St. Cyprian on the Eucharist

The profound and often sublime writings of those early Christians  whom we refer to as “Church Fathers” were not the products of people whose only concern was theological speculation.  Almost all of these writers were, in fact, extremely  busy bishops or pastors who were  preoccupied with pragmatic problems of the flock entrusted to them.  Sometimes, as in the case of Bishop Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258), they were forced to deal with severe tensions arising from persecution of the church by the Roman authorities.  Indeed, the account of Cyprian’s own martyrdom, written by his deacon Pontius, is one of the most sobering and moving in all of early Christian literature.

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It is a testament to the seriousness of their faith that learned bishops such as Cyprian took the time amidst other pressing concerns to write about doctrine and defend various Catholic positions.  On occasion Cyprian wrote short treatises on various pastoral and doctrinal issues. More often he responded to requests from others to clarify or answer various questions  which would arise.   Many of these precious epistles have survived, and we are fortunate that in “Letter 63”  of this collection Cyprian developed his thoughts on the eucharist, giving valuable insights into the teaching of the Latin church in his day.

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The immediate occasion of this letter, addressed to a fellow bishop, was concern that some bishops and priests were celebrating the eucharist without using wine.  Rather than mixing wine with water in the chalice, as had been the Catholic practice handed down from apostolic times, these pastors were consecrating water alone.  Cyprian condemns this practice and uses the opportunity both to assert the authority of scripture and apostolic tradition, and to explain the symbolic significance of the use of wine  in the Eucharist.

Cyprian begins with the initial premise that we must always obey the explicit commands of Christ as found in scripture.  Christ used bread and wine at the Last Supper, and the apostle Paul strongly enjoined us to obey the Lord explicitly in this matter.  No bishop or anyone else has the authority to change what Christ instituted.  Cyprian also develops the idea at some length how the fruit of the vine is essential to the Eucharist.  In the Old Testament, wine is used to prefigure the suffering of  Christ, and it is this very passion of the Lord which comprises the sacrifice we offer at the altar.  To those who would argue that since wine can be abused and lead to drunkenness it is inappropriate for the Eucharist, Cyprian contrasts spiritual and carnal inebriation:

“Actually, the Chalice of the Lord so inebriates that it makes sober, that it raises minds to spiritual wisdom, that from this taste of the world each one comes to the knowledge of God and, as the mind is relaxed by the common wine and the soul is relaxed all sadness is cast away, so, when the Blood of the Lord and the life-giving cup have been drunk, the memory of the old man is cast aside and there is induced forgetfulness of former worldly conversation and the sorrowful and sad heart which was formerly pressed down with distressing sins is now relaxed by the joy of the divine mercy.”

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Union with Christ is the purpose of the Eucharist, and that certainly is a cause of inexpressible joy.  But at the same time, it is Christ’s passion with which we are called to identify in the Eucharist, not only his glory.  In a sobering  remark, perhaps  foretelling his own martyrdom, Bishop Cyprian  notes that we will not be willing to shed our own blood for Christ if we are  ashamed  to  admit  the  reality that we drink his blood in the Eucharist.  But if we love Christ and really believe in what he continues to do for us in the Eucharist, nothing can take this gift away from us. Perhaps the most poignant passage in the letter is  Cyprian’s  commentary on the act of mixing the wine and water in the chalice during the preparation of the gifts.

“For, because Christ, who bore our sins, also bore us all, we see that people are signified in the water, but in the wine the Blood of  Christ is shown.  But when water is mixed with wine in the Chalice, the people are united to  Christ, and the multitude of the believers is bound and joined to Him in whom they believe. This association and mingling of water and wine are so mixed in the Chalice of the Lord that the mixture cannot be mutually separated. Whence nothing can separate the Church, that is, the multitude established faithfully and firmly in the Church, persevering in that which it has believed, from Christ as long as it clings and remains in undivided love.”

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All quotations taken from St. Cyprian.  “Letters (1-81)”, Translated by Sister Rose Bernard Donna, C.S.J., Washington, D.C. The Catholic University of America Press.

The Otters’ Song

According to Tradition, the sixth century Irish monk St Brendan was known for going on long voyages on the Western Ocean, where he and his monks in their little coracle encountered new lands and many wonders, all the while faithfully praying the Psalms and Liturgy.

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The Otters’ Song

 

Where shore meets wave,

where fish and kelp

bait hungry men,

there the Otters play,

our ancient souls

reveal the ocean’s secrets.

 

“St. Brendan sailed the deep green sea,

They say none sailed so far as he.

Somehow he kept his brothers sane,

Through storms of wind and sleet and rain.”

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“St. Brendan fasted, worked and prayed,

He sang the blesséd Psalms so well.

He rode the waves on monstrous beasts,

defied the very gates of hell.”

 

“We know his sanctity was real,

His heart a stranger to all guile.

For when he watched the Otters dance,

The Holy Spirit made him smile.”

 

We are the Otters.

Much has changed,

but we remember.

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The Visitor

St. Colmcille, also known by his Latin name Columba, was a great monastic leader in sixth century Ireland. He left his country for permanent exile and founded a new community on the island of Iona off the western coast of Scotland. Iona became one of the greatest centers for the spread of Christian culture throughout Britain.

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The Visitor

Three days ago,

just as he said.

After nones,

the hour of our redemption,

I climbed a hill

to look out

into the West

beyond the waves.

The sun, no longer

quite so high,

verging towards its

stark descent below

the limitless Ocean,

lit up the clouds

with streaks of

reddish orange.

At first my eyes saw

nothing strange or

unexpected, but then a

black spot grew larger

as it made its way toward

Iona,

our holy haven

in the sea.

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Without a sound,

the giant heron

glided towards the grass

beside me, so wasted

and tired from its flight

its great neck no longer

could support its lolling head.

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As heavy as a small child,

the docile creature

without a sound let me

pick it up and bring it

to the nearby barn.

Nestled in the clean straw

it ate and slept in safety.

 

Brimming over with reverent wonder,

after Vespers I approached

Columba, told him of the

bird’s arrival, how it happened

just as he’d predicted.

 

He thanked me for my charity and obedience,

twin pillars of our island life;

with gentle confidence assured

the bird would soon recover,

a creature dear to him he said,

for like Columba long ago

it came across the waves from

Ireland,

but unlike him would soon return.

In that moment I gripped his arm and felt

the weight of our exile, all we had abandoned,

he and I and all our brethren,

to come and live upon this Rock,

our desert in the sea.

Stumbling words cannot express

this instant union of

piercing joy and heartfelt sorrow,

grey eyes and rugged hands

reached out to me in gentle reassurance.

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I do not know if Columba

went to see our feathered guest.

On the third day it rose from its bed,

and strutting like a king

it raised a mighty head

to gaze upon the sun,

gave forth a harsh primeval cry.

Without a glance to even bid farewell,

the rested bird rose up into the currents of the air,

and set its gaze for home.

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