Ecstatic over Palin

Suddenly I'm excited about politics again. Although there will likely be some things about Sarah Palin that I'll discover I disagree with here and there, John McCain made some giant strides today toward gaining my confidence that he'll make a good President.

I'm one of those conservatives, even "social conservatives," he knows he has to win over, and he hasn't done too much to win me over, seemingly taking every opportunity to distance himself from our kind, leaving us scratching our heads, wondering, what in the world is he doing? Somebody remind me why I am supposed to vote for him. And then remembering it was because the alternative would be far worse in a gazillion ways.

All that changed today.

I read about Sarah Palin several months ago, and thought, wow, she'd be a great president. I remember having the same thoughts about a certain Governor Ronald Reagan back in the mid 1970s. Governor Palin is strongly pro-life and anti-bureaucracy. She is a woman of high integrity, as far as I can tell. She was appointed to some oil commission, and when she found corruption there, she sought to root it out, and in so doing made many enemies among powerful people. At length she succeeded, and has gained the support of 80% of the people in her state. 80%! That's unheard of.

She's pro-family, pro-second amendment, and one classy lady. I still can't believe she got the nod. I'm thrilled to the bone, and suddenly find myself actually rooting for somebody instead of just against somebody else. Something good has just happened to American politics. Kudos to Senator McCain.

The Preacher, IV: Nothing Personal. Please.

Today I was led to Fr. Greg Alms' marvelous little post on preaching, whose title says it all: "A Continuing Guide to the Self Delusion of Preachers."

I'd like to highlight these two points he makes:

3.A.
Preachers know that 90 percent of personal stories in sermons overpower and obscure the theological point being made.

3.B.
90 percent of preachers believe their personal stories are effective homiletical tools.

My guess, preacher, is that if you're one who likes to tell personal anecdotes as a staple of your sermons, you will likely never admit, even to yourelf, that your personal stories obscure the Gospel. And that, dear preacher, is because of your sin.

Don't get me wrong, I'm as much of a sinner as you are, but by the grace of God I am what I am: a preacher of the Gospel. Have you not read St. Paul? We preach not ourselves, he says most clearly. So why do you think it's ok to go preach yourself? We don't want to hear about you. And frankly, we don't want to hear your little make-believe anecdotes about somebody else, either. Is it too much to ask you you preach Christ?

Sometimes I have heard preachers do nothing but string stories end to end and call it a sermon, and I'm not exaggerating.

Preacher, consider the sermons in the book of Acts. You don't see St. Peter telling personal stories.

For that matter, consider Jesus' own preaching. Now his device is the parable, which, to be sure, is a kind of story. But these stories arise out of the rabbinic mold, and as such are themselves rich in content; and they're certainly not personal ones.

The typical American sermon has become the heart of all banality. I'm amazed that people can sit through such insults to their intelligence, and then tell the preacher what a great sermon he had today, when all they heard was trite little ditties like Little Johnny was lost in the wood for hours one night; his father went out searching for hours; and when he finally found his son sleeping under a thin blanket of snow, he awoke, stretched, and exclaimed, "Oh Daddy, I found you at last!" Who found whom?

Oh, gag me! Preacher, stop reading Herman Gockel, will you? Or whatever books you're looking at to get your little extended metaphors.

When you tell them, you'll surely impress some of your hearers, but alas, you've just wasted valuable preaching time in which you could have been delving into the mysteries of the Sacred Page.

So some will tell you how wonderful your stories are. Preacher, listen, they're probably just being nice. Either that, or they really need some serious catechesis in the Gospel, which is infinately richer than tripe about little Johnny!

You want to use some stories to illustrate your point? Fine. How about using a great book I've found that's chock full of them. It's called the Old Testament. You want to illustrate divine grace? How about using Gideon's army, or David the shepherd-boy. The point there is that the victories were not gained by the strength of man. See? There are the stories you may use to your heart's content. And you'll be teaching them Bible stories to boot!

Stop preaching yourself, or your own little time-wasting anecdotes. Preach Christ instead.

The Carole Sanders Story

The following story is my leading article in our church's monthly newsletter for September. It has generated lots of interest, so I thought it worth reprinting also at this blog. The entire newsletter is always accessible online (to do so, click here).


No one expected her to live this long, let alone improve. But Carole Sanders continues to defy the predictions and prognostications of everyone, whether family or medical personnel.

Several years ago she was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, a rare lung disease that gradually (so we are told) renders the lungs nonfunctional, bit by bit, as scars continue to replace healthy tissue. We watched her go downhill, just as they said she would. They gave her two years to live at the most.

And so we began to pray for her, as Christians do, both privately and at Mass, for we knew that her dear Lord would deal with her as He saw fit, according to His own unsearchable wisdom and infinite power. With God all things are possible.

Soon she became confined to her home, and unable, except on a rare occasion, to go out. She loved her church, but was now a shut-in. Once in a great while we’d see her in church, if only on a Saturday night when less people are present. Yet her determination to keep up the fight was always evident, as we saw her, oxygen tank and all, approach the altar for the Blessed Sacrament. I could have brought it to her in the first pew, as I customarily do for some who have difficulty walking, but she preferred if at all possible to approach, climb the three steps, and make it to the altar.

Usually she had to receive her communion at home, where her husband Duane waited on her daily, an unflinching if weary angel always at her side. Duane was better for her than any nurse could have been, around the clock, constantly there for her, to be her stay. Months passed. Soon she entered Hospice care. She was losing her breath, she was going downhill. She was dying.

And so our prayers for her continued, even as we continued to expect the inevitable.

But she did not die. Six months passed, and so did the Hospice nurse. They don’t keep people on longer than six months; they’re expected to be dead by that time. And Duane and Carole decided it was easier and cheaper to manage things without Hospice, staying in close touch with medical personnel. I remember opining that none of us has any business predicting when she will die. Only God knows, in spite of what any professionals might think.

So she kept on at home, yet still going downhill. She routinely fell, even though she had a walker, and even though she never had far to walk. She just didn’t have the strength, because she didn’t have the breath. Her lungs were giving out. She fell, and bruised, and once or twice even cracked a bone. Her pain was mitigated some by pain medications, which made her groggy. I remember thinking that I had never seen someone dying so slowly.

Then one day last winter I got a call late in the evening from Duane. He couldn’t wake her. It seemed as though the end was finally at hand. I raced over to the house. Poor Duane was beside himself. We prayed. I brought to bear some of the most comforting passages of Scripture, of psalms, and of hymns. The nurse arrived, as did a family friend or two. After two or three hours, she did not stir, and her breathing was shallow. I had been at deathbeds before. Some days prior, she had already received her last communion, her viaticum, and now we were bidding her farewell. We were bracing ourselves for her last breath. Finally, when several people were keeping vigil, I decided I could leave for awhile, fully expecting to be called back shortly when death was more clearly at hand.

The call never came.

Next morning I puzzled over this, and went back to the house. There she was, to my great surprise, sitting up and smiling at me. Her hour had not yet come. Somehow, miraculously, she had revived during the night. Now doubly I know that nobody knows the hour of death. She had defied all predictions distant and recent. It was already well over the two years they had given her; I think it was almost twice that long. And still she drew her breath, and continued doggedly on.

Winter turned to spring, and spring to summer. My visits settled roughly into a weekly pattern. But my prayers, and the church’s prayers, continued at a daily pace, as ever.

Then came July. Another frantic call brought me out quickly to the house. This time she was losing her mind, quite literally. She was delirious, and completely unlike the Carole I knew. Suddenly she trusted no one but me, yet even I could not reason well with her. It was evident to me that her brain needed more oxygen, as I explained to her distraught husband. She was not herself.

Duane came to realize that she had to be moved, as she would not even let him care for her. This was the last thing this dedicated husband wanted to do; he had promised himself he would not let her live out her days in a nursing home somewhere, yet now he had no choice. It was a heartbreaking and agonizing decision. The years of care, and his labor of love, had taken their toll on him already. He had lost altogether too much weight, and was reduced to a mere shadow of himself. Now, in spite of his valiant determination month after month to continue the marathon, he was faced with defeat. Poor Duane! Poor Carole!

Yet we continued to pray, daily.

Then, in the past several weeks, something astounding began to happen. We had thought the move to Toulon Health Care would be the last straw. Perhaps it was for this reason, because every earthly prop had given way, that all at once things changed. She began the transformation from someone who was dying to someone who was living. Every time I saw her, which at first was daily, she was better than the time before. Not only was she no longer dying, she began improving, to the amazement of everyone. This was not supposed to happen. So extraordinary is her progress that even Duane, who visits her daily, is again gaining weight and strength.

Today Carole Sanders is again in her right mind, having not only accepted her lot in life, but rejoicing continually in the mercy of her Savior. Jesus has been with her, not only to comfort, but to strengthen both in body and soul. In therapy she walks farther than they tell her to walk. She is no longer waiting to die. She is living and breathing, and improving daily. She even hopes to return home some day, and to start coming to church again. Her remarkable convalescence to date really gives her no reason to expect otherwise. I can scarcely believe my eyes.

To be sure, it doesn’t generally happen like this. Faithful Christians die daily; they fall asleep in Jesus, and we mourn their loss, with the assurance that, as St. Paul has said, if in this life only we have hope in Christ we are of all men most miserable. So we don’t despair when earthly things are passed; we know of a life of the world to come; we know Jesus the Crucified, who was raised from the dead, and lives and reigns to all eternity. And we know we shall reign with Him. So we learn not to sorrow as others who have no hope, no matter whether we live or die. And we learn that this life is a vale of tears. Disease strikes and mortality makes itself known to us all.

Yet once in a while our Lord deigns to remind us, in sometimes remarkable ways, that He is in command of all things, and that He does indeed hear our prayers. In Him we live and move and have our being. And so it is that He has determined in His wisdom and mercy that it is not time for Carole Sanders to die. Not yet. In fact, she’s even showing signs of beginning to thrive.

If you wish to pay her a call, feel free. She’ll gladly visit with you and well you all these things herself. She is a living miracle, and reminder to us all that our God is always able to do abundantly more than we either ask or think.

Out of the Barn

Horses are now running wild and free.
Mavericks they are, one and all, shall they be.
And now there's another, for now yet again
Gottesdienst flies, she is out of the barn.

IN THIS ISSUE subscribers may look forward to two marvelous guest essays. The first, by Fr Richard Stuckwisch on "Singing the Church year with Paul Gerhardt," is a continuation of his brilliant study of this Lutheran giant's rich contributions to our hymnody.

The second, by frequent contributor Fr Larry Beane, asks, "Is the Papacy Still Antichrist?", a long overdue question, with incisive reasoning and plenty of confessional approbation to back up his answer. Hint: the answer isn't "Yes."

This is also our first issue with two new editors, Frs (and brothers) John and Peter Berg. We finally assimilated them (yes, rather like the Borg: "Strength is irrelevant, resistance is futile. We wish to improve ourselves. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Your culture will adapt to service ours."). Their short-lived The Motley Magpie has been resurrected, and is now a regular column in our journal.

Then there's an entry by your humble columnist called "Cheap Plastic." Guess what that one's about.

The lineup is rounded out by two fine sermons, from Fr William Weedon and Fr Aaron Koch, Fr David Petersen's article "Contemplating Missouri's Losses," Fr Karl Fabrizius's "Musing on the Mysteries," and my own "Pondering the Holy Liturgy."

One more thing. We don't have quite as many copies left over this time as usual, so if you want to subscribe before they run out, better hurry. First come, first served. Log on at www.gottesdienst.org to get the current issue.

Fair Olympics?

Maybe it's just me--well actually, it isn't, because the NBC commentators seemed to be noticing the same thing--but there seem to be some sort of shenanigans going on among the gymnastics judges at Beijing.

I guess it's being overshadowed by the bigger contoversy swirling around the ages of the Chinese atheletes, and I must say that I don't really get that one. I guess if they're really young, they get some sort of advantage over the taller girls. Judging from appearances, it must have been only a few months ago that these kids learned to walk, let alone win Olympics medals.

I'm more concerned right now about the rather glaring score boosts these children, er, women, are getting from the panel of judges. First there was an obvious scoring "mistake" over the weekend which robbed, was it Shawn Johnson?, of a medal; then there was the tiebreaker win by China's He Kexin over all-around champion Nastia Liukin. Everyone thought that one was a matter of pre-set rules, but I question how He got that high of a score to begin with.

But ok, those are judgment calls, so who knows?

But now, as of yesterday, I'm really scratching my head. I refer to the event in which Shawn Johnson finally won her gold, and teammate Nastia Liukin took the silver. Good work. At last.

But how in the world did He Kexin take the bronze? She fell off the beam, for crying out loud. Off. You know, as in, Oops, that does it. How do you win a medal when you fall off? Nobody's paying much attention to this, but I'm wondering if some of the other athletes are, you know the ones who didn't fall off the beam.

Somewhere in my memory is the recollection of a judge who was found out in a recent Olympics. Something about having been paid off; it was either a Summer Olympics, or maybe figure skating. I distinctly remember some definite cheating going on in that case.

So I can't help wondering. She fell off the beam! Come on, how does that merit a medal of any kind?

The Preacher, III

I don't write sermons, I preach them.

This is related to my previous Preacher post, a corollary, really. For, as I believe to be well established, the Gospel is primarily meant to be proclaimed aloud before it is understood as something written down. This I have claimed and demonstrated in the previous post (Faith cometh by hearing, etc.), and Blessed Martin Luther has also shown. In his postil for the First Sunday in Advent, he explains that the meaning of Bethphage is "mouth-house," and goes on to explain that the Church is the mouth-house of God. The Gospel is meant to be proclaimed aloud.

So, although the Gospel certainly can be written down, and is written down, yet this is not the mode that is to be preferred for it.

Agreed, everyone?

If so, then perhaps we could also begin to suggest--in spite my awareness of the opposition of a long list of preachers whom I admire and respect--that the preferred mode for the entire process of the making and delivery of a sermon might also be oral and not written.

I do not preach from a manuscript, as many who know me are aware. And I rarely carry any notes into the pulpit.

I admit that I did so for a dozen years or so before I began preaching, as it were, without a net. But since then I have adopted the method of preparation that I understand to have been the method of St. Augustine. He did not write his sermons either. He mused, he meditated, perhaps several times, on the pericope appointed, and then he preached it.

There's a story of how once Augustine was supposed to preach on a certain psalm, but by some mistake the psalm read prior to his preaching turned out to be a different one than he expected. But after making a brief reference to this error, he simply went on to preach the psalm for which he was unprepared.

There's a saying that you can't understand what someone is saying until you know what he's talking about. This is most especially true of the Sacred Scriptures. And conversely, if you know what the Scriptures are talking about, you will have an easier time knowing what they are saying, and you will be the more capable of owning it, and preaching it.

I have heard the arguments in favor of a written sermon manuscript, and I often have found myself halfheartedly agreeing that there are many benefits. Indeed a preacher who is unprepared, or who, shall we say, has "an impediment in his speech" (St. Mark 7), might well be advised not to do what I am proposing here. After all, this is why Luther wrote his postils: not for himself (for he also preached without a manuscript), but for others to preach, who did not have the requisite capability.

But Preacher, I bid you to strive for excellence.

A friend of mine once commented that in order to preach without a manuscript, one must get into a zone. This is true. You must become united with the words on which you are preaching. If you don't understand them all (which is sometimes to be expected), don't preach on the parts you don't understand. On the rest, get into your zone.

Learn to own the Gospel on which you preach. Make it your own. Let it edify you in mind and soul as you meditate on it. Find yourself encouraged by it. Then find a way to put this into words. And then, learn to master the words you speak. Learn the art not of producing a sermon manuscript, but of preaching. Invest your energy in the latter rather than the former.

To be sure, sometimes my sermons are less than I'd like them to be. But the same can be said of manuscripts, as far as that goes. And, on the other hand, if I am not bound to a manuscript, I sometimes pick up things I had missed in my preparation, right during Mass, and have the freedom to incorporate them into the sermon. As I read the Gospel aloud for the people, I might notice something else, especially now that it is found in the midst of the live setting of its hearers, and within the context of the liturgy.

All of this takes work, of course. It is a developed skill, and it presupposes many learned techniques about public speaking.

Preacher, strive for excellence. Make it your aim to learn how to preach.

The Preacher, II

Don't say "our text."

As in, "Our text for today . . ." Or in, "this is what our text is saying . . ."

In the first place, it is a bad idea to refer to the Gospel as a "text." A text is something written down, but, as Blessed Martin Luther said, the Gospel is primarily an oral thing, something proclaimed and not written. Jesus never wrote anything down. So therefore, although there are written Gospels, and certainly the Gospel in written form is valid and powerful, yet this is not the primary form in which it is to be used. Faith comes by hearing, says the Apostle. Therefore especially when preaching, we are in the business of proclaiming out loud the good news of salvation. This is not the time to be calling attention to a text.

Although we are certainly bound to the truth of the Biblical text as we proclaim the Gospel--it is our norm--still the power of the Gospel we preach is not dependent upon our making known that we have derived the message therefrom. The power is in the message itself, as it springs out of the mouth of the preacher and into the hearing of the people. This power is no text, and we belie this truth when we refer to the Gospel as a text.

Secondly, when the preacher says "our text," he is really meaning by the word "our" to be saying that it is under "our" consideration. Yet it is really the preacher alone who is considering this Gospel, and explicating it for the people. When he says "our" he really means "my." But that would sound too jarring, somehow too pompous. "Our" softens the blow. Yet the fact is that the preacher is here still meaning to say, "the text on which I am preaching." If he wishes to avoid inserting himself here, it would be better to say, simply, "This Gospel," as Luther does, or something similar.

"Our text" is a cliche. It's just another throwaway line. It's pedantic and dull. And so it turns off the ears. And "text" sends altogether the wrong message. Don't say it, preacher.

The Dormition of the B.V.M.

Meditation on the Magnificat, which is the Gospel appointed for the Dormition of the B.V.M., may always be expected to be fruitful.

The Blessed Virgin Mary declares that all nations shall call her blessed. What gives her the audacity to make this claim?

She was told: first by the Angel Gabriel: "Blessed art thou among women," and second, echoed by Elizabeth her cousin, who said, "Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb."

So now, as a third declaration, she says it herself, thus making threefold the testimony to the origin of her blessedness in the Triune God, whom she carries within her womb.

The Triune God is within her? Most assuredly, for in that she carries the Incarnate One, she carries the Eternal Son. Yet God is not divided, and though she does not carry the Father or the Spirit, still she carries God, she becomes the Theotokos, the God-bearer, the Mother of God.

Behold, the life she feels within her womb is her own son, her own flesh and blood; yet she knows within herself (for she has never known a man) that the angel's declaration is true: she carries the Almighty. She knows she will bear her Creator.

So within the tiny space of her womb is the meeting-place of heaven and earth, and in that she has given of her own flesh to this her Offspring, He has become forever her Son as well as the Son of the Father.

He will be now and for all eternity the Son of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

And so even after her sojourn on earth she remains His mother, and for all eternity she will remain the mother of God.

And He will be forever our Brother.

Deo gracias!

The Preacher, I

Here begins what I expect to be a series of snippets and notes regarding preaching. Not snippets of sermons, so much as of technique and sermon construction and delivery.

There is no particular rhyme or reason to the order of the snippets, much as is the case with life itself, I guess.

The first such snippet is simply this:

Never say "you see." This applies not only to preaching, but to writing and instruction in general, I'd say.

"You see" is condescending, if only as an implication. It says, sit here and pay heed to me you impoverished little underlings. You uneducated infants, you poor souls who require my personal wisdom if you are to get anywhere.

For instance, never do this:

"Martha was troubled about many things, unlike her sister Mary. You see, there's a kind of anxiety that sets in when we get too . . ."

I'd suggest that "you see" is really not meant to be "you see" when it's used like this. It's a throw-away, almost rather like "you know." But while "you know" is only annoying as a repetitive substitution for "um," "you see" is more than that, I think. It's the verbal equivalent of stroking the beard, or making a tent with the fingers. It's condescending. Don't say it, preacher. Just preach.

Hey, that's me!

Whaddya know, I'm listening right now to myself on Pirate Christian Radio. It's out "St. Paul's on the Air" program, which airs on our local radio station at 7:30 Sunday mornings. It's now also on the internet at 7:30 pm CDT Mondays and repeated, I believe, at 7:30 am Tuesdays. Also for late-nighters, it repeats at 1:30 am Tuesdays. Anyhow, listen in sometime; the station is great; has a lot of very fine programming . . .

The Allure of a Foreign Accent

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.

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.

;)

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

Un Be Lievable . . .

Here's a wild one Rev. Ben Harju stumbled onto.

It seems there's a church which calls itself Lutheran that's into consecrating and distributing goldfish crackers to the kiddies who come to the altar.

Folks, I'm speechless.

What next?

Blog Pong, II

The game is evidently still on.

Dan Woodrung has served up a new volley, quoting my reference to the Augsburg Confession (that the Church is present wherever her Gospel is preached and her Sacraments administered rightly), and asking, "Who determines the 'rightly'?"

My reply is that, in the first place that question does not require an answer for the statement to be true. It simply is true, regardless of who determines what about it. This is the ubi question, not the qua; it is a confession of where we may find the Church, not about what the Church is.

And that, as it turns out, does speak to the question of who determines. In the 1519 Leipzig debate, Eck asked Luther a similar question: who interprets Scripture? (this goes back to a recent post of mine) . . . who interprets? You, Martin Luther? To which, if I remember this rightly, Luther replied, Yes.

Similarly, who gets to decide the 'rightly'? I do.

Now before anyone launches into a diatribe about how silly that idea is, let me remind you that I've heard all your replies already, a hundred times. Spare your fingers.

Here is what I mean. St. Paul says, "I know whom I have believed . . ." How does he know? Because Peter told him to say this? Because he was accepted into the apostolic council? Because he knows he is an apostle himself? Does not Paul's assertion here provide a pattern for every Christian to follow? Must we not all learn to say the same? Then how is it that I know whom I have believed?

I do not say "I know" because the bishop told me to say that. I say it because I really do know. I do. No one knows this for me and tells me. It is an existential thing, really. Does that make me a charismatic or an existentialist? Certainly not, no more than it makes the Apostle one.

To be sure, the ecumenical councils, the creeds, the confessions -- these verify what I know, they affirm it. But they do not do my knowing for me. Nor, even, does Scripture.

It's not that I determine the 'rightly', really; it's that I recognize it. I recognize it because I know whom I have believed.

Granted, that's a sticky wicket, but it's true.