Candlemas 2020

Here follows a sermon I gave at All Saints Church, St Andrews, February 2, 2020.

“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.
For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people;
To be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of thy people Israel.”

 

Today, Candlemas, is the traditional culmination of the whole season of Christmas. The Infancy Narratives (the first two chapters of the Gospels of Matthew and Luke) are marked by powerful moments of divine annunciations and epiphanies, as well as by human and angelic response in song. These accounts of the birth and childhood of Jesus have served as profound inspiration for Christian theology and art throughout history, and the truths they embody are central to the Christian imagination. We have journeyed through the birth of John the Baptist, as well as of the events surrounding and following the nativity and epiphany of Jesus. Far from seeing the infancy narratives as a charming prelude to the main events of the Gospel, made up after the facts, we can see in them an indispensable summation of the main themes of the Christian faith, and, more specifically, the fulfillment of the promises of the Old Testament in the coming of Jesus Christ, and our own place in all of this.

The culmination of the Infancy Narratives is the very feast we celebrate today, sometimes known by its earlier designation as the Purification of the Virgin Mary, sometimes the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, and Candlemas because of the blessing of candles and procession which we undertook today. Over the centuries, this is seen as an episode where both Christ and his Mother, through his presentation and her ritual purification after giving birth, submit themselves to the Jewish law. This, tradition tells us, is a profound act of humility, for such purification is needed, in fact, by neither of them. The infant Christ is presented to the elderly Simeon who, embodying Old Testament wisdom, is enabled to experience the promised, but long-awaited consolation of Israel. His ecstatic song, known as Nunc dimittis by its opening word in Latin, is sung every night by the Church in either Evensong or Compline. The medieval theologian   Bonaventure feels this is quite fitting, as it encapsulates the whole gospel story and its central theological meaning:

 

“Thus in this canticle Christ is praised as peace, salvation, light and glory. He is peace, because he is the mediator. He is salvation, because he is the redeemer. He is light, because he is the teacher. He is glory, because he is the rewarder. And in these four consist the perfect commendation and magnification of Christ, indeed the most brief capsulation of the entire evangelical story: incarnation in peace; preaching in light; redemption in salvation; resurrection in glory.”

 

            For Bonaventure, Simeon can only be explained in light of Old Testament scriptures because he is the representative of the just man, responding for all the just who had come before him and had longed to see this day. Besides Simeon being the fulfillment of Scriptural descriptions of the just man, the embodiment of Wisdom literature, Bonaventure tells us how the Holy Spirit continued to speak to Simeon through the Scripture, making more annunciations: especially on the theme of looking for the consolation of Israel: “Thus the Holy Spirit in a most powerful way  said to him what is read in Habbakuk 2:3 :if he tarries a little, look for him, for he will surely come and will not delay.” Bonaventure argues that the Spirit was present with Simeon through grace and love, Simeon also received, in response to his long years of prayer, a special response of Revelation, that is from the Holy Spirit. [As Bonaventure says,] “Finally, Simeon was told by the Spirit of truth, and prompted to comprehension infused with Joy, that he himself would meet the Lord with the suddenness promised in Malachi 3:1:Behold I send my angel and he shall prepare the way before my face. And presently the Lord, whom you seek, and the angel of the testament, whom you desire, shall come to his temple. Behold he is coming, proclaims the Lord of hosts.

Then Bonaventure moves to the romantic imagery of the Song of Songs, and urges us to imitate the behavior of the elderly Simeon who let down his inhibitions and embraced the infant Jesus: “Let love overcome your bashfulness; let affection dispel your fear. Receive the infant in your arms and say with the bride I took hold of him and would not let go (Song of Songs 3:4).”

Bonaventure then turns to another key figure in this episode, the prophetess and aged widow Anna. As his discussion of her demonstrates, there is even more theological richness to be found in this episode. Bonaventure tells us he will describe why Anna herself is a suitable witness to these great events, but first he makes an important digression to assert that witnesses were needed from every stage of life and both genders, as Christ was coming to restore everything and everyone:

 

“After the testimony of an elderly man there now follows the testimony from a woman. For it is fitting that there be testimony to the advent of Christ from every sort of person, so that those who do not believe the Gospel might be without excuse. Whence there was angelic and human testimony to Christ, and also of the simple and of the perfect of both sexes to show that both sexes looked for redemption just as both had fallen. Therefore to show that there was no crack in the firm foundation of the testimony, there was sevenfold testimony to the birth of Christ.”

 

This sevenfold testimony as shown in the Christmas story, of how all creation must witness to the birth of the redeemer: 1) heavenly testimony from the star  2) source above heaven, the angels ; 3) from under heaven, simple folk like shepherds ; 4) wise men like the magi ; 5) elderly men, like Simeon ; 6) elderly women like Anna; 7) even infants who gave their lives, that is the Holy Innocents in Bethlehem;. “And every nature, every sex, every age produced testimony to the birth of Christ, because he had to restore all things.”) Bonaventure sums this point up dramatically by citing Luke 19:40 about how all things, even the stones and material world, will cry out in response to God’s appearance among us, even if some keep silence. As Simeon is the fulfillment of all the just men of the Old Testament, so Mary and the Prophetess Anna could be seen as functioning in the same way for all of the Old Testament women who responded to God, whether in their prophecies, laments, songs of praise and periods of thoughtful and profound silence.

But there is another part of Simeon’s words which give us pause, as with one eye we look back and marvel with the events of Christmas and Epiphany. For Simeon also suddenly gazes forward in time and speaks to Mary his prophecy about Christ being the rise and fall of many, and that a sword will pierce her heart. This episode plays an almost unique role in the later medieval devotional tradition, forming as it does, along with the Finding of Christ in the Temple at the age of Twelve, one of the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, but also one of the Seven Sorrows of the Virgin Mary. This complexity of the episode reflects that while the parents of Jesus are marveling at Simeon’s words, the elderly man then prophetically indicates doleful things in Mary’s future; as one commentator puts it, “In a stage whisper Luke announces the Cross.”  In this way, there is a poignant combination of Joy and Sorrow which attends this mystery and gives it more depth and matter for reflection, a fitting hinge in the calendar between Christmastide and Lent.

            And in fact Mystery is the word, for so much is hidden here, like in all the Infancy Narratives, in seemingly simple dress.  For when we think of God, the awesome and infinite God, all powerful and all knowing, at times he can seem so totally other and far beyond us. As the fifteenth century theologian Nicholas of Cusa put it speaking to God,

“Moreover, if anyone expresses any likeness and maintains that You are to be conceived in accordance with it, I know as well that this likeness is not a likeness of You. Similarly, if anyone recounts his understanding of You, intending to offer a means for Your being understood, he is still far away from You. For You are separated by a very high wall from all these [modes of apprehending]. For [this] wall separates from You whatever can be spoken of or thought of, because You are free from all the things that can be captured by any concept. Hence, even when I am very highly elevated, I see that You are Infinity. Consequently, You are not approachable, not comprehensible, not nameable, not manifold, and not visible.”

Yet, as Cusanus continues, and as we celebrate today, in Jesus Christ somehow God has nevertheless made himself approachable and accessible. He is our way of approaching God. In becoming one of us, God is eminently approachable. We are called today to do something as simple as to “walk forth to meet the mother and child”. As we did so in procession earlier, let us do so shortly in another procession. To the altar to receive Him in communion. Let us walk forth to meet him, conscious of the Joy of Christmas, conscious also of what he did for us on the Cross, and what he does now.

For this “now” that Simeon sings about, his moment of meeting God, is also a Now for us. As the priest and poet John Donne wrote centuries ago reflecting on this song of Simeon in its relation to us about to receive Christ in the Eucharist:.

 

“For mine eyes have seen thy salvation; Now, now the time is fulfilled!  And all the way, in every step that we make, in his light (in Simeon’s light) we shall see light; we shall consider that that preparation and disposition, and acquiescence which Simeon had in his Epiphany, in his visible seeing of Christ then, is offered to us in this Epiphany, in this manifestation and application of Christ in the Sacrament.”

Thus, to carry a lighted candle as we did today is a profession of faith.  By that little ceremony you say that you have Christ, that you believe in Him, hope in Him, and love Him, and that you are willing to be consumed, burnt up for Him.

The world today, all of us, need Christ, we are hungry for Him without knowing it; we are at times in the dark.  We can help bring light, bring it to each other.  The lighted candle tells us so.  We need but be more fervent in our own Christian and religious life, more faithful to our daily duties, more patient in our daily crosses.  This is to preach Christ, to let Christ’s light shine to all people.  A quiet, humble, holy life is the best of sermons.The blessed candle, in its simplicity and power, reminds us all of this.

 

To end with the words of St Sophronius of Jerusalem, preached to his people some 14 centuries ago,

Our lighted candles are a sign of the divine splendor of the one who comes to expel the dark shadows of evil and to make the whole universe radiant with the brilliance of his eternal light. Our candles also show how bright our souls should be when we go to meet Christ…..

The true light has come, the light that enlightens every man who is born into this world. Let all of us, my brethren, be enlightened and made radiant by this light. Let all of us share in its splendor, and be so filled with it that no one remains in the darkness. Let us be shining ourselves as we go together to meet and to receive with the aged Simeon the light whose brilliance is eternal.

Amen.

St Bonaventure, Typology & the Liturgy

A recent book chapter of mine on St Bonaventure , Old Testament typology and the Liturgy can be found here:   CLICK HERE

Sunday 5 After Pentecost 2019

Sermon given at All Saints, in St Andrews,  July 14, 2019

“But the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it.”  Deuteronomy 30:14.

All of us have biblical verses which strike a cord within us and remind us of certain people or moments or events. As I digested the readings this week preparing to preach, this verse from Deuteronomy reminded me of how much over the years I have come to appreciate a humble and unassuming giant of the spiritual life, Br Lawrence of the Resurrection.

Br Lawrence was a seventeenth century Carmelite lay brother in Paris. After years as a soldier, he entered the monastery and spent most of his life doing kitchen chores and repairing sandals for his fellow religious, and gradually became known as a spiritual guide. His letters and sayings were published after his death, and quickly, under the title Practice of the Presence of God, became an instant classic, translated into many languages, including English. There is much wisdom in his simplicity and approach, all focused on calmly throughout the day, in whatever work or occupation one finds oneself, habitually calling gently to mind the presence of God, whom, he came to realize, is never far away, indeed is always at hand and within reach. As Lawrence puts it,

“He does not ask much of us, merely a thought of Him from time to time, a little act of adoration, sometimes to ask for His grace, sometimes to offer Him your sufferings, at other times to thank Him for the graces, past and present, He has bestowed on you, in the midst of your troubles to take solace in Him as often as you can. Lift up your heart to Him during your meals and in company; the least little remembrance will always be the most pleasing to Him. One need not cry out very loudly; He is nearer to us than we think.”

The seventeenth century was a great time of spiritual writers, and many of them devised rather complex forms of meditation. Lawrence tells us that after reading many books about these methods and many headaches in trying to follow them, he came up with a much simpler approach. Lawrence had been a soldier before becoming a Carmelite friar, and that is reflected in the following description of his method:

“A little lifting up of the heart suffices; a little remembrance of God, an interior act of adoration, even though made on the march and with sword in hand, are prayers which, short though they may be, are nevertheless very pleasing to God, and far from making a soldier lose his courage on the most dangerous occasions, bolster it. Let him then think of God as much as possible so that he will gradually become accustomed to this little but holy exercise; no one will notice it and nothing is easier than to repeat often during the day these little acts of interior adoration.”

It is not surprising that this little book about the little way of being Christian has become a classic in the ecumenical sense, and has helped countless Christians of all stripes in their spiritual journey. His deep sense of finding God and abiding in His Presence among the pots and pans, the sewing of sandals, and in every task and every human encounter, can resonate with everyone. This approach, what we might call the Little Way, of joining love and awareness of God with love of neighbor in the small everyday tasks, the stuff of daily existence, is at the heart of Christian life, and is central to the Gospel reading of the Good Samaritan today.

The life of Mother Teresa of Calcutta witnessed an overwhelming response of the Church and much of the world to her simple but profound way of love: doing the humblest things for the humblest people, driven by her desire to love the children of a God who loved us first. Her constant acts of kindness and inclusivity in her idea of neighbor, each perhaps little in itself, amounted to great things that made the world take notice. Likewise, but in a different context, with St. Therese of Lisieux (1873-97), “the Little Flower”. At the heart of her spirituality was the Little Way, of offering not only great suffering up to God, but also the everyday and seemingly trivial difficulties which arise in our daily lives and relationships with others. Such an attitude goes to the very heart of Christ’s relationships with almost everyone he encounters in the Gospels. Likewise, the parables are full of ordinary people, events and things, and opportunities to show love of God and neighbor.

Just a few days ago the Church celebrated the life of one of the most important figures in the whole spiritual tradition, the sixth century monastic teacher St Benedict about whom Gregory the Great wrote a life. As in all medieval hagiographical literature, miracles performed by God through the intercession of the saint form an important part of the story. In Gregory’s Life of St. Benedict, the very first miracle Benedict performs, while still a young man, is to quietly repair a tray which his nurse accidentally broke. As Pope Gregory describes the action:

The poor woman burst into tears; she had just borrowed this tray and now it was ruined. Benedict, who had always been a devout and thoughtful boy, felt sorry for his nurse when he saw her weeping. Quietly picking up both the pieces, he knelt down by himself and prayed earnestly to God, even to the point of tears. No sooner had he finished his prayer than he noticed that the two pieces were joined together again, without even a mark to show where the tray had been broken. Hurrying back at once, he cheerfully reassured his nurse and handed her the tray in perfect condition.¹

Benedict would go on to prophesy before kings, found abbeys, heal the sick and even raise the dead, but I am not sure if any of those great works of the Spirit are more beautiful than this prayerful and heartfelt desire to reach out and help a fellow human being in emotional distress. His life and his Holy Rule are full of concern for the little things, such as caring for the sick and extending hospitality to all. Many examples could be given, but his description of the duties of the Cellarer in the monastery is typical, describing him in many of the ways that would fit well the Good Samaritan:

He must show every care and concern for the sick, children, guests and the poor, knowing for certain that he will be held accountable for all of them on the day of judgment. He will regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar, aware that nothing is to be neglected. He should not be prone to greed, nor be wasteful and extravagant with the goods of the monastery, but should do everything with moderation and according to the abbot’s orders. Above all, let him be humble. If goods are not available to meet a request, he will offer a kind word in reply, for it is written: ‘A kind word is better than the best gift ‘ (Sirach 18:17).

The Rule also says that all guests must be received as if one is receiving Christ, and hospitality is a central part of the Little Way just as it is in monastic life.

Likewise this week our Scottish church remembered another lesser known monk St Drostan, who is particularly venerated in Aberdeenshire. We know little about him, except that most likely he was a disciple and fellow missionary of the great St Columba, and that holy well dedicated to him serves as the water source for Aberlour distillery. But what we really know is that he prayed, recited the Psalms and drew sustenance from the liturgy, and preached and trained others to do so. He baptized and lived in community, being solicitous for the poor, and one miracle for which he is remembered is the simple but kind act of restoring the sight of a priest who had gone blind.

 

What gave these figures the strength to do these things, to persevere in their spiritual paths? There is a threefold way that prepares us for this, that characterizes this monastic spirituality.  One cultivates an attentiveness to God and the needs of our neighbor by first of all living a life based upon praying together in common, through the liturgy, offering our prayers to God as a community as we do this morning, and do week after week, year after year. Secondly, by the prayerful reading of scripture, known as lectio divina, or sacred reading, we ponder over and over the meaning of God’s Word for us. And, thirdly, we do not just think about God and offer up pious thoughts, but we put our faith into action, as the Benedictine motto puts it, ora et labora, prayer and work. Like the cellarer mentioned in the Rule, our work, whatever it is, should be permeated by kindness, outreach to others, an offering lifted up to God, to use another Benedictine motto that is in itself a prayer, “that in all things Christ may be glorified.”

This not just something for monks, and indeed it has long been noted that our Anglican way of worship, though the Book of Common Prayer lived out in parish communities, has deep roots in this Benedictine and wider tradition.

The Anglican monk and spiritual theologian, Bede Thomas Mudge, notes that The Benedictine spirit is certainly at the root of the Anglican way of prayer,  in a very special and pronounced manner:

The example and influence of the Benedictine monastery, with its rhythm of divine office and Eucharist, the tradition of learning and ‘lectio divina’, and the family relationship among Abbot and community were determinative for much of Anglican life, and for the pattern of Anglican devotion. This devotional pattern persevered through the spiritual and theological upheavals of the Reformation. The Book of Common Prayer . . . the primary spiritual source-book for Anglicans . . . continued the basic monastic pattern of the Eucharist and the divine office as the principal public forms of worship, and Anglicanism has been unique in this respect.

 

While this spirituality and discipline, with deep roots in monastic and Anglican tradition, can hopefully prepare us to be attentive to God and neighbor, we must avoid complacency.  As the parable of the Good Samaritan shows, merely being an expert on the letter of the Law was not enough to truly discern who your neighbor is, nor does the painstaking performance of ritual automatically prepare us to understand what God wants from us in our everyday encounters with those around us.

The Lawyer answered Jesus correctly on love of God and neighbor as being the heart of the Law, and Jesus tells him to do this, and he shall live. And when in response to the further question of the lawyer, about who is his neighbor, Jesus relates this parable we heard today, and when the lawyer replied that he was a true neighbor to the wounded man who had showed mercy to him, the Lord responds again with a command, “Go, and do in like manner.” That is to say, remember that it is with such prompt mercy you must love and sustain your neighbor who is in need. And by this Christ most clearly revealed to us, that it is love alone, and not love made known by word only, but that which is proved and manifested also by deeds, which brings us to eternal life.

St Benedict and St Drostan and a host of others teach us in their words and deeds that in the guest we receive, in the ones we comfort and support in whatever type of need they are in, that we also do this for Christ. In such acts we perfectly manifest, and make real, love of God and neighbor. We should not excuse ourselves, saying that these matters are too great for us. The Scriptures and the whole tradition of the Little Way, which is in fact a sacred and golden way, tells us that if we cannot do greater things, then let us all help in the lesser things. Help others to live, whether physically or emotionally or spiritually in need. Give food, clothing, medicines, apply remedies to the afflicted, bind up their wounds no matter what type they are, ask about their misfortunes, speak with them of patience and forebearance, draw close to them. It is hard, but we must have confidence that God will supply us with the strength to see Christ in our neighbor. We must let compassion overcome our timidity. We must let the love of our fellow human beings in need overcome the promptings of fear that hold us back. We must not despise our brothers and sisters in need, we must not pass them by.

If I might end with the words of the great patristic writer Gregory of Nazianzus, commenting upon this very Gospel and its implications for all of us, for God, in our hearts and in our neighbor, is indeed closer to us than we might think:

“O servants of Christ, who are my brethren and my fellow heirs, let us, while there is yet time, visit Christ in his sickness, let us care for Christ in His sickness, let us give to Christ to eat, let us clothe Christ in his nakedness. Let us do honour to Christ, and not only at table, as some did, not only with precious ointments, as Mary did, not only in his tomb, as Joseph of Arimathea did, not only doing him honour with gold, frankincense and myrrh, as the Magi did. But let us honour Him because the Lord of all desires from us mercy and not sacrifice, and goodness of heart above thousands of fat lambs. Let us give him this honour in his poor, in those who lie on the ground here before us this very day, (stricken by wounds both seen and unseen), so that when we leave this world they may receive us into eternal tabernacles, in Jesus Christ our Lord, to Whom be there Glory for all ages, Amen.”

Rembrandt. The Good Samaritan.

 

 

 

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

 

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.

Aphrahat

The conventional  view of western history sees the conversion of Constantine and the end of Roman persecution of Christians in the fourth century as the beginning of a new relationship between church and state which lasted down to the modern era.  However, not all Christians lived in the Roman empire, and many in fact lived in modern Iran, Iraq and other regions of Rome’s bitter political rival, the Persian empire. When the Roman state became Christian in the mid-fourth century, the formerly-tolerant Persian government began to persecute the Church in its own realm.  In this atmosphere of persecution and uncertainty, a Christian writer known as Aphrahat “the Persian Sage” produced a series of twenty -three homilies on various themes which have survived and are known as “Demonstrations.”

The  Fourth Demonstration concerns prayer, and is the earliest Christian treatise on the subject that is not primarily a commentary on the Lord’s Prayer.  In this brief but profound work, Aphrahat has much to say about the proper approach to liturgical prayer,  as is clear from the opening sentence:

“Purity of heart constitutes prayer more than do all the prayers that are uttered out aloud, and silence united to a mind that is sincere is better than the loud voice of someone crying out.”

Aphrahat of course is not saying that vocal prayer is unimportant or inappropriate, but rather that singing hymns or saying responses in itself does not constitute true liturgical prayer. The words we say must be united to what spiritual writers call “mind and heart” for them to become real prayers.  Aphrahat’s comment on the importance of silence is also noteworthy.  Lectors, cantors and celebrants must take special care to ensure that moments of reflective silence are prominent in the Eucharist.  Incidental chatter and unnecessary explanations and announcements on the one hand, as well as rushing from one part of the Mass to the next, can destroy the moments of silence so essential for true prayer. Such moments of liturgical silence prepare us “to listen to every word with discerning, and catch hold of its meaning.”

Prayer is an offering, and it must never be forgotten that it is offered in the presence of God, who sees through all pretensions. Aphrahat takes us all the way back to the prayer of Abel the Just, whose offering was acceptable to God because of his purity of heart.  Turning to Christ, Aphrahat stresses the communal or social aspects of prayer as epitomized in  Matthew 5: 23-24,  where Jesus admonishes that you must first be reconciled with your brothers and sisters before approaching the altar of God.  This reconciliation has two aspects.  First of all, it involves seeking forgiveness for one’s own transgressions. What is perhaps more difficult is the forgiveness of others, but as Aphrahat teaches, if you do not forgive, your offering is in vain.

Aphrahat insists upon a crucial connection between true prayer and love of neighbor .   The requirements of liturgical prayer, important as they are, must never be used as an excuse to avoid helping anyone truly in need of it, for authentic prayer in the end consists in a pure love of God that manifests itself in an unfeigned service to our fellow human beings:

 

“Thus you must forgive your debtor before your prayer; only after that, pray: when you pray, your prayer will thus go up before God on high, and it is not left on earth…Give rest to the weary, visit the sick, make provision for the poor: this is indeed prayer…Prayer is beautiful, and its works are fair; prayer is heard when forgiveness is to be found in it, prayer is beloved when it is pure of every guile, prayer is powerful when the power of God is made effective in it.  I have written to you, my beloved, to the effect that a person should do the will of God, and that constitutes prayer.”

 

*All quotations taken from Aphrahat ˜Demonstration on Prayerˇ Found in ˜The Syriac Fathers on Prayer and the Spiritual Life. Edited and Translated by Sebastian Brock.  Cistercian Publications. 1987.

 

Feast of St Olaf 2018

Sermon given at All Saints, St Andrews   July 29, 2018  (Feast of St Olaf, and Sea Sunday)

[Readings: 2 Kg 4.42-44; Ps 145.10-19; Ephesians 3.14-21; John 6: 1-12]

“All thy works shall give thanks to thee, O LORD, and all thy saints shall bless thee! They shall speak of the glory of thy kingdom, and tell of thy power, to make known to the sons of men thy mighty deeds, and the glorious splendor of thy kingdom.”

There can be no doubt the Scriptures are often full of praise for the glories of nature, and how our observance and appreciation of nature calls to mind  God’s divine power as Creator, Sustainer and the Lord of Creation. At extraordinary times this power over creation is often worked through human agents, such as the Prophet Elijah in our first reading, and of course miracles, or extraordinary signs of God’s power,  are events most dramatically also associated with the life and ministry of Jesus himself, from the Virgin Birth through the Wedding at Cana to the multiplication of the Loaves and Fishes, walking on water, to the raising of Lazarus and His own glorious Resurrection. The fact that the prophets could work miraculous signs, and the signs worked by Christ, is integral to the Biblical Narrative, as we saw in our first reading. Interestingly, control over nature has often been expected in the lives of the saints in the Christian folk tradition. Today as it happens, is the Feast of St Olaf, the patron of Norway, an eleventh century royal seafarer who ranged far and wide in the northern world fighting battles as far afield as London and Russia.

Eventually as king of Norway who set out, often by rather stern methods, to unite the country and Christianise its hinterland, Olaf was killed in battle by his pagan enemies on this day in 1030. He was soon venerated as a saint, ultimately as Norway’s Eternal and Apostolic King,  Olaf’s memory is celebrated in Catholic, Orthodox, and various Anglican and Lutheran calendars, a recognition that his shrine in Trondheim became a great centre of pilgrimage in Scandinavia, not unlike St Andrews here, until the Reformation. And not unlike St Andrews, pilgrimage is now being revived in Norway much like in Fife, pointing to a strong spiritual need that pilgrimage has an enduring power to satisfy.

Trondheim cathedral

According to one story popular in the middle ages, Olaf posthumously had defeated a sea monster who was threatening some sailors, and one could still point to the spot where he had dashed it against a cliff! Here we have a bit of Thor defeating the Midgard serpent, but also, significantly, Christ walking on water and calming the storm. It gave comfort to sailors in their dangerous work to know that God and his saints could work such miracles of power. In this beautiful church, on a day when in our collection we call to mind fishermen and sailors, and gaze at the lovely votive ship we have hanging in the nave of the church, and as someone who has a long line of Norwegian sailors and fishermen in my own ancestry,  I must admit to being moved by the faith and piety that these tales nourished. And even if God did not always choose to vanquish enemies on the field of battle, as Olaf experienced in his last battle, His Power meant much more than that, and trust in Him led to eternal life.

Votive Ship in the nave of All Saints

Jesus certainly could do signs, perform miracles of power and in fact the Gospel of John is famously structured around these signs; and there is no doubt Jesus is portrayed by John as  fulfilling the promise of OT prophets, and the lectionary today makes that connection clear. But this connection between the Old Testament and the miracles of Jesus goes back to early Church interpretation, as St John Chrysostom pointed it out in the 4^th century when preaching on these texts. Chrysostom felt that in this passage we just read, the Apostle Andrew (and we can take heart here as he is our patron), is very conscious of his Bible, as, following the remark of Philip, he probes Jesus further on the need to feed the crowd, saying: “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what are they among so many?” Chrysostom goes on to say:

“I believe that Andrew did not speak without a reason, but because he knew of the miracle Elijah had wrought with the barley loaves. For the prophet had fed 100 men with twenty loaves. Andrew’s mind therefore rose somewhat higher; but he did not rise to the heights, as appears from what follows: But what are they among so many? For Andrew reckoned that He who was wont to perform miracles would make fewer from the few, and more from the greater number. But this was not so. For He could as easily feed the multitudes from a few loaves as from many. For he needed no subject matter. But lest created things seem outside the power of His wisdom, He uses created things to work His wonders.”

John’s gospel presents Andrew as a significant figure among the disciples of Jesus. Andrew is not only the ‘first called’ among the apostles, and the one who introduces his brother Simon Peter to Jesus, but also most importantly he had been a disciple of John the Baptist. Presumably Andrew witnessed John the Baptist being questioned, and responding in the negative, about whether he was the Messiah or Elijah, and must have pondered all this as he began to follow Jesus. In this context of the hungry multitude, Andrew may well have had the Elijah story of feeding the 100 in mind as he continued to discern who Jesus was, and this would go along the lines of what Chrysostom speculates.  Andrew must have been aware that John the Baptist did not perform miracles, as Elijah did and the Messiah was expected to do, and in a sense his whole life was a sign (medieval exegetes loved to discuss this!). The narrative of John seems to hint that Andrew, the former disciple of the Baptist, feels Jesus can and perhaps should do something here, and his words are perhaps a gentle hint of things he thinks Jesus is capable of, and like Mary at Cana, is prompted by divine inspiration to move beyond the words of Philip, to prod Jesus to set the stage for a further sign. And so Jesus complies and exceeds even the miracle of Elijah.

But there is more. This miracle should indeed induce us to give thanks and great glory to God for his works, both his creation and his lordship over creation; As the fourth century writer St Hilary put it in response to this miracle:

“Five loaves are accordingly placed before the multitude, and broken in pieces. The new increase flowing imperceptibly from the hands breaking the fragments; the bread from which they are broken not growing less, while the portions broken off continue to fill the hand that is breaking them. Neither sense nor sight can follow the progress of the wondrous operation; That is now which was not; that is seen which is not comprehended; what alone remains is to believe that God can do all things.”

Yet as we accept these signs for what they are, and the happiness and joy and wonder their contemplation rightly brings us, we can grow uneasy as we realize that this is not enough, that Jesus is calling us to do something more than follow Him because of His signs. His plan is clearly not just to keep multiplying bread and calming storms and walking on water, no more than it is to keep healing every single person suffering from an illness. It is clear, often to our dismay, that we cannot expect this sort of sign at all times, in every circumstance.

Jesus in fact in the Gospel at several places expresses frustration that the crowds only want signs, whereas he wants them to focus on something else, namely the message and teaching that accompanies these signs. Jesus, as Andrew found out, cannot only do many times over what Elijah did, but that, just as there was someone greater than Solomon here, there was also someone greater than Elijah here. Following this miracle Andrew and the others were soon to hear Jesus teach something about himself which was much harder to understand but exponentially greater. For the rest of Chapter 6 in John’s gospel Jesus will move beyond this sign and miracle of the loaves to claim and assert in breath-taking and quite shocking terms to his audience that He Himself  is the Bread of Life, which we are first of all called upon to hear and ponder and allow to work into the very marrow of our souls; likewise there is now seen from the vantage point of this side of the events known as the Last Supper, Passion and Resurrection,  a clear Eucharistic meaning to his words and deeds, which bring out for us the fullness of the meaning of the loaves and fishes; and in just a few moments we will approach the altar to receive his very body and blood. Word and Sacrament working together, Jesus the bread of Life will renew us and transform the inner man as described by St Paul.

Over 12 centuries ago, one of the great lights of the early Church in the North, the remarkable teacher and exegete Alcuin of York, made this very connection as he wrote about how Christ performed this sign we ponder today as he approached Jerusalem for the great feast of Passover:

“That Christ fed them at the approach of the Pasch signifies that whosover desires to be nourished by the Bread of the Divine Word, and by the Body and Blood of the Lord, should make a spiritual pasch; that is, pass over from the vices to the virtues.”

Echoing the Psalm we prayed today, Alcuin continues,

“The eyes of the Lord are truly spiritual gifts, which he mercifully bestows upon His elect, whenever He turns His eye upon them: that is, when he bestows on us the rewards of filial devotion.”

Every time we approach the altar, as loving and humble children of God, filled with the grace of what Alcuin calls ‘filial devotion,’  we, in a very real sense are on a pilgrimage, no less than those who went and still go to the shrines of St Olaf or St Andrew. We are on a journey to encounter the living God, and we cannot do it by ourselves. Participation in God’s glory depends on his grace and the gift of faith, but we in all humility must recall we are in the presence of something greater than Solomon and Elijah here, although they and all the company of saints, Olaf and Andrew included, and hosts of angels, are with us right now, offering praise and thanksgiving, that cloud of witnesses whose fellowship should be our joy and delight. As Alcuin and the whole tradition of the Church and the very words of Scripture urge us over and over again, we can confidently hope and ask to move beyond the veils that so often cloud our understanding, vision and way, to move beyond the signs to the reality behind them, that is so much more than we can ever imagine, the God Who is Love, so capable of changing us and transforming us into the persons God wants us to be; to bring about the renewal of our inner selves, as St Paul says,  

“…that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have power to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fulness of God.”

This is our destiny as Christians, this is what we want, this is why we are here today; as we have pondered God’s Word in Scripture, and find Him also in those all around us in this congregation, and encounter Him in the Eucharist, let us ask the Lord for this right now, in the words of Alcuin:

Eternal light, shine into our hearts,
Eternal Goodness, deliver us from evil,
Eternal Power, be our support,
Eternal Wisdom, scatter the darkness of our ignorance,
Eternal Pity, have mercy upon us;
that with all our heart and mind and soul and strength
we may seek your face
and be brought by your infinite mercy to your holy presence;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

Transfiguration 2017

Sermon on Transfiguration, given at All Saints Church St Andrews, 6 August 2017

“This is my beloved Son, hear him.”

 

Sometimes in reading Scripture, some of the most important conversations happen off stage, so to speak, and I for one wonder what they are saying. You may have your own examples of this, and for me, two stand out. For instance, how about the Disciples speaking with Jesus on the Road to Emmaus after the Resurrection? What exactly did Jesus say, and how did he say it, to make their hearts burn like fire within their breasts? In today’s great mystery, what were Moses and Elijah saying when they stood there in the presence of the Transfigured Christ? Like the 3 apostles present, were they wondering who this Jesus was, who was so clearly resplendent in Glory?

For he was beautiful, and glorious, and awful to behold, shining with the light of divinity, and, significantly, was this way even before he had died and risen from the dead. And Elijah and Moses, the text tells us, also were beautiful in his reflected splendour. We must not be afraid of beauty; we must never feel guilty about gazing upon and resting in admirable awe in the presence of beauty in God’s good creation. For Jesus was transfigured, revealed to us as he truly was at all times, even before his resurrection, for those capable of seeing, whom he briefly allows to see Him thus, and also showing us a glimpse of our own destiny:

As Saint Thomas Aquinas put it,

“At his Transfiguration Christ showed his disciples the splendor of his beauty, to which he will shape and color those who are his: ‘He will reform our lowness configured to the body of his glory.'” 
Now there are many possible things this mystery teaches us.

First and foremost that Jesus Christ is both God and man, and is the beloved of the Father. Secondly, that there is a deep harmony which exists between the Old and the New Testaments regarding Christ, made clear to us by the visible presence of Moses and Elijah.

But in this emphasis on glory and fulfillment of ancient promise, there is even a deeper mystery. Even before the Transfiguration became a feast day in the western church, this Gospel was read on the first Sunday of Lent. It follows in the narrative when Christ has set his face towards Jerusalem, and all that would entail, both for him but also for the disciples, including and perhaps especially Peter who had just ecstatically confessed his belief in Him, and who had also wanted to dissuade Jesus from going to Jerusalem. We must remember this event is a stage to the Cross, as the ancient liturgical cycle and the words themselves teach us; and the Cross, just as it must not be separated from the resurrection which will follow it, must also not be separated from the Transfiguration which preceded it.

As the text indicates, Moses and Elijah were also in splendor as they discussed this very thing, this approaching Passion, with Jesus. And it would be nice to stay on that mountain, basking in the glory of the Lord, nice for Peter, and nice for us, but as real as this light and glory of Mt Tabor was and is, it is not separated, for either Jesus or for us, by the reality of Calvary. As Archbishop Michael Ramsey put it, in the midst of a world too easily dominated by the shadow of Calvary, we must ever look for signs of God’s ability and power to transform even the ugliest of the realities of sin and despair into moments for a more powerful light to break though and transform all around us, right here and now:

“Confronted with a universe more terrible than ever in the blindness and the destructiveness of its potentialities, men and women must be led to Christian faith, not as a panacea of progress or as an otherworldly solution unrelated to history, but as a gospel of Transfiguration. Such a gospel transcends the world and yet speaks directly to the immediate here-and-now. He who is transfigured is the Son of Man; and as he discloses on the holy mountain another world, he reveals that no part of created things, and no moment of created time lies outside the power of the Spirit, who is Lord, to change it from glory to glory. “

 

As Archbishop Ramsey continues to tell us in his famous book on the Transfiguration, the Eastern Church has always been much more comfortable with this language, of keeping Transfiguration always before us, the transforming presence of the light of Mt Tabor, present already in our lives here and now, perceptible for those with eyes to see, than in the West.

But if we look to the earliest days of Christianity in Scotland, the life of St Columba, we find this language wonderfully present in several stories about Columba handed down by his disciples. One story tells us that while Columba presided at the Eucharist, a visiting saint noticed a shining ball of light around Columba’s head, and a column of light surrounding him until the Eucharist ended. Another story relates directly to the Transfiguration, as it focuses on opening up the meaning of Scripture. A fellow monk, who admitted he was terrified afterwards until Columba consoled him, witnessed the following:

“On another occasion when St Columba was living in Hinba, the grace of the Holy Spirit was poured upon him in incomparable abundance and miraculously remained over him for three days. During that time he remained day and night locked in his house, which was filled with heavenly light. No one was allowed to go near him, and he neither ate nor drank. But from the house rays of brilliant light could be seen at night, escaping through the chinks of the doors and through the keyholes. He was also heard singing spiritual chants of a kind never heard before. And, as he afterwards admitted to a few people, he was able to see openly revealed many secrets that had been hidden since the world began, while all that was most dark and difficult in the sacred scriptures lay open, plain, and clearer than light in the sight of his most pure heart.”

 

We may not be granted such moments very often, and, like St Columba’s disciple, perhaps we would not always know what to do with them if we were! But we do experience humbler visions all the time when we see people around us, through acts of love and charity and forgiveness manifest purity of heart, and truly are transfigured into angels of light. When one has the grace to sense a strong experience of God, it is as though seeing something similar to what the disciples experienced during the Transfiguration: For a moment they experienced ahead of time something that will constitute the happiness of paradise. In general, it is brief experiences that God grants on occasions, especially in anticipation of harsh trials. However, no one lives “on Tabor” while on earth, and we must acknowledge this. But as Pope Benedict XVI recently wrote in a talk given on this very feast, we do have a sure way to nourish the light within us, and this is by learning how to listen to the word of God:

“Human existence is a journey of faith and, as such, goes forward more in darkness than in full light, with moments of obscurity and even profound darkness. While we are here, our relationship with God develops more with listening than with seeing; and even contemplation takes place, so to speak, with closed eyes, thanks to the interior light lit in us by the word of God.”

When I think back to my first memories of this story, I remember that it made me want to know much more about who Moses and Elijah were, and how what they were saying and doing pointed to Jesus. This Transfiguration story points us to the Scriptures, encourages us to ponder them again, Old Testament along with the actual words of Jesus. I have come to feel that this feast among many other things that it represents, is also a celebration of the Word of God, and the act of pondering it, praying over it, and listening to what it tells us to do and how to be. As we are but a few days from Lammas, the celebration of the first loaf made from the harvest, I would like to share a lovely quotation from the fourth century theologian Ephraim the Syrian, which employs this harvest imagery, significantly as the opening of our oldest preserved full sermon on the Transfiguration:

“The harvest comes joyfully from the fields, and a yield that is rich and pleasant from the vine; and from the Scriptures teaching that is life giving and salutary. The fields have but one season of harvest; but from the Scripture there gushes forth a stream of saving doctrine. The field when reaped lies idle, and at rest, and the branches when the vine is stripped lie withered and dead. The Scriptures are garnered each day, yet the years of its interpreters never come to an end; and the clusters of its vines, which in it are close to those of hope, though also gathered each day, are likewise without end. Let us therefore come to this field, and take our delight of its life giving furrows; and let us reap there the wheat of life, that is the words of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

 

 

If we desire enlightenment, ponder the scriptures; ponder the prophets, ponder the law, ponder the proverbs and psalms, all in light of the teaching of Jesus Christ; do all in our power to be open to this light and illumination, and listen in serious delight to Jesus over and over again; ponder who he is, the Transfigured One who yet humbled himself to die on a cross, and who then rose again, and let his words sink into the very depths of our being, allowing us to be transfigured in his image and likeness; as an old American hymn that I learned in my childhood put it, describing Jesus: “In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, with a glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me”. The Father’s testimony is meant to raise us up and strengthen our own infirmity of Spirit, and help us remember the implications of what it truly means to be brothers and sisters of Jesus, made in the image and likeness of God.

As Pope Leo the Great concludes his sermon on this great mystery, the oldest sermon on the Transfiguration we have in the Western church, he dwells upon the command of the Father, “Listen to Him”.

“Without delay therefore hear Him Whom in all things I am well pleased; in preaching Whom I am made known; in whose lowliness I am glorified; for He is the Truth and the Life, He is my power, My wisdom. “hear ye Him” whom the mysteries of the Law foretold; whom the mouths of the prophets proclaimed. “hear ye him” Whose Blood has redeemed the world; Who has chained the demon, and taken from him what he held; Who has blotted out the deeds of sin, the covenant of evildoing. “hear ye him” Who opens the way to heaven, and though the humiliation of the Cross prepared for you a way to ascend to his kingdom. “ Amen.

Ardagh Chalice

I wrote the following poem inspired by the seventh century Irish chalice that is considered one of the greatest pieces of Celtic art ever produced. The poem is also a homage to early medieval Irish monastic poets, who playfully adopted and adapted ancient motifs from ancient epic and also romantic love poetry to their own circumstances, e.g. the famous “love poem” a monk wrote about his psalm book, or a ram making a heroic charge up a hill.

 

Ardagh Chalice

Guests now sleep in midnight darkness,

Pentecost mere hours away.

A thinly shimmering silver moon

Gazes over abbey walls.

 

A weariness beyond words

weighs on me in this dimly lit sacristy,

a hard night’s work of trimming candles,

incense mixed with scent of polished metal,

vestments and altar linens

brushed and hung

await the morning.

Novices have now been sent to bed,

their youthful strength spent;

Father Abbot made it clear

this final task is mine alone.

 

You stand alone,

restful but expectant

in your oaken closet.

A chaste wife

awaiting her lord’s return.

I put aside my special cloth,

newly spun for your touch alone,

and gently now with beating heart,

open up your secret chamber.

Candlelight illuminates your beauty,

takes my breath away.

 

Earth’s precious elements

adorn your sumptuous

curving form.

A glistening collar round your waist

draws my eyes downward,

square blocks of blue glass

on golden flange

surround perfect silver feet.

 

Trumpet spirals of

precious gold

summon to dance all

Gods’ creatures

in scrolls of filigree,

as apostles’

names in shining metal

stand out amidst

a sea of stippling.

 

Your beauty astounds,

your makers’ skills

surely show the Spirit’s fire.

I draw closer,

and as I put my hands

around your waist,

I wipe clean your golden rim,

where already,

in this pre-dawn light,

lips cold and dry

long to drink the Blood

for us outpoured.

 

 

 

Totus Christus

The influence of Augustine (354-430) on Catholic thought cannot be exaggerated. His writings on various doctrinal and pastoral issues served as the taking-off point for much theological discourse in the Latin west. Augustine was both Bishop of Hippo in Roman North Africa and the superior of a monastic community; the pastoral concerns of both these roles afforded ample challenge for his considerable talents. The Africa of his day saw the church bitterly divided by the Donatist schism. The problem dated back to the early fourth century, when a group who would become known as the Donatists rejected the consecration of a Catholic bishop on the grounds that his predecessor had handed over sacred books and vessels to the Roman government in a time of persecution. The Donatists rejected the Catholic bishops as unworthy and held aloof from the Catholic rituals, feeling that the Catholics and all who shared their sacraments were tainted and separated from the true church. In this painful context, Augustine would develop his views on the eucharist as both the sign and source of unity for the Christian faithful.

A central idea for Augustine was the church as a unity in multiplicity. Without losing their individuality, the members of the church form an organic body with Christ, the head of the church. This mystical body of Christ is a union which includes all the saints, from Abel down to all those who are yet to be born. The identity of Christ with the faithful was the theme of Christ’s great prayer to the Father at the Last Supper, namely that all will be one just as Jesus and the Father are one. The sharing of the eucharist is thus a crucial way for the faithful to share together in the inner life of the Trinity.

Each day Augustine gathered with his monastic brethren and the laity to celebrate the eucharist. At this moment, the Christian faithful as one body, united to their head, together join in a sacrifice of praise. Central to this is Christ’s self-offering of his redemptive suffering and death on Calvary. But for Augustine, the doctrine of the mystical body leads to an even richer idea of what eucharistic sacrifice means. All of the faithful offer this sacrifice with Christ. Our sufferings, asceticisms, and humble and contrite hearts form a part of Christ’s self-offering, because we are a part of Christ’s body. In his classic work The City of God, Augustine develops this concept of sacrifice:

“So then, the true sacrifices are acts of compassion, whether towards ourselves or towards our neighbors, when they are directed towards God; and acts of compassion are intended to free us from misery and thus to bring us to happiness. . . . This being so, it immediately follows that the whole redeemed community, that is to say, the congregation and fellowship of the saints, is offered to God as a universal sacrifice, through the great Priest who offered himself in his suffering for us—so that we might be the body of so great a head—under ‘the form of a servant.’ For it was this form he offered, and in this form he was offered, because it is under this form that he is the Mediator, in this form he is the Priest, in this form he is the Sacrifice. Thus the Apostle first exhorts us to offer our bodies as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, as the reasonable homage we owe him, not to be ‘con-formed’ to this age, but to be ‘re-formed’ in newness of mind to prove what is the will of God—namely what is good, what is acceptable to God, what is perfect, because we ourselves are that whole sacrifice. . . . This is the sacrifice of Christians, who are ‘many, making up one body in Christ.’ This is the sacrifice which the Church continually celebrates in the sacrament of the altar, a sacrament well-known to the faithful, where it is shown to the Church that she herself is offered in the offering which she presents to God.”

 

Together with Jesus our head, the Christian faithful form what Augustine calls Totus Christus, the whole Christ. The eucharist then is not a ceremony which the congregation merely attends as passive witnesses. Our whole lives, our very thoughts and deeds, do nothing less than complete the redemptive offering of Christ’s own suffering. Indeed, the eucharist affirms that in our daily struggle to respond to God’s grace, we are not alone. When we gather for eucharist to share Christ’s flesh and blood, we are reminded of our dignity and responsibility as Christians, and of the one whose body we form a part.

From The Communion of Saints, Our Lady of the Angels cathedral, Los Angeles

Responding to Eucharist:Peter, Judas and John

The events of Holy Week, the betrayals of Judas and Peter, the failure of all the apostles except John to stand by Jesus, bring to mind many things. I think these lessons of Holy Week tie in very closely with the Eucharist, instituted on that first Maundy Thursday. One of the greatest of the Greek Fathers, Bishop John of Constantinople (c.347-407), helps us think about this. Known as “Chrysostom” (golden-mouthed) for his eloquence in the pulpit, John traveled a path from monk, to deacon at Antioch, and finally to the prestigious post of bishop of the eastern Roman capital of Constantinople. Eventually he fell afoul of influential members of the imperial court, and despite the love in which he was held by his own people and the support of the pope, John died as a lonely prisoner in a brutal exile. His prolific writings stand as some of the most profound and accessible monuments of the whole patristic period. John is sometimes referred to as the “Doctor of the Eucharist,” and the most commonly celebrated liturgy among the churches in the Greek tradition gradually became known as the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom in his honor. John’s reputation as a preacher was only matched by his skill as an exegete. The esteem in which his writings were held in the West is reflected in an anecdote related in the life of the thirteenth century friar Thomas Aquinas. When Thomas and some of his brethren were approaching the city of Paris, one of them marveled at the spires of the town and remarked to Thomas how wonderful a sight it was. Thomas responded that it was indeed, but he would trade it all for Chrysostom’s commentary on the Gospel of Matthew.

John’s views on the Eucharist are summarized in his Homily 82 on the Gospel of Matthew. In commenting upon the description of the Last Supper in Matthew 26:26-28, John beautifully develops themes found throughout his writings. The reality of the transformation of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ is linked to the concept of Christ as the fulfillment of Israel, who has undergone a new Passover for our spiritual benefit. This sacrament instituted by Christ on the eve of his passion suggests hope to us, and is meant to strengthen us to bear our own suffering. The serious and awesome nature of what occurs during the Eucharist is repeatedly emphasized:

“Consider with what sort of honor you were honored, of what sort of table you are partaking, that which when angels behold, they tremble, and dare not so much as look up at it without awe on account of the brightness that comes thence; with this we are fed, with this we are commingled, and we are made one body, and one flesh with Christ.”

Perhaps the most poignant passages in the sermon concern the apostles Peter and Judas. With regard to Judas, John laments the degree of his blindness. Judas came to the Lord’s Supper with a disposition to betray Jesus, and he left the room unchanged in his sinful intention. Jesus did not prevent Judas from receiving that first Eucharist, but receiving the Eucharist, by itself, did not keep Satan from entering the heart of Judas. As John puts it:

“Even partaking of the mysteries, he remained the same; and admitted to the most holy table, he changed not.”

John goes on to stress that even Peter, the leader of the apostles, failed to respond to that first Eucharist. Feeling confident that he himself was not the traitor, Peter in his pride assured Christ that he could never betray him. In his pride Peter set himself above all others, even to the point of contradicting the prophecy of Christ. And the same night Peter received the first Eucharist, he also betrayed Christ. The subsequent denial of Christ by Peter, John argues, should teach us several lessons. Peter was wrong both because he thought he was incapable of betrayal, and also because he thought he was better than Judas. John feels that Christ allowed Peter to fall in order to teach Peter to trust in God, and not in his own imagined strength. When Christ encounters Peter after the Resurrection, Peter has come to rely on grace, and is now willing to follow. Having been humbled by his own unfaithfulness, Peter can love more.

John Chrysostom warns that before we pass judgment on Judas and Peter, we must take a long hard look at ourselves, and determine with what disposition we approach our own opportunity to receive the Eucharist. Do we come with our own agenda, trusting in our own imagined righteousness, or, Chrysostom asks, like the Apostle John, who reclined on and rested in Christ’s presence at the Supper, do we approach the chalice of salvation with the innocent trust and absolute need which an infant brings to its mother’s breasts?

The Last Supper, by Andrea del Castagno. Peter and John flank Christ, with Judas in the foreground.

 

All quotations taken from Homilies of St. John Chrysostom. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Series I. Volume X. Edited by Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson.