The Spirit of the Liturgy

In 1945, Dom Gregory Dix published The Shape of the Liturgy, which applied the discoveries of the so-called Liturgical Movement of the early part of the century to modern considerations of how worship is practiced in the Western Church.  Dix concluded, based on his study of early Christian liturgies and writers, such as Justin Martyr and Hippolytus of Rome, that the Eucharist has always consisted of four components:  offertory (offering), consecration (blessing), fraction (breaking), and communion (sharing).  Dix and other liturgists have undoubtedly made invaluable contributions to the worship life of the Church, but I often think that "high" churches like mine have a tendency to become overly obsessed with the navel-gazing minutiae of the liturgy's shape.  Therefore, on this eve of the feast of Pentecost, it might be appropriate for us to give a bit more attention to the Spirit, rather than the shape, of the liturgy.

I remember once standing in the sacristy of my former parish as two teenage servers were agonizing over their roles in the upcoming mass.  They were quite naturally afraid of making a mistake and looking foolish in front of the congregation.  I reminded them that even I, glamorous and learned seminarian though I was, made liturgical mistakes all the time, and that what God required of us was faithfulness, not perfection.  God would show up in the liturgy and bless the assembly, even if we completely messed up.  Our job was simply to do our best.  That seemed to assuage their fears a little, and for the record, both of them did just great.  In fact, I always appreciated it when the rector would say that "there was a great spirit" in the liturgy, or among the servers, or in the congregation. He never cared if the liturgy was rubrically perfect or aesthetically flawless.  What he cared about, quite rightly, was the spirit with which the people worshiped God.

It might seem odd that I, as the Curate of St. Clement's--one of the highest churches in the country, if not the world--should privilege the liturgy's spirit over its shape.  But that's not what I'm doing.  One of the major reasons that I came to St. Clement's was to learn to do beautiful liturgy according to all the rubrics of the Old Rite.  As one of my priest friends has commented, "St. Clement's is like a priest finishing school. You're so lucky."  It certainly is, and I certainly am.  And the experience I'm accumulating now will help me to ensure that liturgy is reverent, orderly, and transcendent wherever I go after this.  But what I've come to love most about liturgy at St. Clement's is the camaraderie, devotion, and humor with which we all perform our liturgical duties.  The intricacies of the Old Rite were unfamiliar to me, as they were to many of our servers, who are also new, but it's wonderful to see how kind we are with each others' mistakes and how we look out for each other.  There is a good deal of laughter, humility, and love in our individual offerings to God in the liturgy, however imperfect they may be.

I have been in a couple Anglo-Catholic parishes where the liturgy is so affected that it seems a little silly.  On this point, it is suitable to quote Fortescue's The Ceremonies of the Roman Rite Described, that peerless authority on matters related to Western liturgy.  He quotes Martinucci who says about servers that "they should avoid too much precision or affectation, or such a bearing as befits soldiers on parade rather than churchmen.  They must certainly do all regularly and gravely; but if they behave with too punctilious a uniformity the sacred functions look theatrical."  Truer words were never spoken.  I may still be a liturgical mess to some "purists," but I can see that I and the whole altar party are getting better and better with every passing week.  More importantly, I feel joyful in the liturgy, when I see the smiles on the faces of the servers whenever there's a mistake or when we finally manage to nail some liturgical detail that has heretofore eluded us.  The liturgy we perform may be formal, but it is also warm and sincere.  What is developing is not only a liturgy that is a more polished oblation to God, but also a growing spirit of love that pervades all that we do.  So, "come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, and lighten with celestial fire."  Give us a spirit of wisdom, knowledge, understanding, counsel, piety, fortitude, and the fear of God.  We are ready. Come, Holy Spirit, come.

The Exsultet for the Great Vigil of Easter at St. Clement's, 2012

My first effort as deacon to chant the Exsultet during the Great Vigil of Easter at St. Clement's Episcopal Church in Philadelphia. The Exsultet is a song of praise thanking God for his forgiveness of human sinfulness and leading us to salvation, most potently in the person of Jesus Christ. The Paschal (Easter) candle symbolizes the light of Christ that banishes darkness from the world.

My apologies for the faintness of the volume on the recording, but you can hear it fine with headphones or if you turn up your speakers.

A Simple Message for Holy Week 2012

A Total-Immersion Course in Priestcraft

Many people have asked me what I have been doing since I moved to Philadelphia to become curate at S. Clement's.  Fr. Reid and I have often joked that people must think we only work about three hours a week (all on Sunday morning), but the truth is that daily life at S. Clement's is busy and eventful, especially liturgically.  Even after serving as seminarian for two years in an Anglo-Catholic parish, getting up the liturgical learning curve at S. Clement's has been a substantial undertaking that has required intensive study, instruction, and practice.  Because S. Clement's had been without a curate for nearly two years, it has been necessary for me to hit the ground running and get up to speed as quickly as possible. The results of my General Ordination Exams seemed to affirm that my priestly formation had been more than adequate, and yet I realized in the daily exercise of parish ministry that there were lacunae in my liturgical training, gaps that would not be an issue in many Episcopal parishes.  But, of course, this is S. Clement's, and I came here precisely because I wanted to be challenged and immersed in the rich traditions of the Church Catholic.

The opening lines of the Exsultet from the English Missal.

This immersion has entailed numerous rehearsals with Fr. Reid during weekday afternoons to learn to serve as deacon at Solemn High Mass, which is an elegant, but intricate, performance requiring much concentration and repetition, not to mention frequent consultation of liturgical manuals, such as Fortescue, to get the details, nuances, and coordination of the liturgical ministers right.  It is one thing to commit these minutiae to memory; it is quite another to apply them gracefully and confidently within the liturgy.  I am continually trying to remember on which step Fortescue tells me I am supposed to be standing, in which direction I am supposed to be facing, and when and where I should be genuflecting!  It has been a wonderfully stretching experience, and though it has at times been stressful and even discouraging, I have come to enjoy it and am proud of the progress I have made in my first month here.  There is no doubt that I am getting better from week to week, and I am grateful to Fr. Reid, the subdeacons, MC, thurifer, and others in the altar party for all of their support, guidance, and patience.  The intensity of my immersion has forced me to abandon my comfort zone and to take on challenges that I might have considered too advanced for me a couple of years ago.  But that is the wonderful thing about growth, and I am now faced with the formidable task of learning the Exsultet for the Great Vigil of Easter, which in the English Missal is a much longer version than the one in the 1979 Prayer Book.  At S. Clement's, there is always more to learn and to improve and to perfect.

It would be misleading, though, to portray my formation at S. Clement's as purely technical, since much of my adjustment to my first cure of souls has been spiritual.  There is something deeply grounding in the structuring of one's life around the liturgical life of the Church, which few clergy get once they leave seminary.  The clergy attend daily mass and evening prayer in S. John's Chapel, followed by novena prayers at the Shrine of Our Lady of Clemency.  We also have a monthly Vespers of the Dead and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, and during Lent, weekly Stations of the Cross and Benediction.  As a result of this liturgical rhythm, there have been ample opportunities for informal consultation and instruction that have taught me a lot about being a priest.  This is certainly a serious process, but teaching and learning are always accompanied by a lot of laughter and a great deal of joy in being able to share in the transmission of the Church's heritage from one generation to another.  I have heard numerous priests mention what a shame it is that there is less clergy collegiality nowadays than there used to be, but it is still strong in places like S. Clement's and my former parish in Chicago, The Church of the Atonement.

The high altar.

In addition to the liturgical and prayer life of the parish, my day is naturally filled with the typical features of a cleric's life:  pastoral visits, study for Sunday-morning adult education classes, preaching preparation, deanery clericus gatherings, staff meetings, and administrative work.  All of this work during my first month has impressed upon me what a valuable formation opportunity it is to learn the art of priestcraft in an era when seminaries do not emphasize this dimension of ordained ministry.  I wonder, then, if parishes like S. Clement's could serve as a kind of Center of Excellence or Academy to train new (or even seasoned) clergy in priestcraft.  If one wanted to learn how to do Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament or Solemn High Mass, where would one go to do so?  Would clergy be attracted by such an intensive learning opportunity, and would they be willing to pay to attend a series of workshops or engage in a short-term residential fellowship?  If seminaries are less able in the future to teach priestcraft, might a total immersion experience fill the gap?  For those of us who would love to see another Catholic revival or Oxford Movement within Anglicanism, we may need to seek alternative models for training and formation that can transmit the essentials of the priesthood.

Ashes Addendum

AP Photo / Matt Rourke

Much ink has been spilled in the last week over the pros and cons of "Ashes-to-Go," an event in which churches venture out into their communities to administer ashes to the public, so I won't duplicate those comments here.  Instead, I'd like to share just a few snapshots of people I met during the day to illustrate why I think this effort is worth undertaking.  More than any clever theological or missiological rationale I may have articulated, friends and colleagues have been captivated by the stories of my encounters with specific people, which they have encouraged me to share here on the Web.

I have always said that theology begins at the front door, because it is how we greet people that sets their expectations for how they are going to be treated once they have come inside the church building.  It says, "this is how we treat each other in this Christian community."  However, being out in the world without the protection of standing in the narthex of one's home turf alters the balance of power considerably.  People feel much braver to ask questions and challenge you if you're simply standing on the sidewalk as they scuttle by on their way to work, to lunch, or to run errands.  People surprise you, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not so pleasantly, but it is always instructive.

Here are some of the highlights:

AP Photo / Matt Rourke

• An African American woman abruptly pulled up to the curb in her huge SUV, slammed on the brakes, and jumped out to ask me if I would come to administer ashes to her very elderly mother, who was quite feeble.  So, I climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV, introduced myself, shook the mother's hand, and imposed ashes on her forehead.  Visibly grateful, the elderly woman said, "Bless you, you have answered all my prayers today!"
• Even though we were clearly identified as an Episcopal Church, most people didn't hesitate at all and came right up to receive.  However, like many Roman Catholics that day, one middle-aged woman asked if she was allowed to receive ashes from me.  I explained that I knew that she was not allowed to receive communion, but since the imposition of ashes was an act of piety signifying repentance, rather than a sacrament, I said that I didn't see any reason why she shouldn't receive if she wanted to.  She was clearly conflicted, but after studying the people's faces as they received ashes, she finally got in line, smiled, and said, "well, I guess I'm in too!" 
• During the morning rush hour, I asked a young woman if she wanted ashes, and she told me she was Muslim, at which point I noticed she was wearing a hijab on her head.  About an hour later, when I was talking to a man from a neighboring parish who had stopped by St. Clement's to pray, she approached us smiling and handed each of us a Qur'an.  I thanked her for her kind gift.  It was an incredible moment of mutual respect and generosity.
• I can recall only one hurtful moment--a hit-and-run event--when a passerby, assuming we were Roman Catholics, quipped without stopping, "So, you took a break from molesting kids in the sacristy?" to which I responded without skipping a beat, "we're Anglicans; we don't do that."  My tone wasn't snarky or bitter; I was just setting the record straight.
• A homeless man came up to me grinning, and after I had given him ashes, he said, "Bless you, my brother! Praise Jesus!" which was a tremendous joy.
• Several people who did not speak English, including an elderly man from eastern Europe and an elderly Italian woman came up to me, and even though I could not utter anything in their languages, they knew exactly what this ritual was all about and reacted as if they understood the words I was saying.  It just goes to show you that sometimes the Holy Spirit takes over to fill in the gaps.
• As we were making our way back to the church at the end, a man shouted to me from the cab of a very large delivery truck that was stopped at the stop light.  He couldn't get out of his truck, but he wondered if I'd give him ashes.  It was a bit tricky, but I clambered up the side of the vast truck in my ecclesiastical finery and administered ashes through the driver's side window.  Then, the light changed to green, and he moved on. 
• And finally, among my favorite moments were those when Jewish ladies passed by us at various points and said, "I'm Jewish, but I think what you're doing is wonderful!"

These vignettes remind us that we often have to live our way into the mystery of the Christian faith.  It is very easy to intellectualize it and lose sight of its affective and experiential dimensions, which can teach us much about what it means to follow Jesus.  It is in the encounter with other people that we are invited into a deeper experience of the transformative power of the Gospel message of good news for the poor, the wounded, the captive, and the dejected of this world, who are sometimes we ourselves.

Why Newman?

John Henry Newman in 1844.

The Episcopal Church commemorates John Henry Newman on February 21st, and it might strike some as odd that Anglicanism should honor a man who abandoned communion with the see of Canterbury to join the Roman Catholic Church.  The question of Newman's place and heritage within Anglicanism is perhaps all the more timely and controversial, given the recent establishment of the Anglican Ordinariate, which allows entire Anglican congregations to enter into communion with the Holy See while preserving some markers of Anglican worship and spirituality.  However, the deeper questions posed by Newman's inclusion in the Episcopal Church's sanctoral Kalendar, as well as the Ordinariate, are: how are we to understand our relationships with our brothers and sisters in Christ once they have swum the Tiber? And how should we remember them in the long view of history?

There are no doubt many reasonable answers to these questions, but my own response seeks to embrace the whole course of a person's process of spiritual and theological discernment, rather than to limit my focus to his or her ultimate destination. With Newman, I attempt to view the man's life globally, rather than as a figure at only one point in time.  Indeed, I do not have to agree with Newman's decision to go to Rome in order to value his writings and work as a Church of England priest within the Oxford Movement.  I can agree with his subtle theological arguments, without assenting to the conclusions that he draws from them, most particularly, that Rome is the only true Church.  When I read Newman, I come to a very different set of conclusions, perhaps much as Keble or Pusey did.  Some Catholic Anglicans have arrived at convictions that have called them to Rome, while others have arrived at ones that keep them in Canterbury.  (And let us not forget the scores of Roman Catholics who have swum the Thames for similar reasons of conscience and become Anglicans!)

What I respect above all, however, is the common struggle we have experienced, wherever each of us has landed.  I have been moved by the accounts of Newman's theological wrangling and nagging conscience, for they are reminiscent of my own struggles to formulate solid theological propositions and construct an Anglo-Catholic identity within the Episcopal Church.  Newman and I doubtless wrestled with some of the same theological problems, and so I find much solidarity and companionship in reading about his journey, which had great integrity.  As one of my theology professors in seminary insightfully noted, "every theological proposition solves one problem and opens up another."  I think we can thus thank Newman for showing us that going to Rome does not necessarily get round the difficult theological questions; it may only delay answering them and sometimes can even expose new problems.  Indeed, for many in the Church of England, such as Keble, Pusey, Selwyn, Gore, and countless others in later generations, giving up on the hard questions related to the Catholic nature of Anglicanism was not an option; they stuck it out, wrestled with it some more, and got us a bit closer to the truth.  Newman explored one solution, and his Oxford colleagues explored others.

Despite his decision to quit Anglicanism, I am indebted to Newman, as well as to his Oxford companions, for the inspiration he has provided during my own formation as a priest.  Newman's place in the Kalendar may be justified by the fact that even now younger generations of Anglo-Catholics just like me are still drawing great strength from him, not because of what he ultimately became--a Roman Catholic--but because of what he contributed to and achieved for the Church of England, and in the fullness of time, Anglicanism.  Anglo-Catholicism might be much poorer today had not Newman been a key leader in those first formative years of the Oxford Movement.  I am therefore grateful that he is remembered by the Church, when other Anglo-Catholic luminaries, such as Frank Weston, have not been honored with a day in the Kalendar.

It can be difficult in this day to be an Anglo-Catholic, for the word means many different things to many different people, and each of us is bidden to figure out how we are going to understand and live out this identity.  Society and the Church can also be unkind in their treatment of people who use this label, sometimes based largely on stereotypes or misinformation.  Much of what Newman wrote as a catholic-minded priest in the Church of England, for example, provided deep nourishment and comfort for me as a seminarian whenever I encountered anti-Catholic prejudice and invective in both of the seminaries in which I trained.  As someone who left one faith in sad protest as an adolescent, wandered aimlessly for a couple of decades, and then found a new faith, I am inclined to be generous in my estimation of Newman.  I am sympathetic to his struggle.  So, in answer to my original question about how we might understand or remember Newman, I would say that we might respect his decision to walk apart, and yet still be grateful for the time we spent walking together.

Paul's Conversion from Fear to Hope

Orthodox icon of Sts. Peter and Paul.

The apostles Peter and Paul are frequently paired with each other, particularly in the names of cathedrals, since they are regarded as two founding pillars of the Church.  According to Holy Scripture, Peter was the first among the original twelve apostles, the rock on whom the Western Church was built, while Paul was known as the apostle to the non-Jewish population of the eastern Mediterranean.  In fact, Paul claims in his Letter to the Galatians to have met Peter (or Cephas, as he was also called) and some of the other apostles at the Council of Jerusalem in around 50 CE, and there is an alternative account of this meeting in the Acts of the Apostles that is interestingly much less flattering to Paul.  The Feasts of the Confession of St. Peter and the Conversion of St. Paul are thus unsurprisingly quite close together--only a week apart--not only because of the traditional pairing of the two apostles, but also because there is something quite similar about their struggles as people of faith.  If Peter was the faithless apostle that out of fear denied Jesus three times, Paul was the unlikely apostle who had hunted down and murdered Jesus' followers in the early years following the Crucifixion.  Each had a checkered past.  Each had denied Jesus and had worked against His divine mission and yet was transformed into a key supporter of this same mission and proclaimed Him as Lord.  But in Paul's case, what is the nature of this "conversion" that we observe today?

St. Paul by Masaccio.

Contrary to popular understanding, Paul did not convert from Judaism to Christianity.  The man's name change from Saul to Paul does not signify some transference of allegiance from one institutional religion to another.  This is mainly because the Judaism of the first century CE was not one monolithic entity, but a combination of many sects, perspectives, and priorities that defied easy oversimplification.  What we know as Christianity, moreover, did not yet exist as either a consolidated identity or as a distinct alternative to contemporary Judaism of any stripe.  Followers of Jesus were known as adherents to "the Way," but many of them considered themselves faithful Jews, as did the apostle Paul, who was also a Pharisee.  Current Pauline scholarship has attempted to reclaim the Jewish identity of Paul, which one will discover is well supported by reading Paul's undisputed epistles:  Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, 1 Thessalonians, Galatians, Philippians, and Philemon.  The authorship of the other epistles attributed to Paul are generally in dispute, but almost certainly are not his original work.  A good introduction to Paul's Jewish identity and the epistles is Pamela Eisenbaum's 2009 book, Paul Was Not a Christian:  The Original Message of a Misunderstood Apostle.

Caravaggio's take on Paul's conversion.

My belief is that Paul's conversion is rather one that opened his eyes to a larger perspective on humanity's future to which he had been blind.  Like Caravaggio's painting to the left suggests, Saul's encounter with the risen Jesus on the road to Damascus unbalanced him, threw him off his high horse, and knocked the wind out of him.  This unseating was necessary and purposeful, for his narrow and limited viewpoint had made him an opponent of Jesus and a vicious persecutor of his disciples. He needed to learn to see differently.  This condition is emphasized in Acts 9 by the blindness that afflicts Saul for three days following his unexpected meeting with Jesus.  It is only when the disciple, Ananias, lays hands on him at Jesus' command, that Saul receives the Holy Spirit and regains his sight, which inspires him immediately to be baptized and embrace a different path.  Peter's previous faithlessness and Paul's former violence against the followers of Jesus should remind us to remain open to the ever unfolding truth that God wishes to communicate to us, however frightening it might seem to be at first.  The scariness of crucifixion and the threat posed by Jesus' followers to the status quo should encourage us, like Peter and Paul, to avoid reacting out of fear.  Fear can be a very powerful force that leads us away from God.  In moments when fear blinds us and encourages us to persecute like Saul, we must resist the urge toward violent acts and speech and rely on the hope offered by the risen Christ.  If the Gospel really is good news, then we should respond as Peter and Paul ultimately did, and preach a message of good news that is gracious and seasoned with salt, as Colossians commends.  With this in mind, I can think of no better way to end than to quote the collect for this feast of Paul's conversion:

"O God, who through the preaching of the blessed Apostle Saint Paul, hast caused the light of the Gospel to shine throughout the world : grant, we beseech thee; that we, having his wonderful conversion in remembrance, may show forth our thankfulness unto thee for the same, by following the holy doctrine which he taught.  Through Jesus Christ our Lord, who livest and reignest with Thee in the unity of the Holy Ghost, ever one God, world without end. Amen."