The Humanity of Sympathy

The death of a dear loved one often leads people to ask why, especially when it is one so young and sweet, as was our dear Megan. Her picture-perfect marriage to our son was such a glad occasion only three months before she was diagnosed with cancer. Little did I know, when warning them in the wedding sermon that they would undoubtedly be facing challenges together in Christ, just how great and how near these challenges would loom. And so it is natural to ask why.

And yet, strange as it may seem, in the aftermath of funeral and burial, the question does not haunt us as it does those who have no hope.

The question in fact has many answers, first of which perhaps is this: all is vanity, saith the Lord. Weddings, as beautiful and happy as they are, can easily make us forgetful of this fact, and mislead us into thinking that it is in this life that we have hope in Christ. Certainly Megan did not think so. We look for the life of the world to come.

Further, when tragedy and death visit, I have no second thoughts about why I entered this holy calling; I have no doubt that this will also be embedded in the mind of my son when he receives his Holy Orders. For in the end, what can be more valuable for the world than the preaching of the Gospel? All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: but the word of the Lord endureth for ever.

And there's another thing. So many have expressed their heartfelt sympathy to us in recent days, leading me to think on the matter of sympathy. From the Greek syn + pathos, it means to suffer together, to share in the sorrow. And somehow, mysteriously, the sharing of sorrows makes them a bit easier to bear than for one who must sorrow alone.

Sympathy is also a very human thing. All kinds of people can sympathize. People who didn't even know you can sympathize. Sometimes even enemies have been known to set their enmity aside, if only for a time. Yet beasts do not sympathize. It is, I think, a residual part of man's creation in the image of God, who is Himself compassionate and kind to His people. Sympathy in itself, even if it isn't specifically Christian sympathy, is a good thing. It helps define us as the princes of God's creation.

Our thanks to all who have sympathized, and with that the reassurance that, as I intimated above, we do not sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.

Christus resurrexit! Vere resurrexit!

Rubrics and Their Reasons

A cross-post, also at Gottesdienst Online, to which site comments are directed:


Quiet around here. Hmmm.

It isn't quiet out there, on the other hand. In Lutheran cyber space there's plenty of banter, more than usual, it seems. The lastest is the flap over whether or not omitting alleluia during Lent is stupid. Here's where it began. Rev. Paul McCain called the omission of Lenten alleluias "stupid," with an evident awareness that it would generate a negative response among us. "Apoplexy" was the kind word he used. And then he went on to say that for the sake of unity he follows the rubric anyhow, a remarkable admission in itself.

At first I paid no more attention than to shrug. What else is new? But today I read a brilliant response to Rev. McCain by Dcn Latif Gaba, which is a very worthy read. It positively skewers Rev. McCain. Go ahead, see for yourself, here. I'll wait.

In addition, there is a thoughtful defense of omitting the Alleluias in Fr. William Weeden's blog, a quotation from the sainted O.P. Kretzman (here), which even McCain acknowledges to be a point well made, though he dismisses it without further comment.

He might have observed that the Western Church's emphasis on penitence during Lent is a salient attribute of it over against the East, though this observation is not made to denigrate the East (which has its own salient and laudable features). Yet particular Western penitential Lenten practices are worthy of defending, such as the omission of Alleluias, or, during Passiontide, the veiling of images and the omission of the Gloria Patri. It's actually amusing to hear McCain lambasting the Western omission of the alleluias. Next thing you know, he'll be sporting a beard.

But what really merits further scrutiny is the idea of doing certain liturgical things merely for the sake of unity. Rev. McCain's chief argument is that "since it is adiaphora, I am happy to give up a bit of my freedom and personal opinion for the sake of unity. We’d all be better off if we did that."

There is some merit to this, as anyone who is liturgically minded not only can but routinely does attest. That is a major reason for being liturgical: we do what the Christian Church has always done. But let's not commit dicto simpliciter and take a good thing too far. The point of rubrics, after all, is also to teach with respect to the very things they do. Not only, that is, do liturgical actions portray a uniformity with others who do them the same way; there happens to be a reason we do them which relates specifically to the matters concerning which they are done. We kneel at the altar not just to be doing the same thing together, but because Christ's Body is really there. We make the sign of the cross as Christians have done it for centuries, but the chief reason we do it is because it is the mark of the baptized. We certainly do not maintain practices we know to be stupid. As Dcn Gaba said it, "the worship of Christ our Immanuel deserves more than the merely stupid."

Moreover the rubrics, while expecting a general uniformity, have also acknowledged local circumstances, at least in a rather limited way. One of my favorite such historical circumstances is the origin, in Paris, of the elevation of the Host, in the mid-thirteenth century. The elevation arose out of the piety of the people, or of the bishops, or both, in response to the wild ruminations of one Peter the Stammerer, who (no doubt while rubbing his chin) confidently averred that the elements did not become the Body and Blood of Christ until all the words of institution were completed. In response to this the practice arose of elevating the Host immediately after the words pertaining specifically to it, as a confession against unsavory philosophical meanderings. Soon it took hold across the entire Western Church.

This brings us to certain other matters over which Rev. McCain is evidently still enduring some thrombosis of his own:

"For instance, some might think throwing themselves on the chancel floor is a great way to observe Good Friday, but we don’t do it, that is, if we care about unity. Some think putting the Lord’s Supper away in a Tabernacle on the altar and claiming it is perpetually the Lord’s body and blood and adoring it is a good thing, but we don’t do that. We know better."

Yes, it is true. Some do think putting the Sacramental reliquae in a Tabernacle on the altar is a good thing. I don't know exactly how the practice of reserving the reliquae in a tabernacle arose, but I do know it is ancient, and virtually universal in the older history of both the East and the West; so therefore there is, after all, an ingredient of unity in its retention (oddly, Rev. McCain might be obliged to agree with me on this, by his own reckoning!). But some think that in itself is still not really a good enough reason for having a tabernacle. Some think it its use is a laudable practice precisely because they claim--over against those who deny that it remains the Lord's Body and Blood--that the Sacrament is what Jesus said it was. Some think it foolhardy to say you "know better" than what Jesus said. And some find that having a tabernacle makes it easier to discover those who say they believe what Christ said about those elements, but who, when put to the test, seem more apt to believe that He only meant it temporarily at best.

See? Rubrics do have more meaning than 'unity' after all.

By the work worked

Of course I know what Luther was getting at when he assailed the Romanist ex opera operato error. His chagrin over the peasants who thought they could be saved from the wrath of God without faith, if only they gave indulgences, or if only the mass was performed for them, is pretty well known. Sort of reminds me of that old Star-Trek episode in which some extra-terrestrial is having Kirk and Spock over for dinner, and, in place of saying grace, he has some Hindu-ish guy come in and hit a gong. Sure, that counts, doesn't it? Well, I think that's the kind of mischief Luther had in mind when he decried ex opera operato -- by the work worked -- and insisted instead that the means of grace are to be understood instead as opera operantis -- works working and producing faith.

Right, agreed.

On the other hand it seems to me there's also a kind of mischief that obtains if we go into apoplexy any time a hint of ex opera operato is sniffed, because there is a way in which this phrase may be understood as having a proper and salutary meaning.

The power of the sacraments is not effected by faith; it is received by faith. And there's a huge difference. For if the former were true, then I would have to wonder about my faith, whether it was sufficient to do the trick, and I would be depending upon how reflexive my faith was, and, in the end, would be resting my salvation on something in me, namely my believing, rather than on something in Christ, namely His grace.

I was thinking about this as I visited a shut-in today, who was fretting over the fact that she couldn't remember anything, that her memory wasn't serving her well. And I assured her that what matters is that her Lord remembers her.

This got me thinking about the Sacrament, and about doing it "in remembrance" of Him. A recent issue of Gottesdienst has a great article by Chaplain Jonathan Shaw about the matter of who is chiefly to be thought of as doing the remembering there: Christ. Just as the angel of death saw the blood on the Israelites' doorposts, and it was the angel that did the remembering, and so passed over their houses, so also it is God who remembers the meaning of the blood of Christs which He sees, as it were, on our doorposts, and His judgment passes over.

And I got to musing, now there's a salutary way to think of ex opera operato: the Israelites were all spared by virtue of the blood on their doorposts. And this is a token of the effect of the Sacrament on us. While affirming that in the case of the Sacrament faith is requisite on our part, we must also declare that what we believe to be happening here is that it is God who is seeing the Blood, and it is He who is doing the remembering. We are saved by the work which Christ worked.

On Semper Virgo

Rev. Eric Brown brought up a helpful discussion over at Four and Twenty Blackbirds on the semper virgo--the question whether the Blessed Virgin Mary remained virgin all her life--when he asked for the theological reasons and ramifications of it for those who believe it. He was not interested in proof-texts or other arguments for or against; he merely wanted to know what sort of significance it held in the theological scheme. So I chimed in. I decided to cross post my response here. If you want to get the full discussion on the matter, check there. But here's what I said:

Semper virgo ultimately has to do with coming to terms with the fact of the Incarnation. Here's what I mean: generally--though not in every case--it seems to obtain that among people who reject semper virgo there is a corresponding view that the BVM was nothing really unique. She is given the nod as the mother of Jesus, even (grudgingly) the mother of God, but these are merely names, and anyone can live with names.

What I find particularly helpful among medieval and early meditations on the Virgin--although there are excesses--is evidence of an eagerness to grapple with the reality of the miracle of Christ's conception in her womb. This eagerness is something I sense has been lost on us.

Luther similarly opines somewhere that there is great gain to be had from meditation on the term "Mother of God."

The fact is that Mary is unique. The miracle that happened within her was a sharp and singular break from the ordinary manner of human reproduction. This miracle was enacted upon her flesh, resulting in the Incarnation of God within her. She became the vessel for Him who holds heaven and earth, and it was of her flesh that He partook. This is something that really cannot be parsed and analyzed as much as it can be wondered at. At such moments we must become more inclined simply to revere and adore than merely to understand.

And this reality means that she is no ordinary vessel any longer. Something has really and verifiably changed: the nativity of our Lord is an incontrovertible verification of the miracle.

Since this is so, it seems to me that the whole Church--including, incidentally, Joseph--must set this vessel apart from all others on earth.

She is the Holy Grail. One does not use the Holy Grail to drink milk or beer.

I would think that of all people struck by this reality, Joseph would have to be first. Remember also doubting Joseph, how it was necessary for the intervention of an angel to correct him on this matter. Would he not become reticent about taking this vessel into his chamber for common use? No law forbade it, but that's not the issue: she has become the theotokos. That changes things, really and physically.

The Prophetic Voice of David

We were looking at 2 Samuel 16 this morning, and the question came up--for the second time, actually--why there is no reference to any prophet during the time of David. Nathan came to him the one time, when he sinned with Bathsheba, but after that, nothing. Why is this?

There is a related matter, pertaining to the Psalter, and, for that matter, to the books of Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, and the Proverbs. These books are written by kings, not prophets. They are royal. When David speaks, his voice is prophetic, though he was a king.

In this we see how David foretells Christ, in his very office. Where has Nathan gone? He has decreased, in token of the way John the Baptist decreases when Jesus' ministry begins. For Jesus is the King of the Jews, and yet he is greater than all the prophets, speaking the oracles of God.

The prophetic voice of David betokens the coming of Jesus the Son of David, who is himself the Word, and whose voice is the living voice of God.

The ELCA and Gays

In our weekly radio program, St. Paul's on the Air, we discuss the recent decision of the ELCA in convention to admit practicing gays onto their clergy roster. It's the last program on the list below, PCR 60, to air on our local radio station on Sunday, August 30, and to be podcast at Pirate Christian Radio the following Wednesday at 7:30 CDT.

WWJD?

For no particular reason, or as my kids would say, randomly, I got to thinking about that slogan, and it occurred to me that if we were to ask that question honestly, we might come up with an answer rather unexpected by those who dreamt up that slogan years ago.

When it first came out--when was it, 1990's?--a bunch of Lutherans jumped on it and said woah, this is backwards, it's all law, and we need Gospel, so it should be WHJD: what has Jesus done? But of course to run around saying WHJD and making WHJD bracelets and whatnot would be to fall victim to the gimmickry which is just as much out of place as is a confusion of law and Gospel.

I much preferred the saucier kinds of retorts, viz., WWJD: We Want Jack Daniels, Willie Wonka Just Died, etc.

But actually if you take the question seriously: What Would Jesus Do? -- you could easily come to conclude that Jesus would not do the kind of things people wearing the bracelets might think he'd do. They suppose that when you think WWJD, you'll refrain from anger, or invective, or insentitivity, right?

But when you think about it in view of what the Gospels report, you could come to the opposite conclusion: Jesus would make a whip, turn over moneychangers' tables, and throw a fit. Or, Jesus would read his enemies the riot act: woe unto you, lawyers, etc. Or Jesus would say, "Leave the dead to bury their dead," not a particularly "sensitive" thing to say.

Jesus' demeanor was no-nonsense. WWJD? My guess is that he'd shrug and ask, "Why in the world are you wearing that silly bracelet? Follow me."

Apostolic?

It amazes me that the names of some churches virtually shout out the very thing they are missing. Baptists, for instance, refuse to baptize people they should be baptizing.

And the so-called Apostolic Christian Church similarly has a disdain for that which is explicitly apostolic, viz., the apostolic ministry.

They also emphasize a "life of repentance" which means a lot of externals designed to show that one is truly a Christian. In particular, "The believers live separated, sanctified lives and are not conformed to the world. Discipline of erring members is administered for their spiritual welfare and for the preservation of the church."

All very John Calvin. And ironic, because in spite of all appearances, and their insistence that the Bible is the infallible word of God, they also insist that in the Sacrament "The bread and the fruit of the vine (read: grape juice) in Holy Communion symbolize the body and the blood of Christ." I guess I missed the part where Jesus said that.

Of course you dear readers already know what I'm talking about.

One thing that struck me about the doctrinal statement of this church is that much of it sounded a bit too familiar. Especially this, from the "government" section:

"Direction is sought from the congregation for filling teaching and leadership offices either by vote or personal suggestion. The decision for appointment rests with the elder, a responsibility given to Timothy by Apostle Paul."

So there you are: voting is said to be what's truly "apostolic" about the selection of your "elder." Is it just me, or does that sound very Missourian?

Who Is Mary Magdalene?

I know I've done these permutations before, but I can't find where I mislaid them. No matter; it's worth doing them again.

The Gospel appointed for St. Mary Magdalene's Day (July 22) is St. Luke 7:36-50. She is not named there, but rather assumed to be the woman "who was a sinner" who crashed the party at Simon's house as Jesus was reclining there. She stood behind him, she was weeping, she wiped his feet with her hair, kissed them, and anointed them with precious ointment. Simon the Pharisee grumbled about this, and Jesus, after rebuking him, blessed the woman.

This account corresponds with St. Matthew 26:6-13 and St. Mark 14:23-9, except that in those accounts the flask is broken and the ointment poured over Jesus' head, not his feet; and in Matthew it was "the disciples" who were indignant, while in Mark it is "some" who were indignant. Mark and Matthew identify Simon as "the leper" whereas he is only called a Pharisee in Luke. None of the three synoptic accounts mentions the woman's name.

Then there is the parallel in St. John 12:1-8, in which "Mary" is named, she anoints Jesus' feet, and wipes them with her hair. And it is specifically Judas who complains, not Simon.

In addition, there is the account in St. John 8:1-11 of the woman caught in adultery, who is unnamed.

In the East, this woman, Mary Magdalene, and Mary of Bethany are usually treated as three different women, but not as much in the West. St. Gregory the Great held that they were one and the same: Mary Magdalene is Mary sister of Martha, the woman caught in adultery. Yet St. Ambrose and others left the question unanswered, and the new Roman calendar has capitulated, adopting the Eastern tradition.

But I'm not so sure. I think we're talking about one woman here. Admittedly I am a bit of a Gregoriphile, but that's not why I think his view has merit. Here's my reasoning.

In the first place, the anointing accounts are pretty clearly a match. Enough of the details correspond to leave us with little doubt as to the unlikelihood that two separate such anointings took place, at two feasts held by two Simons where twice a weeping woman's hair wiped Jesus' feet and twice Jesus rebuked her scorners. Too many coincidences would obtain were these separate accounts. And in one of them, the woman is identified as Mary of Bethany.

Moreover, the Lucan account indicates that it was widely known just who this woman was, "a sinner." As in, someone who would also fit the characterization of one having had seven demons, namely Mary Magdalene. It all matches up rather nicely.

St. Mary Magdalene is a central figure in the Gospels. Mary is also an enigmatic figure, likely intentionally so. Shortly after the Lucan account of the unnamed woman with the alabaster box there comes a specific reference to Mary, in the next chapter, as one "out of whom went seven devils." This is part of what leads people to reject the notion that she is the same woman (why would not the evangelist tell us her name in the anointing account, if he did so in the next one?). But perhaps he had reason for not doing so, even as later on in the same chapter he refers to the truths of the Gospel as "mysteries of the kingdom of God."

In addition, the very same pattern can be traced in St. John's Gospel. In St. John 8 the woman caught in adultery is unnamed, but in the twelfth chapter Mary is named as one anointing Jesus' feet.

Perhaps by this kind of reporting the Gospels are relating this to us, that buried in their mysteries we may find Mary, the first witness of the resurrection, who announces it to the twelve, and is remembered as a pure and holy saint, in spite of her many sins. The altar is draped in white on her day. She is one who "became" a virgin. She was filthy, she is clean. She was sinful, she is holy. The great power and result of the forgiveness of sins is manifested nowhere more clearly than in this saint.

That's my view, at any rate.

I Knew It

I guess the EPA is not quite as objective as some would have you believe, when it comes to global warming. Which, I might add, also goes for that panel of scientists who fatuously declared a few years back that global warming was reality and that it was caused by man.

Now we're hearing of an EPA guy named Alan Carlin, who was being told to shut up, because he dared to question the findings and the 'settled' view that these things are incontrovertibly so. Whatever may be said about whether or not they are so, the fact that muzzles are being placed on officials who provide alternative views or suggestions indicates that the greens' entire stance was jaded in the first place.

Kudos to Wisconsin Representative James Sensenbrenner for calling attention to this.

Of course, we knew it all along, didn't we.

And with every passing year, I'm becoming more convinced that much--most--of this environmentalism is really a false, Gaian religion.

For I Will Consider My Cat

Though I suspect that the eighteenth century poet Christopher Smart might quite possibly have been a little off his rocker, I find something compelling in his poem about his cat, which Benjamin Britten set to music. "For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry" is worth a read, and not only for amusement's sake. I detect some rich theology embedded in the fascinating images of God and godliness which the poet has linked to his cat:

"For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way . . .

"For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger. . . .

"For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things. . . .

"For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom. . . .

"For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. . . ."

The poem in its entirety can be accessed here.

I was brought back to thinking about this poem because last Saturday we put our fourteen-year old cat in her grave, feeling a little odd about the whole enterprise, particularly because we euthanized her. Her kidneys were failing, she was losing weight, and we can't handle cat pee all over the house. So according to a long-standing and sensible rule, we determined that family pets must not be recipient of heroic measures. She was, after all, just a cat.

Nevertheless going through the motions of having her put to sleep is, well, a morbid enterprise, even if it was only for a cat. I'm not sure, was that a quirky and irrational kind of guilt I felt? Maybe. I'm actually not sure.

Her eyes wouldn't close. She just peacefully gazed at me, as if to say, Huh?

Are cats like God? Mr. Smart thought so, and he may have a point. They certainly are from God. On the other hand beasts of the earth die every day, some even for our nourishment. I have no qualms about eating hamburgers, and I am fully aware that any qualms I have about the Chinese practice of eating catburgers are really nothing more than a cultural thing.

Maybe it's just me. Once, years ago I shot a blackbird, just for the sport of it. I felt awful afterwards.

But I have no qualms about someone shooting the enemy on a battlefield.

Maybe it's an embedded respect for life that I'm sensing. Maybe that's why there are Hindus who won't even kill bugs. Such senses must be kept from becoming unfettered, of course, and there are Hindus with none of the fetters they need.

Ah, well. I know: she was just a cat, the garden variety. Big deal.

And yet I will consider my cat. Tina Babe. 1995-2009. R.I.P. (can we say that for a cat? Maybe not. Oh well . . .)

Holy Wednesday

The Gospel for Holy Wednesday is the Passion according to St. Luke. Our custom is a traditional one, to read it by parts. The subdeacon reads the narrator's parts, the celebrant reads Jesus' parts, and the congregation reads the other speakers' parts. The sermon was, as a consequence of the lengthy reading, a short one, highlighting the fact that Jesus is our Passover. The evangelist declares at the opening of the reading that it was the time for the passtover: "Now the feast of unleavened bread drew nigh, which is called the Passover. And the chief priests and scribes sought how they might kill him; for they feared the people." In typical Lucan fashion we are given here a subtle indication of who Jesus is. The antecedent of the pronoun (him) is the Passover. Hence we find throughout this Passion subtle indications of the Passover being fulfilled: they prepare in the upper room (and the Supper is the fulfillment of the Passover meal, as we feast on the Lamb of God); and as the Passover is to be roast with fire, so Jesus in Gethsemane was in agony, and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood; and as the people were to eat the Passover in haste, dressed for travel, so Jesus instructed his disciples to take a sword, their scrip, etc. And, of course, as the Passover was killed, so Jesus was crucified.

Something went wrong with the recording, so the sermon was not recorded this time, but it was short.

I thought of mentioning another factor but decided against it. The words of institution in St. Luke do not have "Take, eat / take, drink." Perhaps the reason for that is this emphasis on the Passover. It is roast first, and eaten afterwards, of course. So the emphasis in the words of institution as Luke records them is on the "doing" of this, and the perpetuation of it. The death of the Passover, Christ, results in the feasting in the Passover meal, the Sacrament.

All these are also considerations in preparation for Maundy Thursday, coming up next.

Why Reserve the Reliquae?

The discussion continues unabated, and I am pleased to find that some even find it edifying. It started, I think, over a post I rather offhandedly made in late January, at Gottesdienst Online about my desire to return to the historic historic readings. This was quickly picked up at HistoricLectionary.com, and some folks offhandedly remarked that I was all about innovation. I replied, huh? It turned out that some were a bit uncomfortable about my use of the tabernacle, and so I pulled the discussion in here, at my own blog, first with this post, and then with this one. In all, I count 144 comments made on this matter, in the space of about half a month. As Venkman has noted, it's about as much writing as some M.Div. theses.

Fr. Skillman has recently provided a nice summary on the nature of the entire discussion:

"This and the last major post have constituted a great discussion. Would you agree?

"The questioners are usually thoughtful, kind, and direct. The answerers (yourself included, of course) are thought provoking. I still have some confusion on this subject, but I have been edified by the discussion.

"I trust no one here thinks that this is keeping them from their 'real ministry'. I believe that discussions such as these are part of the 'real ministry'.

"Anyway, what a wonderful discussion. Thanks to you, our host, and the other participants."

I agree, Fr. Skillman, and thank you, too.

Fr. Messer, I alao appreciate your fine impersonation of me in my brief absence yesterday; I am truly flattered. Thank you. And you are right, of course; I couldn't have said better myself what you said:

"Thanks much [to interlocutor Michael Francis] for clarifying your logic. I now understand where you are having trouble with Fr. Eckardt's practice, although I'm confused about your assertion that the only inference you can make regarding Fr. Eckardt's desire to always keep something in reserve is that he does so for the sake of adoration (so that he might always have something to which he might genuflect).

"The reason for my confusion here is because I thought he already gave answer to this above when he stated that he always keeps something in reserve in case an emergency arises and he needs to distribute the Sacrament. His answer was not, 'I always keep something in reserve so that I might have something to adore and something to which I might offer my genuflection'. Why, then, must the only inference at which you can arrive be that he always keeps something in reserve for adoration? It seems to me that another possible inference (indeed, even a solid conclusion) is that he always keeps something in reserve so that he might have the Body and Blood of Christ available for distribution. Thus, where you see a 'glaring contradiction', I see a faithful consistency in his practice.

"Nevertheless, I should probably bow out and allow Fr. Eckardt to speak for himself."

Fr. Messer, you saved me the trouble and time of figuring out how to say the same thing. Again, thanks.

Honestly I have been a bit mystified by Michael Francis' continual allegations that I am being evasive. Rev. McCain makes the same claim, of course. It's a clever ploy to say someone's being evasive rather than to say either that you don't understand what he's saying, or that you simply don't agree with it.

What's puzzling to some is the fact that Mr. Francis is calling me inconsistent because I said that if I were called out to an emergency on a Saturday night, and only one host remained, I would still break it in half and leave half behind. Now the practical answer to that should be self-evident. What if, on returning, say, at 11 p.m. and going home, I should be called out at 2 a.m. on yet another emergency? Responsible reservation dictates perpetual reservation, for this expressed reason: the nature of an emergency is that one never knows when it will happen.

In addition, however, this practice also prevents the awkwardness of having to indicate to parishioners arriving on a Sunday morning after an emergency in which the last host was used, that there happened to be no Sacrament in reserve today, so be sure not to genuflect, for if you did so, you'd be doing so accidentally. To which most would look quizzically and say, huh? Much easier, and more effective, to teach that the elements are in reserve, the eternal light is always lit, and therefore be advised that it is appropriate to genuflect when you enter.

But actually, I'm slightly amused by the allegation that I'm being evasive. Evasiveness implies sneakiness, or having something to hide. Let's see, what could I have to hide? The fact that I desire to adore the body of Christ? But clearly I am not hiding that desire! Would that all the world knew of it!

But no, it's not really that, is it. It's the thought that I would only consecrate them to adore them, even though I made it clear that I meant to consume them (or have them consumed) at some point after adoring them. I guess that would mean it's the thought that I would mainly want to adore them, even more than wanting to consume them.

Well, let's suppose, just for the sake of argument, that that were true.

So what?

Would that constitute abuse?

I trow not. For I suggest that someone whose main desire, even during communion, is to consume, more than to adore, is the one who's really being abusive. Consider St. Paul's problem with the Corinthians: "For in eating every one taketh before other his own supper: and one is hungry, and another is drunken. What? have ye not houses to eat and to drink in? or despise ye the church of God, and shame them that have not? what shall I say to you? shall I praise you in this? I praise you not."

For if we consume without adoration--by which we must mean at least some form of acknowledgment of the Incarnate One--we have certainly become guilty of abuse of the Sacrament: "For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body."

Now just so nobody gets all rankled, I am not accusing anyone here of taking things that far; but I am seeking to draw out some questioning threads so that we might venture to see where they may logically lead.

The Confessional Ingredient in Having a Tabernacle

A hundred and nine comments on one blog post is about enough. One of you owes me an evening with a fine single-malt.

But there are some matters which need further exploration, it seems to me, as opposed to mere hashing over old arguments.

A desire to know my real reasons for building a tabernacle is a fair enough inquiry.

Of course there is the chief reason, mentioned in the former post on this subject (required reading for anyone wanting seriously to contribute to this conversation), which, simply, is that it is the best way to give honor to the reserved elements.

This begs a second reason, which is that, in my view, reservation is preferable to celebrating mass in a hospital room.

There is a third reason, which has been lurking in the background of much of our conversation in the former post, and I was reminded of it by the antepenultimate comment, by a certain Anonymous:

"Which came first:

"- Your desire to take Holy Communion to the shut-ins from the same elements as were used in the Sunday mass, and so you retain it and thus adore it during its retention; or

"- Your desire to adore the elements from the Sunday mass, and so you retain it under the good intention of taking it to the shut-in?

"Trusting that no one here would side with the second half of the question, there is nothing sinful or evil with this practice."

The truth is that what came first was a simple reservation of elements, many years ago, in a fit receptacle in the sacristy. I began to feel uncomfortable with that, and to think that for fitness I could really do better. The members of my parish agreed, and the rest is history.

And yet what happened as a result, almost instantly, I realized how this had become an opportunity to confess the Real Presence against receptionism.

Today, nobody in my parish is afflicted with that ghastly disease, I can tell you. Nor does anyone believe in the Real Withdrawal either. And everyone, including some little children, knows that the church is the place for reverence, because of the Body of Christ on the altar.

I admit that I was a bit unsure, when we went to building the tabernacle, about whether it was worth the grief I knew I would catch for doing it, and whether it was worth the sideways glances even from some of my close friends. But these words were repeating themselves in my mind every time I wondered: This is my body. So I went ahead with the plans.

And I must tell you, it has paid off in spades. For my parish, first (and most importantly), in countless ways. It has taught them in a way worth a thousand words what the Sacrament is, and remains. It has also shown them how very serious I am, as their pastor, about the Holy Mass. And they have learned a sacramental piety for which I am truly grateful.

And secondly, for whomever in the world of people in Lutheranism happens to take notice, it has paid off. It has smoked the ugliness of receptionism out into the open for all to see. Now, before anyone starts fuming here, I am not accusing everyone who disagrees with me here of receptionism. Far from it.

Rather, I am interested in exposing the beast. It is a hideous monster. It forces otherwise pious Christians to think console themselves with regard to spilled elements, or shoddy practices that rot like skeletons in their closets; it acquits them of years of not having had to think the unthinkable: have I desecrated the body of Christ?

And in exchange for that service, the beast gets its pound of flesh: a puny, pitiable religion that doesn't bother to think past the idea that somehow, somewhere out in space the communicant is being united with the body of Christ as he eats this little "wafer." It's enough to make John Calvin proud.

And if someone wants to label me a quatenus subscriber to the Confessions over this, all it tells me, frankly, is that the beast is alive and well. And as long as the beast lives, I will gladly confess, at every opportunity, the body of Christ.

Did you know, that's kind of how the elevation of the host developed? I'm thinking it was the eleventh century, and in France, that the practice of elevating the host began to assert itself, against one Peter the Stammerer, who began teaching a strange new doctrine, probably at Paris. Peter insisted that the host did not become the body of Christ until after all the words of institution were spoken. Against this the faithful, up in arms, began to support a new means of confession against said Peter, namely, a silent pause in the midst of the Verba immediately after the consecration of the first species, in order to elevate it for all to adore.

Not only, therefore, will I defend my decision to erect a tabernacle here; I encourage you, as you are able, to try it as well. You might be as surprised as I was at the results you get.

I'll say one thing: it has made the beast unwelcome in my parish. And that is no small victory.

Still at It

The discussion on reserving the reliquae is taking some fascinating turns. Have a look.

Before the Incarnate One

The reason we built a tabernacle at St. Paul's is simple. It has always been my custom to take reserved elements to the sick. I had a place for them in the sacristy, from which I took them. Not ever having been trained in these things, I simply intuited that if the Sacrament was to be reserved, it should be designated, and proper deference should be given to it. It is, after all, the body of Christ. Hence it was only a matter of time until I figured out that the tabernacle would be the best and most salutary way to do that. Though I knew it would lead some to a state near apoplexy, I found myself actually wanting to confess that the reliquae are indeed the body and blood of Christ, and nothing less.

Closet receptionists will here grumble that nothing is a Sacrament apart from the use, but they misread the meaning of that, as I and others have written elsewhere. In short, our rebuttal is simply this: certainly one may not use the body of Christ for some reason other than that for which He gave it, but just as certainly He did not say, "Take eat, this is my body until you are done using it."

A seven-year old child can tell you what the reliquae are, notwithstanding all protestations to the contrary. Jesus said it was His body. Therefore it is.

So now I am being accused again of abusing the Sacrament, in this a recent thread of blog comments over at Historic Lectionary (not by the blog itself, which I find quite helpful, but by a commenter). I am actually being accused of innovations, of all things, among which is: "the tabernacle and the apparent custom of reverencing it apart from its use in the distribution (an issue that I think runs very close to the proscriptions of the Formula)."

See there, very close! Lions and tigers and bears! Oh my! I guess that settles it, I am to be avoided.

As an aside, a careful parsing of the complaint reveals that there is no distinction made there between reverence and adoration. For while I will reverence an empty tabernacle, just as I would an empty altar, I will always adore the body of Christ, and so you will see me genuflecting before a tabernacle being used to house the reliquae. But never mind that.

Another matter at issue here is the maddening use of the Confessions as a club. I recall having written about this somewhere too, and having retorted, Nothing is a Confession apart from the use. The Lutheran Confessions were not written to sit as the ultimate Judge and Dictator of What We Shall Believe. Listen, if you really want to argue theology with me, don't throw the Confessions at me. They are simply a rehearsal of what I believe. They don't tell me what I shall believe, so much as they tell me what I do believe, though I'll grant that the closing words of the Athanasian Creed do come close to the former.

You can't, in short, settle the question of what the reliquae are by some quotation from the Confessions. That, in my book, is what comes close to the proscriptions of the Formula. Take a look at the Formula's opening words if you don't believe me: "We believe, teach, and confess that the sole rule and standard according to which all dogmas together with [all] teachers should be estimated and judged are the prophetic and apostolic Scriptures of the Old and of the New Testament alone."

And as for you who refuse to adore the body of Christ, I could of course quote the Confessions at you, but that could make me guilty of the very offense I am outlining here. I'll just defer to a marvelous quip I remember from Dr. John Stephenson in that regard: "You'd stand before the Incarnate One?"

Sorting out the Immaculate Conception

First off, I'm going to admit that we did not observe the Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary here on Monday. My own default entrenchment in TLH has me at a disadvantage when it comes to any observances and feasts whatsoever that are not found there. It's not that TLH is inerrant, certainly; it's just that it's become the indelible way my own synapses work.

We did celebrate St. Nicholas Mass on Saturday, though, and we will celebrate St. Lucy's next Saturday, so it's not that I can't bring myself to make changes; it's just that each one comes with some difficulty.

In my brain (the one I, the Frankengottesdienst monster, got when Marty Feldman dropped the normal brain and took the one from Abby . . .), there are a number of committees. Each change proposed must go through lots of red tape. During the process it often will sit unattended on a messy desk for extended periods of time. Sometimes there's a veto, or a subcommittee hearing, and the process takes even longer. Let the reader understand: I am a true conservative, in the most rudimentary sense of that term.

So anyhow, the Feasts for the BVM are all at various stages in this mental process of mine. The most recent one to be enacted (which actually means that I got around to celebrating it, really) is the dormition of the Blessed Virgin Mary, August 15th. That one underwent several alterations before becoming, er, law, in Kewanee. It is not called the Assumption, a la Rome, nor is it simply called St. Mary, Mother of our Lord, a la SBH. I must say, the former, notwithstanding its questionable historicity, is truly preferable to the latter, an abominable reversion to Nestorius. (Oh where is St. Leo when you need him?)

So here I am, still sorting out what I ought to think about the Conception BVM. It's certainly historical (I mean, she was conceived), and it certainly has the effect of helping us count her blessed among women.

And yet somehow I admit that I'm dragging my heels a bit on this. I have learned to trust my instincts (which drives my loved ones nuts, particularly when their instincts are at variance).

Maybe it's the whole Immaculate Conception thing that has me troubled. To those of us who are both interested in good tradition and in historical validity--which are usually not at odds with each other--sometimes there is a problem, and when it must be resolved on the side of what's true, we find ourselves troubled that we must set tradition aside.

So it is for me in the case of the Immaculate Conception. One might wryly say that the immaculate conception didn't take place until 1854, when Rome dogmatized it, though it was a popular view for a long time prior to that.

My own take on it is that it is the understandable result of a misunderstanding of Doubting Joseph, on whom a number of medieval hymns have been written. That is to say, it's most likely that that term "immaculate conception" arose in poetry from the angel's words to Joseph in St. Matthew 1: "Fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost."

In other words, the immaculate conception does indeed pertain to Mary, but not to her own conception. Rather, it is a reference to her virginal purity: Joseph, do not think ill of your betrothed; that which is conceived in her was conceived immaculately, without sin in her.

So, to return to my original musing, though I haven't researched this, I'm going to guess that the feast observed on December 8th, which is generally called the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, is reserved for the observance of Mary's own conception in the womb of her mother St. Anne. Hence (if this is correct) it is a faulty observance.

I may be quite wrong about this, particularly as I know it is observed also in the East. But even so, there are those tedious committee meetings going on in my brain even as I write, and there doesn't seem to be a resolution in view any time soon.

That said, I really do hate coming down on the side of Nestorians, Calvinists, and clowns who refuse to call Mary blessed, to say nothing of her being the Mother of God.

Perhaps somebody could enlighten me on this, but without even checking I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that the propers for December 8th are not what they should be. If there is going to be a Feast of the Immaculate Conception, it should be the Feast of Doubting Joseph, and the Gospel appointed should be the one from St. Matthew 1; though honestly, the notion of altogether new propers would never see the light of day in those cranial committee meetings of mine.

But if it had been so, then everyone would know, as I suspect it was widely known in Christendom around 900 years ago, when those medieval hymns were written, that the Immaculate Conception is an important thing to emphasize: Joseph, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.

The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars

As long as I seem to be doing such a good job of being misunderstood (as in the threads found here and here, for instance), I may as well venture forth and ask for more.

How about this one. In yesterday's Gospel, Jesus waxed apocalyptic in his reference to the sun, the moon, and the stars: "There shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken" (St. Luke 21).

And the key, I repeat, is that Jesus is being apocalyptic here. As in, Danielic, Ezekielic, or, well, Apocalyptic (as in, last book of the Bible). He even references Daniel specifically earlier on in the Matthean counterpart to this chapter (St Matthew 24), so it is not at all unreasonable to suggest (here goes):

These are not references to heavenly phenomena like eclipses, falling stars, comets, etc.

How about references to the powers in place over God's people, i.e., the leaders of the nation of Israel, a la Joseph's dream. Remember that Joseph had once referred to the sun, the moon, and the stars as references to his own family? Well, how about here?

Consider: the fall of Jerusalem, referenced in Jesus' prior remarks, is to give way to the utter realignment of the heavenly authority of God, and this will cause men's hearts to fail them for fear and expectation, etc. Indeed, the Matthean version adds "immediately after those days" to this prediction. Now comes the age of the Church, which is something to which even the most devout of Jewish believers would have trouble adjusting. Gentiles qua Gentiles will be grafted in (interestingly, the Epistle for yesterday, from Romans, references that).

And then comes this: "And then shall they see the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh." Note that phrase "begin to come to pass"; in other words, the coming of the Son of man is something that will begin with . . . what?

St Matthew helps us again: "then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven." What sign? He shall send forth his angels, who shall gather the elect.

But the Day of Judgment is a day of separating. What, then, might these gathering angels be? Again, this is apocalyptic language. So, how about angelic messengers? As in, preachers?

In short, the sign that the Son of Man is in heaven would then be the preaching of the Gospel. When you see (i.e. hear) this preaching, you may know that the Son of Man is in heaven (he ascended on the very day he sent the preachers, after all), and that his return in glory is immanent.

I must offer a tip of the hat to Professor Jeff Gibbs for first alerting me, years ago, to the possibility of this interpretation, which I have embraced wholeheartedly.

That said, I'm still going to run for cover. I expect recriminations for this wild and unacceptable interpretation to fly . . .

Blameless Zacharias

It occurred to me, and I preached accordingly tonight, that the angel's reply to Zacharias in St. Luke 1 ("Behold, thou shalt be dumb, and not able to speak, until the day that these things shall be performed") was not necessarily a rebuke.

I've wondered about this, frankly, for years, ever since I read in Lenski's commentary a rather lame comparison between Zacharias 'disbelief' and the Blessed Virgin's question to the angel, in the same chapter, regarding her virgin conception of Christ. He declared, as I recall, that whereas Zacharias' question indicated unbelief on his part, Mary's question did not, but only an inquiry as to how she ought to expect the angel's word to come true, "seeing I know not a man." Hence, if you follow this line of reasoning, Zacharias was struck dumb, whereas Mary suffered no recrimination or ill consequence from her questioning of the angel.

All this assumes that what befell Zacharias was a punishment of sorts for his disbelief.

What's troubling about this assumption is that it is crystal clear, in the same chapter, that both Zacharias and Elizabeth were "righteous before God, walking in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless." We may deduce, I suppose, that suddenly Zacharias slipped up, or that in spite of his faithful blamelessness, he was nevertheless a sinner (which is certainly true, as in the case of all of us whose faith, like Abraham's, God reckons to us for righteousness). But neither of these explanations fits the context of this account.

Thus it occurred to me that the angel's rejoinder to Zacharias may not have been a rebuke at all. Perhaps it was merely an explanation for what followed. Because he did not believe the word of the angel, therefore a sign was given with it, to give him the confidence he otherwise lacked. Because he did not believe on the strength of the angel's word alone, therefore this was added: he was struck dumb.

Imagine it from Zacharias' point of view: first he experiences, and expresses, doubt over whether all this is really so. Then, he is struck dumb. How clearly this must have taught him the utter truthfulness of it all: he could not utter a word! There was the very proof he needed.

Similarly, we need additions to the sheer word of promise. So we are given Holy Sacraments, which are heavenly signs, seals from God, to accompany His promise. For we, like Zacharias, are prone to fickleness of the flesh. Hence God in His inestimable mercy grants to us the support we require, even as He did for this saint.

A Primer on Rights

I suppose it was inevitable that people would one day begin expanding on the rights upon which the US Constitution is ostensibly based, going even beyond the Bill of Rights.

Today, for instance, we hear about the right to a fair wage. The absurdity of that one may be seen by restating it: the right to a fair wage is the right to have a certain value attached to your services. Well, who says? These kinds of "rights" are directly contrary to the notion of the free exchange of commerce, the essence of capitalism. Hence the right to a fair wage is really a stipulation that society must be in essence socialist. This begs the question who is going to be put in charge of determining what the value of services should be. If that value is not set by the marketplace, it must be imposed. This is contrary to freedom, which is the heart of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Hence one may find an extrapolation of the constitutional basis in rights which is contrary to that basis itself.

Speaking of the Declaration of Independence, we will do well to consider carefully the meaning of "We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

In the first place, there is the fact that the basis of authority here is what is considered to be "self-evident," an appeal to common sense. This document is the product of the age of Rationalism, whose consistent appeal was to Reason. The American ideal was tempered by a lack of excess, and comparatively speaking the Revolution was conservative in nature. A salient difference between the American Revolution and the French Revolution was that the latter took the ideas of liberty too far. The elimination of the nobility gave way to mob rule and the enthronement of the Goddess Reason and an unfettered mess. In America, by contrast, the need for the rule of law was seen as part of what was self-evident.

But in principle, any appeal to what is self-evident contains a seed of trouble, since what is self-evident to one generation may not be so self-evident to another.

And in fact, the phrase "among these rights" implies that there are more rights which are self-evident than life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Who's to say that the Bill of Rights must be the full range and extent of those rights?

Here's where the slippery slope upon which activist judges may base their rulings begins.

But what bears remembering is that the Declaration of Independence was written to tell the government what it had no right to do. This may be taken from the context in which it was written. The preamble was speaking first of all to the British monarchy, in effect saying, "We are not doing what is morally corrupt in our opposition to your throne; for we have from our creation as men as much intrinsic value and prerogatives as you; rather, it is you who are behaving immorally, in that you have denied us life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

The Declaration was in effect entering into the argument over establishmentarianism: was the throne established by God to dictate whatever it deemed legal, or not?

When this context is removed from questions over government, mischief arises.

Now rights may be applied to individuals over against other individuals, and consequently any notion of responsibility or of charity is left out of the discussion.

The fabric of life does not derive from the concept of rights. Only our obligations vis-a-vis the government may be argued to derive from it.

The fabric of life derives from God, to whom a brief nod is given in the Declaration; and what is in fact self-evident, though many choose to deny it, is that He has created life. We subsequently owe Him our existence. That is not a right; it is a debt.