Roman Catholic world looks ahead for new hope, leadership, and direction. It is, of course, at this time, a special obligation of the non-Roman Catholic Christian world to hold the new pope and the members of the Roman Catholic Church in our prayers.

This great story of a papal transition raises the question of how Christians from various traditions are, by virtue of their Christian confession solemnized in Baptism, united to each other. In his first address to the world, pope Benedict set forth his commitment to ongoing ecumenical work in rather strong language: “The current Successor of Peter feels himself to be personally implicated in this question and is disposed to do all in his power to promote the fundamental cause of ecumenism. In the wake of his predecessors, he is fully determined to cultivate any initiative that may seem appropriate to promote contact and agreement with representatives from the various Churches and ecclesial communities. Indeed, on this occasion too, he sends them his most cordial greetings in Christ, the one Lord of all.”

These remarks are set against the backdrop of the Second Vatican Council, which, in various ways, reached out not only to the non-Roman Catholic Christian world, but also to believer and non-believers alike. Speaking of the saving work of Christ, the council declared in reference to non-Roman Catholic believers, “The Church recognizes that in many ways she is linked with those who, being baptized, are honored with the name of Christian, though they do not profess the faith in its entirety or do not preserve unity of communion with the successor of Peter. For there are many who honor sacred scripture, taking it as a norm of belief and of action, and who show a true religious zeal. . . . They are consecrated by baptism, through which they are united to Christ.” (Lumen Gentium, Nn. 2, 15)

Although we may object to the claim that non-Roman Catholics do not profess the faith in its “entirety,” the admission that true Christians are found outside the Roman Catholic Church was a remarkable and important concession at the time and brought the Roman Catholic Church fully to the work of ecumenism. A great deal has happened since that time, and, despite the rather slow pace of institutional change, a great deal of genuine affection and prayer now binds the entire Christian world. Some significant theological work has also been accomplished since the council, unraveling old animosities and misunderstandings and producing some rather impressive joint theological statements.

Anglicanism came to the ecumenical task quite early, in the years immediately preceding the First World War, and has since remained committed to this important work. Long before the modern ecumenical movement, however, Anglicans recognized and openly admitted that they did not perceive or confess their particular ecclesial community to be the only one, or the only right one, or even the best one. Simply, Anglicans have always known that they bear their Christian confession alongside those of other denominations.

For instance, when Richard Hooker, perhaps our finest theologian, was under immense pressure to “unchurch” Roman Catholics at a time, in the seventeen century, when this was a common protestant position, he refused. Although believing that the Roman Church was defective in some ways, he remained convinced that it was a church nonetheless and had within it the instruments of salvation. Lancelot Andrewes, a famous preacher and theologian of the same period, remembered, in his private prayers, the whole church throughout the world. He prayed, “Let us pray for the catholic church; for the churches throughout the whole world; that is, for their truth, unity and stability; that all charity may flourish and truth may live. For our own Church; that what is lacking in it may be supplied; what is unsound, corrected; that all heresies, schisms, scandals, as well public as private, may be removed.” There is something remarkably generous and even beautiful in this position, saying, even saying openly, that we not only acknowledge others but even confess faults in our own church for which we seek correction.

There is a price to pay however. Anglicanism, precisely because it is what one scholar has called an “undifferentiated Catholicism” must constantly seek Christian truth in dialogue with those outside its own boundaries. The typical Anglican appeal to the “undivided church of the first five centuries” means precisely that Anglicanism is not self-insulated or protective. It looks to the very foundations which also belong to other Christians. The fact that Anglicanism was in significant ways forged in the fire of the Reformation means precisely that we cannot dismiss Protestantism, although it is not uncommon to find Anglicans of a high-church bent who play down this identification. The fact that the nineteenth century Catholic Movement within Anglicanism has influenced every aspect of our liturgy and theology means precisely that we cannot dismiss theological development throughout the middle ages all the way to the present time. Anglicanism claims the whole of Christian history, much of which unfolds in the turmoil and cross-fertilization of various religious communities and theological conflicts. While this is a generous and beautiful position, it is not one which can be maintained without hard work and not a small amount of psychological strain. After all, we are denied the peace and rest of knowing that we are right, or that our expression of the faith has a fullness which others lack.

The current Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, is a modern testament to our understanding of the church. He was raised a Presbyterian, but joined the Anglican Church in his youth. His doctoral dissertation was on the theology of Vladimir Llosky, one of this century’s finest Russian Orthodox theologians. He has written on Karl Barth, the greatest Protestant theologian of the twentieth century, and he has dedicated significant attention to translating the works of Hans Urs Von Balthasar, a great Roman Catholic theologian who was a favorite of Pope John Paul II. More recently he has written a collection of reflections on famous Eastern icons, again showing his deep sensitivity to Orthodoxy. And he continues to produce a stream of deeply penetrating essays, talks, and books on urgent moral questions.

But this all happens in the heart and mind of one person who is situated in the Anglican Communion, and now occupies its most prestigious post. His vocation, like that of all Anglicans, is not one simply of trying to be broadly informed or generously sympathetic to other traditions. Rather, these Christian traditions must, in some measure, be internalized as expressions of Christian truth, which is why there is always a great psychological and spiritual cost in our Christian development. We do not stop as if we have arrived. We continue with open and broken hearts, searching for the One Risen Lord as he is variously revealed in scripture, tradition, history, art, industry, and all aspects of human culture.

There may be no question of the rest of us thinking with the same depth as the current Archbishop. But that is not the point. Rather, Anglicanism is itself a summons to an ecumenical view of the Christian faith. Though rooted in our distinct tradition, we may joyfully receive the pope’s promise of a great ecumenical work, an effort to which every Anglican is summoned by the facts of our history and the mandate of our Lord.

Pray that we may be one.

A Real Difference

2005-04-11T13:20:00.000-07:00

Arriving home, I am greeted, not with a welcome, but a command. “You need to change your clothes.” This abruptness has its neurological justification. Allison, my older daughter, is cognitively impaired, and, like many other people similarly challenged, the world takes on a remarkable clarity. This, of course, is a fresh break from academic jargon and ecclesiastical sidestepping. She’s right. I need to change my clothes. I need to change from parochial father to domestic father, and, notwithstanding all that has been said, rightly, I believe, about the indelible character of ordination, people in my position ought to know when to set one role aside for another. It’s time to dance and talk and cook. While changing from black shirt to beige, I notice an advertisement sewn into my shirt. I had never seen it before. This MUST mean something. There it was, plain as day, the following words: “The Ultimate Shirt.” I put it on. I waited. Nothing. That is, nothing spectacular. I went downstairs and lived my domestic life.

Not exactly nothing. I had changed, and this is precisely what Allison expected and deserved, a father who is present here and not there.

We are all, more or less, dressing down these days, so there is less to notice about the distinction of particular dress as associated with either a role or status. But this was once very very important, and so has been fully exploited as a theological theme. To put on something carried weighty meanings. The Old Testament priests identified as “Aaron and his sons,” who made sacrifice for the people, wore ornate and opulent vestments: “You shall make sacred vestments for the glorious adornment of your brother Aaron. And you shall speak to all who have ability, whom I have endowed with skill, that they make Aaron’s vestments to consecrate him for my priesthood. . . . they shall use gold, blue, purple, and crimson yarns, and fine linen.” (Ex. 28:2,3) This would have been quite impressive against the muted colors of the Middle East, a dramatic announcement of the privilege and danger into which the priest is called in praying for the people. But that is not all. “You shall take the other ram; and Aaron and his sons shall lay their hand on the head of the ram, and you shall slaughter the ram and take some of its blood and put it on the lobe of Aaron’s right ear and on the lobe of the right ears of his sons, and on the thumbs of their right hand, and on the big toes of their right feet, and dash the rest of the blood against the side of the altar. Then you shall take some of the blood that is on the altar, and some of the anointing oil, and sprinkle it on Aaron and his vestments and on his sons and his sons’ vestments with him; then he and his vestments shall be holy as well as his sons and his son’s vestments.” (Ex. 29:19-21) This ancient rite, we are advised, was performed to consecrate the senses, the ear for hearing, the hand for touching sacred things, the foot for walking rightly upon holy ground. (The New Jerusalem Biblical Commentary) And who could doubt that something very important is at stake. The finest vestments worn by the elect priests, now dripping in blood is, if alien to our world, still a powerful image. They were being fitted to a task, made apt for a particular function, and they knew graphically its great importance.

Something of this lay in the background of St. Paul’s injunction to “put on the Lord Jesus Christ.” (Romans 13:14) After a long discourse on baptism in which he insists on a mystical and real identification of the baptized with Christ’s death and resurrection, he moves to a series of moral injunctions, a typical pattern in his epistles. That is to say, a theological transformation-- union with the very life of Christ-- implied a moral transformation. The injunctions are not, however, grounded in simple commands. Rather, he holds out the illustration of a completely new person, fresh, forgiven, risen, and newly vested with a new identity. This is, by Old Testament standards, less dramatic visually, but even more dramatic by its potential application. While a few wore the Aaronic robes dripping in the blood of rams, everyone and anyone may put on the Lord Jesus Christ.

Again, to review the baptismal teaching: “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.” (Romans 6:3,4) There is little escaping the sense that baptism implied a total and mystical transformation, which St. Paul illustrated, and which succeeding generations have also illustrated with a “baptismal gown.” Two days ago, I gathered with a family for a baptism. The mother stepped aside for a few moments to clothe her infant daughter in a long and elegant white dress. Does the mother know? Does anyone really know the wonder, glory, joy, even fear of giving a child over to the care of God? A little infant, and a new creation.

It is possible to describe the Christian life according to secondary goods: encouragement, education, nourishment, hope, joy. None will, of course, do justice to the thing itself, which is why so often liturgical and sacred texts are replete with expressions such as “the innumerable benefits procured unto us by the same” and “grace upon grace” and “eye hath not seen, nor hath ear heard what great things the Lord hath prepared for those who love him.” That “thing” is the Lord himself, reigning and yet suffusing bodies and souls, the blood and bone of those who come to him in faith. Christ is, in baptism, put on, a new and living identity. This is all invisible to a naked eye, and so we can, quite anonymously, go about the business of playing one role and then another. We work, which in my case means priest-ing about once in a while, we play, we listen to music, attend to children, help parents, all the while knowing, even without speaking, that we wear an identity which we cannot and will not remove. To be vested in Christ, is to be alive in the very source of life. But does anyone know, do I, the glory which this is, the wonder which it holds, to have a life hidden with God in Christ? And always.

Voice, Wine, and the God of Silence

2005-03-21T09:44:00.000-08:00

American soprano Renée Fleming, informing us that singers breathe in their own special way, writes in her book, The Inner Voice, “a singer releases her abdominal wall and back muscles outward, without pushing, as much as is humanly possible, allowing the diaphragm, involuntarily, to release down and the lungs to expand to their fullest. Crucial to this process is a release of the intercostal muscles, the ones that connect the ribs; releasing them allows the rib cage to expand outward and slightly upward as well.” (p. 39) I understand her, barely. Her world is not mine. Counting the muscles she must summon to her aid, she admits “that it’s almost impossible to check all of them off in your mind, and even more impossible to control them, since they are largely involuntary.”(p. 39) I can’t quite grasp the mechanical process of controlling, in some measure, what is beyond conscious manipulation, particularly given the many variables that, together, construct a voice. We, the listener, insofar as we bother to inquire, are simply amazed by the outcome. How does she do that? But, then, she sees mystery at every turn in the process of her education. What can be said about the voice? “It’s a bit like talking about God: you almost have to talk around it, because there is no exact language for the thing itself. And the lack of an exact language is always going to cause a great deal of misunderstanding.” (p. 59).

Are we not friends now? She will use circumlocutions for her topic, the small bands of cartilage God has put in her throat, and I—I dance around and with every word I utter because I can never get at the THING ITSELF.

The recent success of the film “Sideways,” which is ostensibly about the relationship between two friends, may largely be credited to the prominence of wine as a third character, a mysterious character at that. How do we talk about it, that luminous and ancient libation? There is a scene in which Miles, the snobbish connoisseur, instructs his friend in the art of wine tasting. Noting the subtleties of a particular wine, Miles goes a bit too far in finding the “faintest soupçon of asparagus” and a “flutter of nutty cheese.” (Wine Spectator, 4/30/05) But, then, what do we say? It is not enough to say it tastes like . . . wine! What help is that? What we might mean, in that case, is that the wine is young, vibrant, open, has a relatively short finish, is refreshing, and not too complicated. Simple and good. Fortunately, there is a lot of wine in this category. But, then, like a human voice, with its manifold manifestations, you really are forced to talk your way around the thing. It’s too subtle for a direct strike with strident and precise words. It needs to be evoked.

Now, let’s go to a party together, a conversation in the corridors of the office, a short greeting on the street. I (we) try saying to our conversation partners the ancient word: God. What happens? Everything goes dead, usually. Too bad we can’t talk openly about our faith. Is it? Openly, as in directly? How do we talk openly about God? How do we give words where no words are sufficient, and many words have done harm. Words, of course, are about all we have in trying to communicate, so the church has made ample use of them. But—we are told—the words are used analogically, that is, they suggest and evoke in ways that are true without claiming to be exhaustive.

In a world in which religion is now counted among our most lethal threats, some reticence may help. I certainly know that openly confessing my priesthood everywhere I go is less than becoming, and garners very few friends. So, for instance, three years ago, having met a fellow Latinist at a conference in Kentucky, whom I immediately liked, I left religion out. I was there for Latin. There were, of course, a few young clergy about in full gear, which my new friend found rather amusing, and irritating. I said nothing. We spoke and laughed through our tattered Latin for 10 days. On the last day, standing on the sidewalk beyond the grounds where Latin was enforced, she asked me in plain English, “What do you do?” “I’m a priest,” I said. We’ve been wonderful friends ever since. Had I spoken early, amidst her anti-religious remarks, all would have come to a crashing end.

I’m not ashamed of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I am, however, less than thrilled by a growing (and growing louder) popular Christian culture in which the word “God” is always at hand, spoken in clipped consonants, and, particularly among radio preachers, piped through strained vocal cords. I hear the mechanical reverberation, giving either a false depth to the voice, or, strangely, accentuating a high pitch verging on a shout. People don’t normally talk like this. What am I hearing? We could perhaps learn something again from Moses, standing alone, frightened in the presence of a burning bush.

“If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you.’ And they ask, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?” God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM.” --Exodus 3:13,14

Among possible interpretations, we have, “the formula constitutes a refusal on God’s part to betray his name to humanity, consequently reaffirming his transcendent otherness.” (The Jerome Biblical Commentary) Later, there developed a deep reverence for the name, whose Hebrew letters are YHWY. This was a God beyond all knowing, beyond manipulation, whose inner mystery could not even be pronounced. WHO IS—the mysterious ground of all creation. If it doesn’t help to say, “It tastes like wine,” or, “Why don’t you sing better,” then we should expect a wide space for silence and the necessity of circumlocutions, poetry, evocations, prayers, and gesture as a way of groping toward a mystery we cannot simply call forth with sharp, commanding words.

“Do this in Remembrance of Me”

2005-03-17T13:14:00.000-08:00

A Methodist for the Day

There is, of course, no trouble in my being a Methodist. After all, their founders, John and Charles, never left the established Church of England, although some of its established practices, parochial boundaries, for instance, received their direct challenge, a practice not particularly appreciated by vicars and bishops who viewed this an affront to authority. But on matters of doctrine/teaching it is quite remarkable to note that the Methodists share much of our sacramental teaching.

No doubt, this escapes the attention of not a few Anglo-Catholic, High-Church types, although attentive scholars have identified a very direct line from the Evangelical sacramentalism of the Wesleys in the eighteen century to the sacramental revival associated with the Catholic Movement a hundred years later. Methodist theologian and scholar, Albert Outler, has amply demonstrated that the Wesley brothers thought of their movement as “an evangelical order within a catholic Church.”

The following are a few excerpts from a sermon originally preached by a young John Wesley to his students at Lincoln College, Oxford in 1787. He returned to this sermon, with very few alterations, fifty years later as a full affirmation of his commitment to a strong sacramental understanding of the Eucharist. Of particular interest is the way in which he clearly accepts and defends what Outler calls “sacramental grace as God’s love in action.” There is no thought of the Eucharist being a mere or bare sign which simply stimulates the memory of a past event. So, John Wesley speaks of real, practical, and urgent spiritual benefits:
“the forgiveness of our past sins”
“the present strengthening and refreshing of our souls”
“strength to perform our duty”
“Leads us on to perfection”
“the sacrament is the continual remembrance of the death of Christ, by eating bread and drinking wine, which are the outward signs of the inward grace—the body and blood of Christ”

It is altogether evident that the Wesleys affirmed what the current Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, has termed “Christ’s personal action in the Eucharist.” And this is in direct continuity with a primitive understanding of the Eucharist. St. Irenaeus is a fitting and challenging example from the second century. He writes, “We offer to him the things that are his own (bread and wine), consistently announcing and confessing the fellowship and unity of flesh and spirit. For as the bread taken from the earth, when it has received the consecration from God, is no longer common bread but is the Eucharist, which consists of two realities, earthly and heavenly; so also our bodies, when they receive the Eucharist, are no longer corruptible, but have the hope of resurrection to eternal life.” (Jaroslav Pelican, The Emergence of the Catholic Tradition, p. 167.)

But is this, or something of the sort, floating about in the thoughts and consciousness of Anglicans and Methodists alike? John Wesley preached his sermon because it clearly was not. Even now, what benefits might we receive, both felt and imperceptible, if we came to this most sacred feast expecting Christ to act in our lives? And, more broadly, what would it be like if both clergy and the faithful laity approached the entire liturgy as a special event in which Christ acts among his people. Not a mere recitation or an hour of instruction, but Christ speaking, strengthening, encouraging, forgiving, feeding, blessing, and sending. I dare say, the living event of a living Christ is what we need. It might be show time at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, but it would certainly help to note clearly, get straight, and hold on to a more primitive view, what John Donne called “the showing forth of Christ.” Imagine that. If we are just fooling around, let’s stay home. Sleep and coffee are also a gift from God. But if the Eucharist is the presence of a living Christ for the renewal and strengthening of our lives week after week, then let us come, on time, ready, expectant.

Caring Alike for Young and Old (Ordination Rite)

2005-03-16T09:03:00.000-08:00

The current interest in congregational development, outreach and evangelism, notwithstanding its often rather crass concern with counting heads and raising money, has given leaders a chance to step back and think about what the church is doing. Why are we here? What purpose do we serve? This sort of examination, carefully guided, can be helpful. But there are notable dangers in every direction. For instance, discerning the demographics of a parish community is now a common practice: Where do people live? What level of education do they have? How old are they? This search for objective data is often tainted by an anxiety over the looming and growing “youth” churches.

Many of our country’s newest and largest churches, which frequently have no formal denominational ties, have deliberately marketed themselves to “Generation* (I’m not certain whether they are Generation X,Y, or Z—the sociological jargon is in constant flux). Sadly, as the established churches, such as our own, look to this phenomenon, there is a temptation, to which we have indeed fallen, to see the elderly as, well, a mild impediment to growth and change. This is sometimes openly acknowledged in discussions about growth and evangelism.

Noting that approximately 30 percent of the people attending my congregation are more than 70 years old, none of whom have placed a noose around my neck or otherwise exerted undue political pressure, I have to think about the way this sector of the worshiping community is treated and talked about. My personal truth in nearly nineteen years of parish ministry is that I have found these people to be lavishly generous, openly helpful, and the greatest source of volunteer labor in both the parish and the community. Why are they, in any sense, maligned? Though I am still, among my colleagues, one of the younger clergy who might be good for reaching youth, an obligation grips me which I learned perhaps in childhood. I owe to my elders due respect and appropriate gratitude.

A healthy and growing parish will, of course, make diligent efforts to reach out to youth, singles, newly married, and young families. This is important work and a special challenge. How then are the generations to relate? Obviously, simple respect and common sense will go a very long way in helping a parish to sort this out. This theme, however, has been a subject of the ages, and we might well learn from the past. Consider these words of Cicero; place them in the context of a community, a parish:

“As the wise elderly enjoy the company of young people endowed with wonderful gifts of life and skill, their old age becoming lighter because they are respected and loved by the young, so also young people rejoice in the wisdom of their elders by which they are led to the study of virtue (a good life).” Cicero, De Senectute

Could there be a more just balance? We may, of course, invert the sequence and retain the essential truth. Often, older people are delighted by the wisdom of the young, and the young are uplifted by the life and gifts of their elders.

Finally, I arrive at an answer. Why are we here—parishes—what are we doing? Before succumbing to excessive analysis, we might find some direction in recalling, for instance, a line from the Westminster Confession: “Q. What is the end/purpose of life? A. To worship God and glorify him forever.” Before program or growth or scheme, we place the worship of God, in spirit and in truth. The church gathers to “lift up our hearts” in the presence of God. And who comprises the church, to whom are we reaching out? The Prayer Book is rather diffuse and expansive in answering this question, rather like the gospel itself. The gospel is to be preached, we are told, “to all of God’s people to the end of time.” I’m still young, too young to be a priest strangers tell me, but in my mid-forties it is easy to imagine the rapid passage of years. If the elderly are an impediment, I shall be the same. But still I take heart. Someone will remember that the church is under an absolute mandate of the gospel: to care for the young and old alike.

Allowing Christ's Risen Life

2005-03-14T15:43:00.000-08:00

The current Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, poses an important challenge regarding our use of the symbols employed with particular power during Holy Week and Easter. In his superb book entitled Easter, he writes "It is precisely when Christ's sufferings and mine are brought intimately together that the image of the crucified is indeed in danger of degradation. We experience ourselves as sufferers, as victims, and so experience Christ's cross as a symbol of who and what we are." (p.77) His point is well taken, as it is more than evident that faithful laity and clergy alike often find it difficult to embrace a deep identification with Christ's Risen life. By way of contrast, to use St. Augustine as but one example, the early Church was alive with hope and joy. Augustine writes that "The saints, while they lived, were rejoicing in their age." "Some," Augustine says, were performing their worship "with continuous merriment/hilarity." In precisely these times, without, of course ignoring the dangers we face in the world, or the various challenges we face in the church, it is, I believe, of the greatest importance to give voice again to the central claim of Resurrection Joy.

There is a kind of suffocating seriousness which subverts the very life Christ gives. I'm not, of course, suggesting that the Joy of New Life in Christ can be forced. It is not yet another obligation, and an emotional obligation at that, to which we are summoned. We are not under some bounden duty to smile or otherwise look happy. This joy is a given Joy. As pure gift, and as the very face of forgiveness, the Risen Lord invites us, in union with him, to live again.