Tag Archives: Book of Common Prayer

The Messy History of the Sacraments in 6 Questions

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[This is the second of three posts about the sacraments. The first was yesterday's: “What is a Sacrament?”.]

As we explored yesterday, our Sacraments, primarily Holy Eucharist and Holy Baptism, are a physical and spiritual means of receiving grace. Today, we’ll have a small taste of the messiness around the living out of the Sacraments. There is no way I could sum up two thousand years of conflict in 500 words or fewer without scrubbing out big parts of the story. So, rather than go chronologically, I’ll name several significant issues for what they reveal to us.

1) How many sacraments?

Depending on who you talk to, there are either seven or two. Or perhaps 2+5. We have inherited from our ancestors two sacraments that are scriptural and attributed to Jesus: Eucharist and Baptism. We have also inherited five more that grew out of the tradition: confirmation, ordination, matrimony, reconciliation of a penitent, and unction.

2) Are some more important?

If we believe that all sacraments are of equal value, we have to treat them as equals. If we recognize that only Eucharist and Baptism are “authorized” by Jesus, does this mean that the others are “lesser”? And by extension, unnecessary?

3) What happens in…

The Eucharist—Perhaps the most famous conflict in the church is the one over what we think happens in the Eucharist. As I discussed yesterday, we are torn between the ideas that the host actually becomes Jesus or that Jesus is merely symbolically remembered. Many Christians have sought a different interpretation that rejects that binary question, arguing that something changes that allows the bread to be bread and something new.

Baptism—Are we dunked in the water as adults to reject a sinful past or are we sprinkled with water as infants to protect us from evil? The character of baptism is about transformation and the rejection of evil. It has also historically been an entrance rite to the church, proving one’s commitment and participation in the community. Since the Patristic age, these purposes have not run in unison and caused great conflict as we have chosen one purpose over the other.

 4) Who is in charge of the sacraments?

This question gets into what we call ecclesiology, or the study of the church, and is often a conversation about authority. The historical matrix we have for these discussions is about distribution of power in the church, either to a priestly class or to the laity. This has meant that our understanding of who gets a say in the sacraments is based on how hierarchical one’s church is. For Catholics, this means the line goes all the way up to the pope. For many Protestants, the line goes straight into the individual participant that may be given authority by the worship community. For many of us, we live in a both/and structure with ordained authority figures as gatekeepers who attempt to inhabit a grass-roots theology of collaboration.

5) What if the gatekeeper sucks at it?

As persistent as these other questions have been for the church, perhaps none is as damaging as this one. In the early days, there was a group called the Donatists. Their focus was on purity and they began to reject the sacraments from those who were not doctrinally pure enough. In other words, they refused taking communion from people who didn’t believe “right” (as in their way). Even though this is one of the named heresies condemned by the worldwide church, you don’t have to look very hard to find Donatists in our midst.

6) Must we keep the gates?

This is most timely of these questions, as we rediscover the roots of our sacraments and question how best to embody them in our world. Questions about restrictions to the sacraments are causing great conversation (and conflict) in many parts of the church. In many ways, this is the outgrowth of the church’s historic response to question 5, which is to say that the sacrament is a sacrament by grace—not the magic powers of the individual. This shifts the power from the gatekeeper to the Holy Spirit (where it perhaps always was) and changes some of our expectations. In the Book of Common Prayer, it gives instruction for the priest to deny the sacraments to anyone we suspect is an unrepentant sinner, meaning it is actually my obligation to keep the gate. But is that itself theologically consistent?

How we wrestle with these questions does a great deal to inform our theology. Perhaps more important is that we recognize the need to wrestle with them.

Tomorrow, we’ll explore how we choose our theology about the sacraments, and what this does to our practice.

What are your favorite theological fights? Are they over sacraments? How do you deal with some of the messiness in the sacraments?

What is a Sacrament?

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Over the next three days, I’ll briefly explore the nature of our sacraments. Starting with what we actually mean by the word.

According to the Book of Common Prayer (pp. 857-8):

The sacraments are outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace, given by Christ as sure and certain means by which we receive that grace.

Many of us can recite the first half of that definition: the part about their being an “outward and visible sign of inward and spiritual grace”. But when we call something a sacrament, what are we really saying? Primarily that this (to whatever we are referring) is the observable part of something bigger. Like the water in baptism or the thin wafer many of us use for Communion. That these are something physical and observable, that direct us to something more than that.

Perhaps more difficult is the second half: that these are “sure and certain means” of receiving grace. Most challenging, I think, based on the way we think and behave, is that we are able to receive grace through physical means or that our “sacramental” habits possess in them the very grace “given by Christ”. Like Calvin, we might see that thin wafer, as just a wafer. We also need not adopt an understanding that is hard for our post-Enlightenment brains to comprehend: namely that the thin wafer that tastes like Styrofoam is somehow magically turned into a person’s flesh who has been dead for 2000 years. But we are being invited into a mystery in which that wafer becomes more than a wafer.

We may have to get what is meant by grace:

Grace is God’s favor towards us, unearned and undeserved; by grace God forgives our sins, enlightens our minds, stirs our hearts, and strengthens our wills.

For us, then, the sacrament is a hint at the world beyond this one and are something we do together. They also exist as a means by which we can know and sense that GOD-given grace. It is no wonder, then, that the sacraments involve a physical nature: water on the skin, food and drink in the mouth, oil on the forehead, hands on the head and shoulders. Sacraments are intended to be experienced in our bodies, not merely our minds.

This, then, is the story of sense and understanding, of feeling and thinking. The sacraments can’t be confined to one way of comprehension.

Tomorrow we’ll explore some of the messy history of sacraments.

In the meantime, what is your experience with the sacraments? How do they feel? What do you think? And how have they worked?

For My Son: Changing the Lord’s Prayer

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Photo 2013-03-27 08.58.39 PM

Right off the bat. I have to confess that I am predisposed to the modern Lord’s Prayer. Even better are some of the rewrites I’ve heard in the last year or so. Some really good praying is happening. Tonight, I’m now all in. Here’s why.

Praying with my son.

I used to argue that we can change anything else, just not the Lord’s Prayer. I was convinced, since its the only thing people know by heart, we couldn’t do it to them.

Until I discovered how many actually don’t know it.

And what keeping it is doing to others.

Then I tried it, and found that I preferred it. But the churches I’ve served don’t use it, so I don’t lead it.

How easily those words slip out of my mouth:

Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name they kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who tresspass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever and ever amen.

Words, so foreign, so strange, so opaque. Yet familiar and comforting. Words of childhood. Old, distant words. Words that aren’t mine. It was the only prayer in the whole book my parents required me to memorize.

Something is different tonight. Something in the air. Something in my heart.

I have been praying the other version from the Book of Common Prayer with my kids for the last few weeks. And tonight, it really struck me. I had forgotten to slip it in between the two songs. I started slowly and deliberately.

Our Father in heaven,

hallowed be your name.

Your Kingdom come

your will be done

on earth as in heaven.

Give us today our daily bread

and forgive us our sins

as we forgive those who sin against us.

Save us from the time of trial

and deliver us from evil.

For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours,

now and forever.

Amen.

It doesn’t rattle off the tongue, it sings off it. It pleads off it. It yearns off it. These are not the convictions of the powerful or the expectations of a people that enact blue laws. It isn’t a prayer for memorizing, but for living. These are the hopes and dreams of a people so beat up, so small. The prayer I want my son to know.

Not a prayer of yesterday, or a prayer that is one Jesus taught some people long dead. A prayer that speaks to GOD’s dream for all of humanity in every age and in every moment. And more to the point, a prayer that speaks to my son. A prayer that tells him that Christ is yearning for more than what we have in this world and compels him to see it, to strive for it, to make that dream a reality. A prayer that isn’t my prayer forced upon him, but a prayer known and accepted

because it is his.

Tonight, this prayer is ours.

time to ditch the old church language

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One need not pray in another person’s language  The language of the King James Bible and the 1662 Book of Common Prayer is not ours, it is theirs. It doesn’t define church for me; it defines 17th Century English church. And it is alien to the 21st Century North American church.

I have a devoted Rite I group at St. Paul’s that loves to worship in this alien language. I love them and support them by leading worship in an alien language. Yet, these aren’t our words. And that is significant.

Krapp, as portrayed by Harold Pinter at the Ro...

Krapp, as portrayed by Harold Pinter at the Royal Court Theatre in October 2006 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When we worship, we are lifting up our thoughts and prayers to GOD. When we do so in community, we do so in a common language. For many this is the very reason why old church language is essential. I get that. I’ve even made that argument myself. But not any more. I don’t treat our common prayers as if it were Shakespeare and our common worship as if we were reciting Shakespeare. That is placing the style of communication before the substance—while I often find the style to be a barrier to the substance. Instead of recognizing the majesty of Shakespeare’s work in itself, we are imposing something about the style of communication upon the play-going audience. Imagine if we demanded every playwright and poet would mimic his style. Tony Kushner, August Wilson, and Harold Pinter would have rebelled from such an expectation anyway! Many of the greatest plays of the last century would have moved to the streets and low-rent theaters where (gasp) people interested in plays would actually go experience them. In many ways, this is what is actually happening all over the church world. People are leaving stuck institutions and finding places in which “real” worship can happen.

If language is a heavy part of our means of communicating the Good News, why obstruct that communication with out-dated language, or worse, communicate our stylistic desires for comfort and familiarity over the challenging, transforming Good News shared creatively and passionately from within?

Deliver us from the presumption of pardon and not renewal

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a Homily for Proper 11B
Text: Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

[Sunday I preached without a script. This is an approximation of what I preached.]

Sabbath

Coming back from vacation, it is appropriate to get this gospel pericope about rest. Or lack there of it.

It was just two weeks ago when we covered the story of Jesus sending the disciples out with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They came home to find Jesus. They wanted to tell him all about it. No doubt they were exhausted and ready to fall down and get some rest. Jesus reassures them, saying “Let’s all go to some deserted place. We’ll rest. Get something to eat.”

But they don’t. Because they get into that boat and the crowd sees it, and beats them to the other side. I’ve got to say that by this time, if I were the disciples, I’d be saying

“Enough with the boat! Remember the last time you promised us rest, the crowd swamped us. The last time we crossed the water, the storms raged. No! No more boats!”

Remember how they returned to Jesus’s home only to get mobbed? They were hungry then and couldn’t eat. They couldn’t relax and rest. No rest for the weary.

This gets to what we know about Sabbath. That in the 7-Day Creation story, we get the world created in 6 days and on the seventh, GOD rests. This idea of Sabbath as rest from work was canonized by the Ten Commandments. But these disciples never seem to get any rest. There is always more to do.

No Rest For the Weary

On the way home from up north, Rose looked at me and said

“I’m not sure I should say this…”

which perked up my ears. Which also means now she had no choice but to say it.

“I love the time we had, but I didn’t get a vacation.”

Her work didn’t stop. She had extra arms to hold the kids and extra minds to distract them. But they were still around. She was never off duty for more than a few hours at a time. Mom was always on.

This is a lot like the way we see our work as Christians. No matter how much we want to take a Sunday off or punch the time card, hide in a closet, and complain about the SoB that is screwing everything up, we can’t. As followers of Christ, we are always following. No vacations. No rest. Always on. This isn’t some full-time job where we can go home at the end of the day and put our feet up. It is an always job. On 24 hours, 7 days. Always.

And lets be honest with each other. It is tiring. Being good all the time. Loving the unlovables. It wears us out.

That Desert Place

There is something in the way Jesus brings these disciples along. His use of these words deserted and rest. When he gets to the shore and sees these people, he sees them as sheep without a shepherd and so he teaches them. He is worn out and looking for respite, but he teaches some more. He is always teaching. And it makes me think we have got this idea all wrong. That this going to the deserted place isn’t a trip into solitude so that they all might relax and put their feet up, but to head off into the metaphorical desert.

Remember, right after his baptism, Jesus went into the desert. This was a traditional practice in the time that would do two important things for you. First it would cleanse you. Both physically and spiritually. Something about the heat, the perspiration and the drinking of water that pulls the stuff out of your system. Something about the sand as an exfoliating agent. Something about the solitude. Going into the desert cleans you up, just as it makes your feet all dirty.

The second important thing is that it is time away from the world, but it isn’t time away from work—GOD’s work. It is about ridding oneself of the cultural noise so that one might hear and experience GOD. This also happens to be the purpose of Sabbath.

So Jesus, taking the disciples away to a “deserted place” to “rest” isn’t about vacation or putting feet up and thinking about nothing. It was a trip into the desert to hear and experience GOD. So what happens when they get there? Jesus teaches.

We also get a big doughnut hole in our reading as the teaching goes on for hours and then moves right into the Feeding of the Five Thousand, which we cover next week in John’s telling. So the teaching and the feeding are Sabbath to the disciples.

Getting Better

In Eucharistic Prayer C on page 372 in the Book of Common Prayer, we have this wonderful part that covers this very idea. It is speaking specifically about the table and Holy Communion, but hear these same ideas:

Lord God of our Fathers; God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and nor for renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.

I particularly love that line that says

“Deliver us from the presumption
of coming [here]…
for pardon only, and not for renewal.”

We don’t come together to recharge our batteries. It is something more. We often think of life as a NASCAR or Indy race. We race around the track so fast, trying so hard to win; to beat everybody else. But the race is long and eventually we will run out of fuel or our tires will go bald. So we stop in the pit and the crew rushes out to fill up the tank or change the tires. And as they finish, our foot is on the gas again and we tear out of the pit so that we can drive really fast again.

Then we realize we need to strategize, so we refuel and change tires at the same time. It doesn’t matter if the tires are bald or if we still have half of a tank of gas. We do it at the same time to maximize our time out racing.

This is how we treat our lives and our faith. But it is nothing like what Jesus is talking about. There’s no race. No winning. No pits or pit crews. We aren’t refilling the fuel tank.

He sends us out with everything we need.

And when we come back, we do so, not when we’re empty, but when we need to be filled with what we can’t get anywhere else. We aren’t recharged, we are made better. Better parents, friends, lovers, children, leaders, followers.

Because here is where we learn to love. Always learning anew how and why to love.

The Imperfect Science

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God is perfect, but our worship isn’t, despite what we might think. The seemingly fixed nature of our worship belies the truth: worship throughout history has been spontaneous and full of joy. We have gone through eras, particularly the medieval period, in which liturgy (the work of the people) was done in a language unknown to its participants and without its participants actually participating, with most of it behind a screen so riff raff would be removed from it. Purity, you know. This of course was accompanied with moaning and wailing about how horrible we are. And groveling. Lots of groveling. So joyful worship hasn’t always been the norm. But it has much more precedent than any of these “improvements”.

From the moment Abraham dropped to his knees and worshipped GOD from that spot of his revelation, we became a people of spontaneous worship. His second action was to build an altar as a monument to mark the place of the revelation. This act has led us to a confusing mix of honor and idolatry for altars and places of revelation. Before explaining what I mean, let’s take a moment to remember Abraham.

Back when he was Abram, GOD called Abraham to go on a journey, to move from one place to another. Abraham agreed, and in those places he worshipped GOD, he marked the place and kept moving. His blessing of descendents didn’t remain to care for those sites as holy or the monuments as relics. They went with him.

There is something powerful in the image of Abraham marking a place and time, the act of devotion of building a marker of stone. It truly is a powerful image. But he doesn’t remain. Just as powerful is that he leaves that site forever. It isn’t a personal portal to the divine, but the work of his hands to honor an incredible relationship.

Our worship could not be further from the character of this worship. I could not venture a guess how Abraham would respond to our worship in 2012, but to say shock, and perhaps disappointment. In liturgical churches, with our relatively fixed liturgy, we rarely even offer space for spontaneity. In fact, spontaneous expressions actually feel intrusive or obstruct our worship because they take time away from the planned actions. I’m not arguing that this is intrinsically wrong, but to clarify what a departure this is from our roots. And that makes me a bit uncomfortable.

Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, exer...

Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, exerted a powerful influence on Edward's Protestantism. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the manner of worship we have in the Episcopal Church, we are left with imperfect choices in style of worship based upon an imperfect document known as the Book of Common Prayer. It’s beauty and vision are still beyond the scope of any other worship manual. And yet many of its more restrictive elements represent the needs of a different era, rather than breadth of humanity’s historical interaction with the divine. Much of it demonstrates the century of its birth (16th: Reformation Era), the era of its primary revision domestically (18th: Revolution Era), the Scottish influence of our origins rather than the British (18th-19th), and the century of its last major incarnational shift (20th). Much of the liturgical work since the mid-20th Century has been to reclaim much of tradition that predates Cranmer, King James, and the Great Reformation. We are now building a more comprehensive approach to liturgy than progressive: with our focus on worshipping according to our theological convictions in light of historical practice. We have often taken our liturgical history as progressive, with each innovation building off what came before, but much of our liturgical tradition before the current milieu has begun with theological articulations, rather than the articulation of theological defenses for current practice. It has also evidenced incredible shifts in sacramental practice, describing little of the historical consistency we attribute to it.

What this means for us, at St. Paul’s and in your local community, is that a full accounting of history shows our Sunday worship resembles neither the spontaneous worship of the Hebrews, the Exiles, the Apostles and early Christians nor the discipline of the monastics or the restriction of medievalists. In our age, worship is highly structured, localized, and fairly open; seemingly pushing against the characteristics of all previous eras. And it feels, much of the time, as if we have devoted ourselves, not to traveling along the path of Jesus, but the worship at and the protection of the altars built by our ancestors. Unlike Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Paul, who followed the Spirit’s movement through literal travel, we are rooted to our buildings and traditions and books and words, seeing our faith as not following the Spirit, but in preserving the ministry of our ancestors.

My hope is that we can come together, not as reformers, but as humble travelers. Not as people picking off what we don’t like, but embracing what is essential and necessary to take with us: only what fits in our small backpacks. But most important, like following the famous trail walked by many before us, we share the road and make our journey as welcoming and encouraging for everyone we meet. You never know, you may be hosting Jesus unawares. And I’m pretty confident he won’t care which prayer form we use.

To Bless or Not To Bless

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That is the question I have for Monday.

For the liturgical snobs out there, I know that it is Lent and we aren’t encouraged by Michno to bless in Lent, but to recite a “prayer over the people,” as was the most ancient custom of what would become the blessing much later.  It is a little bit semantic, but an interesting difference nonetheless.

As I’ve been rereading my Hatchett and Mitchell commentaries on the Book of Common Prayer (and the aforementioned Michno classic A Priest’s Handbook), I am coming to the fundamental question: should we do a blessing at the dismissal on ordinary Sunday mornings? And if not, might there be a seasonal time to include them?

The history of the way we conclude the service is pretty mixed, having nothing after the Eucharist before the 4th Century, and concluding with a postcommunion prayer or prayer over the people as the norm for many centuries after that.  The custom was actually an intentionally stark contrast to the pomp of the procession, having the bishop or priest conclude with a prayer and then departing. The effect of this was to highlight the imperitive to go out and do ministry in the world, rather than cloud it with the pomp of the beginning.

All of that excitement at the beginning is, of course to boost us up for worship, preparing ourselves for the sharing of the Word and Sacraments, and the conclusion was intended to contrast it; as if to say “OK, we got you ready; now go! Don’t wait for me to tell you what to do!”

Naturally, the pomp developed at the end, as well, swelling up, first with a short musical prayer, then replaced with a full hymn, and the postcommunion prayer, a blessing, and a formal dismissal. Liturgically, the rubrics for Rite I require a postcommunion prayer and a blessing, while making the dismissal optional. The rubrics for Rite II, on the other hand, require a postcommunion prayer and dismissal, but make the hymn and blessing optional.

Marion Hatchett points out that the blessing as we know it really only dates back to the 16th Century. Its most important role in the Prayer Book comes in two of the ordination rites, as the new priest is asked to offer a first blessing of her ordained ministry just minutes after it has happened, and the new bishop is given an elaborate blessing to sing or say at her ordination. Hatchett suggests that the rubric making it optional is a great opportunity to use different blessings, while Leonel Mitchell reminds us that the blessing is in fact optional.

So here it is: should we bless every Sunday? If so, isn’t it redundant and diminishing the potency of the worship? If not, when might we?

My own gut is leading me toward the first millennial customs, rather than the medieval or post-medieval ones (my own operating bias, anyway). I am intrigued by the sparse vision of concluding the Eucharist with a simple postcommunion prayer and dismissal, with the people scattering.

I am also wondering if there might be a time in which the blessing could be highlighted or given real prominence if used at specific times such as Holy Days. Or perhaps in the seasons of Advent (anticipation and hope) and Easter (joy and rebirth) when a blessing might take on a more profound meaning. I’d love some feedback, here and on Facebook and G+.

To change is a sign of respect

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Krige as the Borg Queen in First Contact

Image via Wikipedia

[A couple of weeks ago I began writing about change.  I argued that we are called to change and that we actually like change.  You may want to go back and read them both again.  Now I’m going to write about another aspect of change: intransigence.]

One of the aspects of our view of change is that it is a force that we are either with or against.  We argue for the status quo against some inflexible Borg-like assimilator known only as “change”.  We take up arms and we rally against the forces of change.  In other words, we fight it.  Or we ride with it.

But one important piece of the process is that every time we take up the reasonable prospect of changing the way we do things or changing the types of choices we make, we are showing not some contrition to a mythical enemy, but compassion and intimacy with another person.

I posted earlier that I am insulted when someone makes a reference in defense of the status quo that actually excludes me.  The reference, to the Flip Wilson skit about “The Church of What’s Happenin’ Now” that predates me and my entire generation, doesn’t take into consideration, my experience.  If you have said this to me, I know you mean the best by it.  The defense: that we should respect who you are and where you come from is to use something alien to my experience.  This is the problem we face in dealing with change.  The change-averse are afraid to risk their own experience to meet the other at their experience.

1979 BCP with Bible

In the Episcopal Church, we hear the same issues over the use of Rite I.  During the 1960s, when plans were underway to revise the 1928 Prayer Book, they had to decide on the approach to revision.  They chose to follow two tracks within one book: to compose one set of rites (Rite I) that would mimic the 1928 linguistic style and a second track (Rite II) that would use more current language.  After a lengthy trial period and consecutive General Conventions, the 1979 Prayer Book was ratified.  For 32 years now, this book has been the rules of the road.  And yet, many pine for the good ol’ days from 83 years ago.  Many more contend that we must continue using Rite I because “it is what I grew up with”.  So, based on this argument, since I grew up with Rite II and find Rite I completely alien to my formation, what should I do?

The troubling answer that many give is that I must learn Rite I, lead worship using it, and deal.  I could say the same thing right back about Rite II.

Do you see how divisive we make the process of change?  And yet change is a joyous thing.  Change is an opportunity to let go of the stuff we carry with us.  Change is the opportunity to say “this isn’t the way I know it, but maybe you could show me.”

Change, after all, is a sign of respect.  A sign that you have learned from someone else.  That you respect them and what they have to say.  To change is to deal with the troubles of the here and now in the here and now, rather than relying on past remedies.  To change is to admit that we still have so much to learn from the Spirit.  And when we admit to the Great Mystery we know as GOD that we might not have it all figured out and that someone else might give us a clue?

Well, that’s at the heart of our faith.