People are always stacking up the good parts and the bad parts of various church bodies, and debating the merits and demerits. Especially these days among bloggers with whom I have become familiar this seems to have become an exciting pastime.
The Roman Catholics have ecclesiastical integrity, episcopal decorum, apostolic succession, and a really cool pope.
The Orthodox, of course, have lots of the same, and though they lack a pope, this fact is usually counted as a plus.
The Lutherans, well, we languish and struggle with strife, etc. Integrity is a byword, decorum is hit-or-miss, and despite all our best efforts at churchmanship, we struggle with things like Ablaze!, church growth, and a whole smattering of terrible practices.
Who'd ever want to be among the lowly Lutherans?
Well, here's one. Count me in.
Offhand I could rattle off all kinds of confessional reasons for this, but you could read them for yourself here and here and here for starters. You know, the Lutheran Confessions.
I could also point out some of the historical follies of both Rome and the East, and let me tell you, there are some real lulus.
But instead, today I'd like to suggest another reason I am not as taken with them as some of my compatriots have been in recent years. Or put conversely, a possible reason those compatriots have been taken with them.
I think it has something to do with their foreign accents.
Most of the great Lutheran scholars I know have American accents. That certainly doesn't exude an ecumenical or global, catholic spirit to Americans. But if you're American, and you have an awareness that the Church is greater than you are, then maybe you find yourself with a sort of instinctive attraction to people who speak English with a foreign accent.
Of course you'll never admit this to me, but I will admit that I do have a sneaking suspicion.
As for me, I'll satisfy my own similar desire for ecumenicity by using the King James Bible. Do the same, and perhaps you'll save yourself some unfortunate side effects of that itch.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
While I'm Gone . . .
I'm on vacation for a week,
But still they're kept, and none may peek:
The door is locked, the hosts inside
Where none may enter, for they hide
The majesty of Christ the Lord
Within their species, by His word
And so they'll stay there several days
Unless emergency should raise
The sudden need for them today
And I will take them right away
To someone sick, who would receive them
By His words (they still believe them)
"'Tis my body and my blood"
And these are given for thy good.
;)
But still they're kept, and none may peek:
The door is locked, the hosts inside
Where none may enter, for they hide
The majesty of Christ the Lord
Within their species, by His word
And so they'll stay there several days
Unless emergency should raise
The sudden need for them today
And I will take them right away
To someone sick, who would receive them
By His words (they still believe them)
"'Tis my body and my blood"
And these are given for thy good.
;)
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Plan Ahead: Oktoberfest Is Coming
Announcing
The Thirteenth Annual Oktoberfest
and Liturgical Seminar at
St. Paul’s Evangelical-Lutheran Church, Kewanee, Illinois
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, October 12-14, 2008
Conference theme: A Tale of Two Synods
This year we are pleased to welcome four guests who have in recent years taken the walk across the rickety bridge from Wisconsin to Missouri. Several years ago the Reverend Fr. Peter Berg, pastor of Our Savior Lutheran Church in Chicago, having been removed from the roster of the WELS, was received by colloquy into the LCMS. This year his brother, the Reverend Fr. John Berg, pastor of Hope Ev. Lutheran Church in Fremont, California, has taken the very same trek. In the meantime the Reverend Fr. Aaron Moldenhauer, pastor of Zion Lutheran Church in Beecher, Illinois, made the same move during his seminary training. He will be accompanied by his wife Tabitha, a scholar in her own right, who will provide a confessional Lutheran perspective on women’s issues. This year both Berg brothers became associate editors of Gottesdienst, and Fr. Moldenhauer is the recipient of the journal’s Sabre of Boldness award for 2008.
On the following day (Tuesday), a liturgical seminar is again planned for a roundtable discussion seeking uniformity in our worship practices. Informed Lutheran clergy are particularly invited to provide input and exchange of ideas, although all are invited to stay for the day.
The cost of Oktoberfest is $25.00, or $40.00 per couple. Student rate is $20.00. (If you're really strapped, talk to me. We'll work something out.) To register now, send an email to me with "Oktoberfest" in the subject line, and provide your name, title, address, and plans (Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, or parts thereof).
Saturday, July 12, 2008
On the Reservation of the Elements: A Second Opinion
Here follows the reprint of my Liturgical Observer column from Gottesdienst, the Trinity edition for 2004. It is offered in view of the hot debate in the blogosphere on these matters, and of an oft-quoted article in the CTQ by Professor Roland Ziegler. This "second opinion" is a reply to his opinion.
A recently published article in Concordia Theological Quarterly entitled "Should Lutherans Reserve the Consecrated Elements for the Communion of the Sick?" (vol. 76, no. 2 [April 2003]: 131-147) caught my eye the other day. Professor Roland Ziegler is grinding an axe against the unseemly practice of sending seminary students or other laymen to the homes of shut-ins to take them the Sacrament, and heaven knows the axe needs grinding. Pastors who think they are just too busy are actually quite right: they are too busy, and a quick reorganizing of their priorities is in order. Anyone who takes the Augsburg Confession seriously (to say nothing of the Bible) must agree: the office of the ministry exists for the administration (hence the likeness of terms) of God's gifts. Pastors, don't send a poor unsuspecting vicar to do what you ought to be doing yourself. It's your duty under God.
Not only, I would hasten to add, ought we to call a layman's carrying of reserved elements to the sick a "definitely inferior" practice, to use Ziegler's term (147), but there ought to be some serious evaluation of the relatively novel and equally disturbing practice of employing laymen to assist in the regular distribution of the Sacrament, at the altar. The practice is usually defended by reference to an interpretation of "administer" in AC XIV ("No one may publicly teach or administer the Sacraments without a regular call") as "have oversight over the administration of." But if that's not a stretch, then why is it a stretch to allow laymen to carry the Sacrament to the sick? I'd rather say that it's a stretch in both cases. We ought not merely to engage the question of the propriety of the layman's carrying of the Sacrament to the sick, but the propriety of his giving of the Sacrament to anyone.
It was really something else that caught my eye, though, in Professor Ziegler's article. He is there calling the reservation of the elements for the Communion of the sick altogether undesirable, in the apparent tradition of Martin Chemnitz, the banner-bearer of late sixteenth-century Lutheranism. And this, in spite of his opening sentence, an admission that "the universal custom in Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy is for the priest to commune the sick and shut-ins with previously consecrated elements." H'mm. Universal? That at least ought to give one pause. The old Vincentian canon comes to mind: "In the Catholic Church itself, all possible care must be taken, that we hold that faith which has been believed everywhere, always, by all" (NPNF 2d ser., 11:132), a fifth-century torpedo against any who might harbor the arrogant notion that suddenly after aeons, he has discovered a better way.
But the author is evidently in agreement with Vincent's adage, since in trumpeting Chemnitz's discouragement of the reservation of the elements, he notes that for Chemnitz "a practice that is not mentioned in Scripture and is not universal must be judged according to Scripture" (Ziegler, 147). So historically, then, the practice was not universal. But what exactly does Chemnitz demonstrate to be less than universal? Chemnitz, as Ziegler rightly notes, points to some documents which show "that the elements were consumed immediately after the end of the divine service," while noting that other "numerous accounts . . . show that the elements were retained for a later communion" (142f., my emphasis).
Yet no single document from antiquity is referenced here, or in Chemnitz, or, so far as I am aware, anywhere, to indicate unambiguously that the priest ever routinely took unconsecrated elements to the sick and consecrated them there. The question open for consideration is not the abuses against which Chemnitz wrote--no one here is arguing for the use of a monstrance for the exposition of a Host for adoration--but simply whether the consecration of new elements at the home of the sick is preferable to the carrying of reserved elements to them.
The reservation of the elements for the sole purpose of carrying them to the sick, as Ziegler is well aware, has widespread supporting references. Indeed:
"Possibly at first the holy Sacrament may have been consecrated in the presence of the sick person, but of this in early times the instances are rare and by no means clear. In fact it was considered a marked favor that such a thing should be allowed, and the saying of mass in private houses was prohibited (as it is in the Eastern and Latin churches still to-day) with the greatest rigour ("Excursus on the Communion of the Sick," Henry Percival, NPNF, 2d ser., 7:30)."
To be sure, there's a host of Lutheran dogmaticians who nevertheless condemn the practice of reservation, and Ziegler's analysis, while referencing them, is commendable in showing the evidence against going that far. He notes that Luther permitted reservation of the elements,"but without superstition, and until one can do it in a better way" (WA Br 8, 623, 55-57, quoted and translated in Ziegler, 139), and Chemnitz, while not in favor of reservation, did not go so far as to call it illegitimate (145).
Chemnitz' Examen does indeed argue against what he calls the "papalist" reservation, but he repeatedly defines it as the practice by which the bread is "put away, inclosed, reserved, carried about, displayed, and put to other uses" (Examination of the Council of Trent [St. Louis, 1978], 2:293; cf. "put away . . . reserve it, carry it about, or display it to others" [294]; "shut them in, reserve them, carry them about, and use them for display" [295]; "putting aside, shutting in, carrying about, displaying, etc." [295]; "shutting in, display, and carrying about" [296]; "shutting in, carrying about, and display" [304]; "carrying about, and displaying" [305]). Chemnitz in fact sums up his argument by reference to the Vincentian canon, thus: "Therefore reservation of the consecrated Eucharist without distribution and reception has not been received, approved, and observed either always, or everywhere, or by all as a catholic dogma and necessary custom" (ibid., 299, my emphasis). In short, what he is demonstrating here is that certain Romanist abuses cannot be supported by reference to catholicity.
A distinction must therefore be made between an outlandish or abusive sort of reservation such as Chemnitz referenced, and a reservation which is made solely for the purpose of carrying the elements to the sick. It appears that Chemnitz himself has made this distinction, as he repeatedly spells out his definition of the "papalist" reservation. Meanwhile he defends the "reservation of the ancients" as something "used simply, without superstition, and without a peculiar worship apart from use" (ibid., 310).
The superstitions and abuses in view for Chemnitz--and for Luther, for that matter--primarily had to do with the displaying of the Host solely for adoration, as in a monstrance, abetted by the granting of "a certain number of indulgences . . . in return for reverence when it was carried to a sick person" (ibid., 310). In addition, he also cites "a legend about Basil [which] invents the fiction that . . . he reserved [the consecrated bread] that it might be buried with him" (ibid., 310). Moreover, he complained about the postponement of Communion of the sick "for days, weeks, months, or years" after the consecration (ibid., 294). But his reference had this in view: "the papalists nevertheless reserve parts from the Easter or some other solemn Communion for the sick for nearly a whole year" (ibid., 310). It does not appear that his criticism was directed against the mere practice of reserving elements between one celebration and the next, or a week at most (not an uncommon practice), for the sole purpose of communing the sick. To be sure, he bristles at the requirement of any sort of reservation (ibid., 296 et passim), but seems well aware of the ancient practice of the reservation of the elements without the attending abuses, and he does not condemn it.
Ziegler acknowledges that Chemnitz permitted the keeping of the elements "for a short time" (Ziegler, 145) to take to the sick, so the conclusion must be drawn that Chemnitz acknowledged the validity of the practice, even if we might quibble about how short the time should be.
He runs through some of Chemnitz's arguments against the reservation of the elements, and they appear for the most part to be arguments for the recitation of the Words of Institution (the Verba) in the presence of the communicants--a sentiment on which we can agree: even when the reserved elements are taken, the Verba need to be repeated, though in this case only so that the communicant can hear them.
As for Ziegler's own arguments against the reservation of the elements (145-147), while they are certainly worthy of consideration, they are also, I hope, open to debate. First, he sees no significant historical Lutheran precedent for the practice, but this is really a minor point, since it dismisses the evidence which does exist as belonging to "a period of transition" and tends toward committing the sectarian error of discounting the whole prior history of Christendom. Second, he calls it preferable not "to separate the community in which the sacrament is consecrated from the community in which it is consumed," but I would argue to the contrary that the practice actually serves to help the sick recognize his connection to the community in which he belongs: he is hereby participating in his own congregation's worship. Third, Ziegler sees a deficiency in the mere repetition of the Verba in the presence of the sick, if the words are bereft of their consecratory effect. But if this is saying that the sick person is hereby missing out on somehow "getting to see" the actual consecration, I'd say there's really nothing to see anyhow (that's why we call it a mystery), and that, well, yes, the sick person did miss the congregation's celebration of Mass (which is the main problem with his being sick or shut-in, after all, but that's another matter). His fourth objection is perhaps the most important, a suggestion that the practice might introduce doubt: the communicant didn't get to see for himself that these elements were truly consecrated. But I have never seen this happen in practice, and the reason is simple: the communicant generally trusts that the pastor knows what he is doing. For someone to doubt that the elements were truly consecrated, he'd have to suppose that the pastor was either lying about the elements, or mistaken, as if perhaps someone had snuck in unawares and placed unconsecrated elements into the ciborium. It doesn't add up. I defer again to the long tradition of Christendom, during which no such doubts ever seem to have arisen.
There are some who have taken the matter a step further, doubting whether the reliquae, i.e., the elements which remain, remain the Body and Blood of Christ after the Benediction has been spoken. Ziegler hints at his awareness of this, indicating that when there is no reservation, "the question of what the elements are apart from their use . . . is avoided" (144).
Here there often arises--I'm grinding my own axe now, quite apart from anything in Ziegler's article--a gaggle of receptionists of one stripe or another, who like to take the Formula of Concord's oft-misinterpreted usus assertion, namely, "Nothing has the nature of a sacrament apart from the use instituted by Christ" (FC SD VII, 85) and misinterpret it. "See," the receptionists want to snipe, "it isn't being used anymore after the service, so it's just bread and wine, because the Confessions say so."
We've been over this ground before, I know, but since the receptionist controversy keeps rearing its ugly head, it bears repeating that the usus clause of the Formula does not and cannot mean that only those elements which actually end up being consumed are the elements to which Jesus was referring when He said, "This is My Body" In the case of "This is My Blood," it borders on sheer looniness to suppose that He was only referring to those molecules in the cup which in His omniscience He knew would end up in the mouths of communicants.
There are not a few references in the Examen which indicate that Chemnitz himself had no doubts about "what the elements are" when reserved. He cites historical references to the "leftover fragments of the body of the Lord" (Chemnitz, 297), to "the parts of the immaculate and divine body . . . left" (ibid., 298), and to Chrysostom's tale of Roman soldiers disturbing the church whereupon "the blood of Christ" was poured out on their clothing (ibid., 303). In none of his citations does Chemnitz seek to correct any affirmation that the elements remaining are the Body and Blood of Christ. Chemnitz was no receptionist. Rather, he shows simply that in these cases they were not reserved beyond a day.
Besides, the Confessions are not, nor were they ever meant to be, the source of doctrine. They confess according to the words of Christ. It is His words alone which must determine what is true. Chemnitz makes this very point repeatedly in the Examen (294f. et passim). The usus clause must then be taken in its context, which, as the references above demonstrate, is a milieu of medieval superstition wherein the Body of Christ was regarded as a sort of good luck charm. "Apart from the use" simply means you can=t go inventing new uses for the Sacrament, and expect Christ to bless them apart from His words pertaining to the Sacrament: "Take, eat." The Sacrament only benefits those who partake, and a new benefit should not be dreamt up for it under false pretenses. This is really the heart of Chemnitz's contention in the Examen.
But now come the receptionists, who like to wave their magical usus wand over the bread to remove the Body of Christ from it after the Distribution. But how is the Body of Christ removed? Because of the usus clause alone. Solus usus! So now, ta da, it's just ordinary bread again! The use is ended! (Let's see, what would be the liturgical expression for that? Ita, usus est?) So you can put it back in the box it came from? Throw it in the trash? Trample it underfoot? Do whatever you like with it? I think not: here's my reply to anyone who wants to justify any such folly by abusing the usus clause this way: "Nothing is a confession apart from the use." You can't wrench the usus clause apart from its intended use and have it mean whatever you want it to mean. And as for doubts, I have none in this matter: what you have discarded, what you have trampled, is the Body of Christ. His words are very clear. Do you really want to pit your usus clause, or any other words on earth, against them?
Why must we question whether or not the Body of Christ remains after the Benediction? Because the use has ceased? Says who? I still have shut-ins who need it. How is carrying it to them an abuse? And besides, where is it written that the Presence ceases as soon as the last hymn is sung? Or to put it another way, if you ask me why I believe that the the reliquae are truly the Body and Blood of Christ, I shall simply answer: because Christ said so. See, right here: "This is My Body."
Although the reservation of the reliquae may be, as Ziegler has demonstrated, a minority opinion among Lutherans, it certainly is far from a minority opinion in all the Church catholic. It was precisely an increased awareness of the history and practice of the Christian Church of antiquity which first led me to consider the practice. Yes, numerous accounts show the reservation of elements.
Moreover, there is a common rule among liturgical churches which requires the celebration of the Mass only from properly consecrated altars (e.g., E. Lamburn, Ritual Notes, 11th ed. [London: Knott, 1964], 3). Chemnitz rejects as an abuse the making of this rule into an obligation (Chemnitz, 310f.), and it is to be remembered that one of the nastiest errors of Rome was to make everything including the Gospel itself an obligation, yet it does not follow that we ought therefore to dispense with the rule entirely. As in all cases of abuse, the likelihood exists that it started out as a good thing. In this case, there's certainly something less than desirable about the use of a portable hospital table as an altar, especially when it's also used for dinner trays, flowers and cards, the telephone, various personal items, and maybe even a specimen bottle. I certainly have no aversion to using whatever is necessary when circumstances do not permit a fully desirable setting for the celebration of Holy Communion (such as on the battlefield), but it certainly seems more befitting the dignity of the Sacrament to carry what has been consecrated at a proper altar to the sickroom than to enlist common furniture for the consecration, if it be at all possible. No wonder, I am thinking, there arose a proscription against the routine practice of using bedstands as altars. The very notion was probably unthinkable.
Maybe what ought to drive this discussion is a renewed consideration of the holiness of the place of consecration, which, after all, is why we like to adorn our churches, isn't it? The place becomes holy because of what is there: the true Body of Christ, the flesh of the Son of God, wherein is all the fullness of the Godhead. Shouldn't this astounding truth say something, anything, about the place where it sits?
Ample Biblical references provide evidence for the salutary practice of regarding as holy the places of God's special revelatory or sacramental presence. Moses was required to put off his shoes at the burning bush. The Holy of Holies was central to Israel's worship. The woman with the flow of blood was healed upon touching the mere hem of Christ's garment. The women at the tomb sought to anoint the dead body of Christ (from which His soul had gone). The list is long.
Since Christian worship is all about the coming of the incarnate God for our salvation, it is also about His adornment of the earth with His abiding presence. In faithful response to this wondrous truth, countless generations of Christians from antiquity, and throughout the early centuries of her history--yes, everywhere, always, and all--have sought wherever possible to adorn their altars and churches, as a confession of their faith and devotion. Granted, sometimes it was not possible, and there will always be emergency situations which supercede this desire, but it is rather debatable whether the routine making of the bedside table into a sort of makeshift altar, and the accompanying ceremony into a personal Mass of sorts, must be counted as one of them. To say the least, such a practice certainly has the downside of missing the significance of the church, the altar, the paraments, the vestments, or the Communion ware. It's hard enough to encourage faith among people so steeped in our culture's rationalistic denials of the sacred truth that the Sacrament is truly Christ's Body, without having to hold Mass in completely unadorned places, especially if we have another option. The carrying of consecrated elements to the sick, on the other hand, serves to extend the ceremony which commenced at the holy place. By no means can we require the practice, but neither should we disparage it.
The Church's current milieu is no longer beset with medieval superstitions, but with notions of a very different kind, namely, the modern world's rationalistic denial of all things holy, a spirit which for the past two centuries and more has been laughing to scorn the very idea that a piece of bread could really be the Body of Christ. The Church does well to confess before the world the foolishness of Christ. The reservation of the elements makes our faith in this matter abundantly clear: these elements are really and truly Christ's Body and Blood, and we do not hang our affirmation about this on the statements of this or that theologian, no matter how venerated, nor on rationalistic suppositions about duration of time or space, no matter how reasoned they appear, but alone on the clear and simple words of Christ. But speaking of theologians and their views, the razor of Ockham does come to mind: the simplest explanation is the best. Christ said it's His Body. Therefore it is. The tradition of reserving some of the remaining elements from the sacred place of their consecration in a dignified manner and place, and carrying them reverently to those who could not be present for the Mass, is not only a venerable and extremely well-established ecclesiastical custom; it is an unmistakable way of showing the world what we believe about them.
A recently published article in Concordia Theological Quarterly entitled "Should Lutherans Reserve the Consecrated Elements for the Communion of the Sick?" (vol. 76, no. 2 [April 2003]: 131-147) caught my eye the other day. Professor Roland Ziegler is grinding an axe against the unseemly practice of sending seminary students or other laymen to the homes of shut-ins to take them the Sacrament, and heaven knows the axe needs grinding. Pastors who think they are just too busy are actually quite right: they are too busy, and a quick reorganizing of their priorities is in order. Anyone who takes the Augsburg Confession seriously (to say nothing of the Bible) must agree: the office of the ministry exists for the administration (hence the likeness of terms) of God's gifts. Pastors, don't send a poor unsuspecting vicar to do what you ought to be doing yourself. It's your duty under God.
Not only, I would hasten to add, ought we to call a layman's carrying of reserved elements to the sick a "definitely inferior" practice, to use Ziegler's term (147), but there ought to be some serious evaluation of the relatively novel and equally disturbing practice of employing laymen to assist in the regular distribution of the Sacrament, at the altar. The practice is usually defended by reference to an interpretation of "administer" in AC XIV ("No one may publicly teach or administer the Sacraments without a regular call") as "have oversight over the administration of." But if that's not a stretch, then why is it a stretch to allow laymen to carry the Sacrament to the sick? I'd rather say that it's a stretch in both cases. We ought not merely to engage the question of the propriety of the layman's carrying of the Sacrament to the sick, but the propriety of his giving of the Sacrament to anyone.
It was really something else that caught my eye, though, in Professor Ziegler's article. He is there calling the reservation of the elements for the Communion of the sick altogether undesirable, in the apparent tradition of Martin Chemnitz, the banner-bearer of late sixteenth-century Lutheranism. And this, in spite of his opening sentence, an admission that "the universal custom in Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy is for the priest to commune the sick and shut-ins with previously consecrated elements." H'mm. Universal? That at least ought to give one pause. The old Vincentian canon comes to mind: "In the Catholic Church itself, all possible care must be taken, that we hold that faith which has been believed everywhere, always, by all" (NPNF 2d ser., 11:132), a fifth-century torpedo against any who might harbor the arrogant notion that suddenly after aeons, he has discovered a better way.
But the author is evidently in agreement with Vincent's adage, since in trumpeting Chemnitz's discouragement of the reservation of the elements, he notes that for Chemnitz "a practice that is not mentioned in Scripture and is not universal must be judged according to Scripture" (Ziegler, 147). So historically, then, the practice was not universal. But what exactly does Chemnitz demonstrate to be less than universal? Chemnitz, as Ziegler rightly notes, points to some documents which show "that the elements were consumed immediately after the end of the divine service," while noting that other "numerous accounts . . . show that the elements were retained for a later communion" (142f., my emphasis).
Yet no single document from antiquity is referenced here, or in Chemnitz, or, so far as I am aware, anywhere, to indicate unambiguously that the priest ever routinely took unconsecrated elements to the sick and consecrated them there. The question open for consideration is not the abuses against which Chemnitz wrote--no one here is arguing for the use of a monstrance for the exposition of a Host for adoration--but simply whether the consecration of new elements at the home of the sick is preferable to the carrying of reserved elements to them.
The reservation of the elements for the sole purpose of carrying them to the sick, as Ziegler is well aware, has widespread supporting references. Indeed:
"Possibly at first the holy Sacrament may have been consecrated in the presence of the sick person, but of this in early times the instances are rare and by no means clear. In fact it was considered a marked favor that such a thing should be allowed, and the saying of mass in private houses was prohibited (as it is in the Eastern and Latin churches still to-day) with the greatest rigour ("Excursus on the Communion of the Sick," Henry Percival, NPNF, 2d ser., 7:30)."
To be sure, there's a host of Lutheran dogmaticians who nevertheless condemn the practice of reservation, and Ziegler's analysis, while referencing them, is commendable in showing the evidence against going that far. He notes that Luther permitted reservation of the elements,"but without superstition, and until one can do it in a better way" (WA Br 8, 623, 55-57, quoted and translated in Ziegler, 139), and Chemnitz, while not in favor of reservation, did not go so far as to call it illegitimate (145).
Chemnitz' Examen does indeed argue against what he calls the "papalist" reservation, but he repeatedly defines it as the practice by which the bread is "put away, inclosed, reserved, carried about, displayed, and put to other uses" (Examination of the Council of Trent [St. Louis, 1978], 2:293; cf. "put away . . . reserve it, carry it about, or display it to others" [294]; "shut them in, reserve them, carry them about, and use them for display" [295]; "putting aside, shutting in, carrying about, displaying, etc." [295]; "shutting in, display, and carrying about" [296]; "shutting in, carrying about, and display" [304]; "carrying about, and displaying" [305]). Chemnitz in fact sums up his argument by reference to the Vincentian canon, thus: "Therefore reservation of the consecrated Eucharist without distribution and reception has not been received, approved, and observed either always, or everywhere, or by all as a catholic dogma and necessary custom" (ibid., 299, my emphasis). In short, what he is demonstrating here is that certain Romanist abuses cannot be supported by reference to catholicity.
A distinction must therefore be made between an outlandish or abusive sort of reservation such as Chemnitz referenced, and a reservation which is made solely for the purpose of carrying the elements to the sick. It appears that Chemnitz himself has made this distinction, as he repeatedly spells out his definition of the "papalist" reservation. Meanwhile he defends the "reservation of the ancients" as something "used simply, without superstition, and without a peculiar worship apart from use" (ibid., 310).
The superstitions and abuses in view for Chemnitz--and for Luther, for that matter--primarily had to do with the displaying of the Host solely for adoration, as in a monstrance, abetted by the granting of "a certain number of indulgences . . . in return for reverence when it was carried to a sick person" (ibid., 310). In addition, he also cites "a legend about Basil [which] invents the fiction that . . . he reserved [the consecrated bread] that it might be buried with him" (ibid., 310). Moreover, he complained about the postponement of Communion of the sick "for days, weeks, months, or years" after the consecration (ibid., 294). But his reference had this in view: "the papalists nevertheless reserve parts from the Easter or some other solemn Communion for the sick for nearly a whole year" (ibid., 310). It does not appear that his criticism was directed against the mere practice of reserving elements between one celebration and the next, or a week at most (not an uncommon practice), for the sole purpose of communing the sick. To be sure, he bristles at the requirement of any sort of reservation (ibid., 296 et passim), but seems well aware of the ancient practice of the reservation of the elements without the attending abuses, and he does not condemn it.
Ziegler acknowledges that Chemnitz permitted the keeping of the elements "for a short time" (Ziegler, 145) to take to the sick, so the conclusion must be drawn that Chemnitz acknowledged the validity of the practice, even if we might quibble about how short the time should be.
He runs through some of Chemnitz's arguments against the reservation of the elements, and they appear for the most part to be arguments for the recitation of the Words of Institution (the Verba) in the presence of the communicants--a sentiment on which we can agree: even when the reserved elements are taken, the Verba need to be repeated, though in this case only so that the communicant can hear them.
As for Ziegler's own arguments against the reservation of the elements (145-147), while they are certainly worthy of consideration, they are also, I hope, open to debate. First, he sees no significant historical Lutheran precedent for the practice, but this is really a minor point, since it dismisses the evidence which does exist as belonging to "a period of transition" and tends toward committing the sectarian error of discounting the whole prior history of Christendom. Second, he calls it preferable not "to separate the community in which the sacrament is consecrated from the community in which it is consumed," but I would argue to the contrary that the practice actually serves to help the sick recognize his connection to the community in which he belongs: he is hereby participating in his own congregation's worship. Third, Ziegler sees a deficiency in the mere repetition of the Verba in the presence of the sick, if the words are bereft of their consecratory effect. But if this is saying that the sick person is hereby missing out on somehow "getting to see" the actual consecration, I'd say there's really nothing to see anyhow (that's why we call it a mystery), and that, well, yes, the sick person did miss the congregation's celebration of Mass (which is the main problem with his being sick or shut-in, after all, but that's another matter). His fourth objection is perhaps the most important, a suggestion that the practice might introduce doubt: the communicant didn't get to see for himself that these elements were truly consecrated. But I have never seen this happen in practice, and the reason is simple: the communicant generally trusts that the pastor knows what he is doing. For someone to doubt that the elements were truly consecrated, he'd have to suppose that the pastor was either lying about the elements, or mistaken, as if perhaps someone had snuck in unawares and placed unconsecrated elements into the ciborium. It doesn't add up. I defer again to the long tradition of Christendom, during which no such doubts ever seem to have arisen.
There are some who have taken the matter a step further, doubting whether the reliquae, i.e., the elements which remain, remain the Body and Blood of Christ after the Benediction has been spoken. Ziegler hints at his awareness of this, indicating that when there is no reservation, "the question of what the elements are apart from their use . . . is avoided" (144).
Here there often arises--I'm grinding my own axe now, quite apart from anything in Ziegler's article--a gaggle of receptionists of one stripe or another, who like to take the Formula of Concord's oft-misinterpreted usus assertion, namely, "Nothing has the nature of a sacrament apart from the use instituted by Christ" (FC SD VII, 85) and misinterpret it. "See," the receptionists want to snipe, "it isn't being used anymore after the service, so it's just bread and wine, because the Confessions say so."
We've been over this ground before, I know, but since the receptionist controversy keeps rearing its ugly head, it bears repeating that the usus clause of the Formula does not and cannot mean that only those elements which actually end up being consumed are the elements to which Jesus was referring when He said, "This is My Body" In the case of "This is My Blood," it borders on sheer looniness to suppose that He was only referring to those molecules in the cup which in His omniscience He knew would end up in the mouths of communicants.
There are not a few references in the Examen which indicate that Chemnitz himself had no doubts about "what the elements are" when reserved. He cites historical references to the "leftover fragments of the body of the Lord" (Chemnitz, 297), to "the parts of the immaculate and divine body . . . left" (ibid., 298), and to Chrysostom's tale of Roman soldiers disturbing the church whereupon "the blood of Christ" was poured out on their clothing (ibid., 303). In none of his citations does Chemnitz seek to correct any affirmation that the elements remaining are the Body and Blood of Christ. Chemnitz was no receptionist. Rather, he shows simply that in these cases they were not reserved beyond a day.
Besides, the Confessions are not, nor were they ever meant to be, the source of doctrine. They confess according to the words of Christ. It is His words alone which must determine what is true. Chemnitz makes this very point repeatedly in the Examen (294f. et passim). The usus clause must then be taken in its context, which, as the references above demonstrate, is a milieu of medieval superstition wherein the Body of Christ was regarded as a sort of good luck charm. "Apart from the use" simply means you can=t go inventing new uses for the Sacrament, and expect Christ to bless them apart from His words pertaining to the Sacrament: "Take, eat." The Sacrament only benefits those who partake, and a new benefit should not be dreamt up for it under false pretenses. This is really the heart of Chemnitz's contention in the Examen.
But now come the receptionists, who like to wave their magical usus wand over the bread to remove the Body of Christ from it after the Distribution. But how is the Body of Christ removed? Because of the usus clause alone. Solus usus! So now, ta da, it's just ordinary bread again! The use is ended! (Let's see, what would be the liturgical expression for that? Ita, usus est?) So you can put it back in the box it came from? Throw it in the trash? Trample it underfoot? Do whatever you like with it? I think not: here's my reply to anyone who wants to justify any such folly by abusing the usus clause this way: "Nothing is a confession apart from the use." You can't wrench the usus clause apart from its intended use and have it mean whatever you want it to mean. And as for doubts, I have none in this matter: what you have discarded, what you have trampled, is the Body of Christ. His words are very clear. Do you really want to pit your usus clause, or any other words on earth, against them?
Why must we question whether or not the Body of Christ remains after the Benediction? Because the use has ceased? Says who? I still have shut-ins who need it. How is carrying it to them an abuse? And besides, where is it written that the Presence ceases as soon as the last hymn is sung? Or to put it another way, if you ask me why I believe that the the reliquae are truly the Body and Blood of Christ, I shall simply answer: because Christ said so. See, right here: "This is My Body."
Although the reservation of the reliquae may be, as Ziegler has demonstrated, a minority opinion among Lutherans, it certainly is far from a minority opinion in all the Church catholic. It was precisely an increased awareness of the history and practice of the Christian Church of antiquity which first led me to consider the practice. Yes, numerous accounts show the reservation of elements.
Moreover, there is a common rule among liturgical churches which requires the celebration of the Mass only from properly consecrated altars (e.g., E. Lamburn, Ritual Notes, 11th ed. [London: Knott, 1964], 3). Chemnitz rejects as an abuse the making of this rule into an obligation (Chemnitz, 310f.), and it is to be remembered that one of the nastiest errors of Rome was to make everything including the Gospel itself an obligation, yet it does not follow that we ought therefore to dispense with the rule entirely. As in all cases of abuse, the likelihood exists that it started out as a good thing. In this case, there's certainly something less than desirable about the use of a portable hospital table as an altar, especially when it's also used for dinner trays, flowers and cards, the telephone, various personal items, and maybe even a specimen bottle. I certainly have no aversion to using whatever is necessary when circumstances do not permit a fully desirable setting for the celebration of Holy Communion (such as on the battlefield), but it certainly seems more befitting the dignity of the Sacrament to carry what has been consecrated at a proper altar to the sickroom than to enlist common furniture for the consecration, if it be at all possible. No wonder, I am thinking, there arose a proscription against the routine practice of using bedstands as altars. The very notion was probably unthinkable.
Maybe what ought to drive this discussion is a renewed consideration of the holiness of the place of consecration, which, after all, is why we like to adorn our churches, isn't it? The place becomes holy because of what is there: the true Body of Christ, the flesh of the Son of God, wherein is all the fullness of the Godhead. Shouldn't this astounding truth say something, anything, about the place where it sits?
Ample Biblical references provide evidence for the salutary practice of regarding as holy the places of God's special revelatory or sacramental presence. Moses was required to put off his shoes at the burning bush. The Holy of Holies was central to Israel's worship. The woman with the flow of blood was healed upon touching the mere hem of Christ's garment. The women at the tomb sought to anoint the dead body of Christ (from which His soul had gone). The list is long.
Since Christian worship is all about the coming of the incarnate God for our salvation, it is also about His adornment of the earth with His abiding presence. In faithful response to this wondrous truth, countless generations of Christians from antiquity, and throughout the early centuries of her history--yes, everywhere, always, and all--have sought wherever possible to adorn their altars and churches, as a confession of their faith and devotion. Granted, sometimes it was not possible, and there will always be emergency situations which supercede this desire, but it is rather debatable whether the routine making of the bedside table into a sort of makeshift altar, and the accompanying ceremony into a personal Mass of sorts, must be counted as one of them. To say the least, such a practice certainly has the downside of missing the significance of the church, the altar, the paraments, the vestments, or the Communion ware. It's hard enough to encourage faith among people so steeped in our culture's rationalistic denials of the sacred truth that the Sacrament is truly Christ's Body, without having to hold Mass in completely unadorned places, especially if we have another option. The carrying of consecrated elements to the sick, on the other hand, serves to extend the ceremony which commenced at the holy place. By no means can we require the practice, but neither should we disparage it.
The Church's current milieu is no longer beset with medieval superstitions, but with notions of a very different kind, namely, the modern world's rationalistic denial of all things holy, a spirit which for the past two centuries and more has been laughing to scorn the very idea that a piece of bread could really be the Body of Christ. The Church does well to confess before the world the foolishness of Christ. The reservation of the elements makes our faith in this matter abundantly clear: these elements are really and truly Christ's Body and Blood, and we do not hang our affirmation about this on the statements of this or that theologian, no matter how venerated, nor on rationalistic suppositions about duration of time or space, no matter how reasoned they appear, but alone on the clear and simple words of Christ. But speaking of theologians and their views, the razor of Ockham does come to mind: the simplest explanation is the best. Christ said it's His Body. Therefore it is. The tradition of reserving some of the remaining elements from the sacred place of their consecration in a dignified manner and place, and carrying them reverently to those who could not be present for the Mass, is not only a venerable and extremely well-established ecclesiastical custom; it is an unmistakable way of showing the world what we believe about them.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Durationism?
Whew, I just got through reading all the blogging going on regarding the matter of when or whether the consecrated elements cease to be the body and blood of Christ.
It takes awhile, but for those wanting to get up to date, I suggest you do so by clicking here and here and maybe also here.
What you'll find, for the most part, is Rev. Paul McCain tirelessly arguing against anyone who might suggest, or hint, that what remains of the elements might continue to be the body and blood of Christ after the service is over. He says no way, no how. Because the Lutheran Confessions say so. We have a number of Lutheran pastors, a few laymen, and even some Orthodox priests in the fray. It's interesting at times, but also a bit redundant. I'm going to spare you the rest of the details. If you're interested, just click on those 'here' references above.
Here's my belated reply to the current discussion. I don't want to belabor anything but a couple of things came to my mind, which I didn't see anyone addressing, so here's my insertion.
What about the body of Christ which has been consumed? When does that cease to be the body of Christ? Talk about a Scholastic question, but there is a point to be made here, methinks.
Secondly, if Rev. McCain wants to be speaking the truth in love, and restoring any 'fallen' brethren (such as I evidently am, who gladly count myself a -- what? - durationist? consecrationist? not sure), then how does he plan to do so if he's going to do nothing but quote the Confessions?
I mean, let's say he convinces me the Confessions oppose my position (he's a very long way from doing so, incidentally). For the sake of argument, what happens then? I must, if I am a man of integrity, I suppose, quit Lutheranism and go East, or to Rome, or somewhere, right? But Rev. McCain has repeatedly chided Fr Hogg for inserting himself into 'Lutheran' debates because it's some kind of sheep stealing technique.
So I'm bewildered. How can Rev. McCain convince me (or anyone) to stay Lutheran if all he can do is quote the Confessions? Isn't that what he wants to do?
More later. I spent all my time simply reading up on this debate today.
It takes awhile, but for those wanting to get up to date, I suggest you do so by clicking here and here and maybe also here.
What you'll find, for the most part, is Rev. Paul McCain tirelessly arguing against anyone who might suggest, or hint, that what remains of the elements might continue to be the body and blood of Christ after the service is over. He says no way, no how. Because the Lutheran Confessions say so. We have a number of Lutheran pastors, a few laymen, and even some Orthodox priests in the fray. It's interesting at times, but also a bit redundant. I'm going to spare you the rest of the details. If you're interested, just click on those 'here' references above.
Here's my belated reply to the current discussion. I don't want to belabor anything but a couple of things came to my mind, which I didn't see anyone addressing, so here's my insertion.
What about the body of Christ which has been consumed? When does that cease to be the body of Christ? Talk about a Scholastic question, but there is a point to be made here, methinks.
Secondly, if Rev. McCain wants to be speaking the truth in love, and restoring any 'fallen' brethren (such as I evidently am, who gladly count myself a -- what? - durationist? consecrationist? not sure), then how does he plan to do so if he's going to do nothing but quote the Confessions?
I mean, let's say he convinces me the Confessions oppose my position (he's a very long way from doing so, incidentally). For the sake of argument, what happens then? I must, if I am a man of integrity, I suppose, quit Lutheranism and go East, or to Rome, or somewhere, right? But Rev. McCain has repeatedly chided Fr Hogg for inserting himself into 'Lutheran' debates because it's some kind of sheep stealing technique.
So I'm bewildered. How can Rev. McCain convince me (or anyone) to stay Lutheran if all he can do is quote the Confessions? Isn't that what he wants to do?
More later. I spent all my time simply reading up on this debate today.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Celebrant Will Kindly Wash His Hands
To this day I am somewhat amazed that they never told me as a seminarian that I ought to wash my hands before mass. Hopefully the seminary has corrected that omission by now. As least I have; to my shame it didn't even occur to me until several years into my ministry that this was more than a mere matter of personal hygiene. Don't ask me why. I'm slow, I'm thick, I take awhile to learn things, whatever. I certainly should have known better.But since I didn't, I'll wager there are others who don't either.
So let's just get this little matter out there for all celebrants or would-be celebrants to know.
First: wash you hands before mass.
Second: wash your hands before consecrating the elements (that's called the lavabo, and is done over a lavabo-bowl while the 26th psalm is said privately, as the last step of altar preparation during the mass).
Third: wash your hands after the distribution (i.e., take the ablutions).
Why, you ask?
The answer is so simple people miss it all the time. It's the body of Christ we're dealing with here.
So, before the consecration and distribution, washing is done in order to insure that the elements being received are, and are seen to be, pure of any imperfections, dirt, etc.
Afterwards, washing is done in order that any fragments which may remain on the celebrant's fingers may be properly consumed. The ablutions (the last of the washings listed above) are taken by rinsing the thumbs and forefingers into the chalice and then drinking that water.
Of course, much of this is ceremonial in nature; nevertheless it is real. The matter of handling the body of Christ is something to which we tend with utmost seriousness.
Anyone who does not really believe "this is my body" may, of course, ignore these rubrics altogether.
Monday, July 07, 2008
New Lineup
So I just updated my Links sidebar (I'm sure there are many more I should put up there, but I'm just out of time), and will call your attention to a new blog which is the cyber version of our church's newsletter. It has the exciting name "St. Paul's Newsletter" and may be accessed here.
Speaking of new lineups, we--i.e., St. Paul's on the Air, a local radio program which is on our am station every Sunday morning--are now listed as a new audio (streaming) program at the internet station Pirate Christian Radio. I expect regular scheduling will be announced soon.
Speaking of new lineups, we--i.e., St. Paul's on the Air, a local radio program which is on our am station every Sunday morning--are now listed as a new audio (streaming) program at the internet station Pirate Christian Radio. I expect regular scheduling will be announced soon.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
It Was Ever Thus
A true mark of vanity is someone who quotes himself, so I guess that means I qualify. But actually, I'm just too lazy to write this all over again, so I'm just going to offer it up again for consideration.
I refer to an article I wrote some years ago on the fact that the Church has always, in all her history, struggled with heresy, dissent, schism, and trouble. The article recounts some of the bitter controversies in the early and medieval centuries, and is called, perhaps poorly, "Clergy Support in the Early and Medieval Church." Read it in its entirely here, in pdf format. Here are some excerpts:
Where is the golden age? When was the golden age? In short, there never was one, and the Christian faith has been attacked and placed under siege by the devil and his minions ever since the struggle between Peter and Paul, a struggle seen in every single century since. In every century the Church has been, as the hymn says it, “by schisms rent asunder, by heresies distressed.” Our age is no different. . . .
Thus, to sum up with broad strokes, when we look to the Church of the first millennium, we see no golden age, but continual struggles against heresy . . .
. . . let no one say we have never been here before. We have always been here before. This is life in the Church Militant. Get used to it. And let no one deceive you.
[to repeat, you can read the whole thing in pdf here]
I refer to an article I wrote some years ago on the fact that the Church has always, in all her history, struggled with heresy, dissent, schism, and trouble. The article recounts some of the bitter controversies in the early and medieval centuries, and is called, perhaps poorly, "Clergy Support in the Early and Medieval Church." Read it in its entirely here, in pdf format. Here are some excerpts:
Where is the golden age? When was the golden age? In short, there never was one, and the Christian faith has been attacked and placed under siege by the devil and his minions ever since the struggle between Peter and Paul, a struggle seen in every single century since. In every century the Church has been, as the hymn says it, “by schisms rent asunder, by heresies distressed.” Our age is no different. . . .
Thus, to sum up with broad strokes, when we look to the Church of the first millennium, we see no golden age, but continual struggles against heresy . . .
. . . let no one say we have never been here before. We have always been here before. This is life in the Church Militant. Get used to it. And let no one deceive you.
[to repeat, you can read the whole thing in pdf here]
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