During Lent, we are following the lead of the Book of Common Prayer and using what might be called the “shorter” version of the Lord’s Prayer. In the Penitential Office for Ash Wednesday (Book of Common Prayer, page 61), as in the Litany and other places in the Prayer Book, the words “for Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever,” are not added at the conclusion of the Lord’s Prayer. Why is that?
In the King James translation of the Bible, the Lord’s Prayer is presented in two versions. The Gospel of St Luke omits the words “for Thine is the kingdom…” (called the “doxology”) entirely and ends the prayer “Lead us not into temptation.” The Gospel of St Matthew includes the doxology. The Lord’s Prayer isn’t found in the texts of the Gospels of St Mark or St John at all.
The Prayer Book sometimes includes the doxology when it calls on us to recite the Lord’s Prayer and sometimes it doesn’t. During penitential times and services, the Prayer Book omits it; most of the year and certainly on festive occasions, the Prayer Book calls for its use. With that general principle in mind, during the penitential season Lent we omit the doxology from the Lord’s Prayer, as we also omit other things like the Alleluia chant and the singing of the Gloria in Excelsis. When Easter comes and these uses are restored, we see them more clearly as signs of the Church’s rejoicing in the Resurrection of the Lord.
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…Sing Alleluia before the Gospel is read at Mass?
Like the word Amen, Alleluia comes to us from the ancient liturgy or the Jews. The Old Testament Book of Psalms was originally drawn together as the hymnal for the choirs of the Jewish Temple. In that hymnal were certain Psalms called the “Hallel” or “praise” Psalms (Psalms 113-118)—“Hallel” being the Hebrew word for “praise.” The “uia” at the end of alleluia is a shortened form of the word “Jehovah.” Alleluia, then, means “praise the Lord.”
In the Jewish liturgy, the Hallell Psalms were used especially at great Holy Days, especially Passover. They praised God for the redemption of His people.
Jewish Christians saw in the Resurrection of Christ their New Passover: “God has visited and redeemed His people.” For them, the Hallel Psalms—the cry Alleluia itself—became their song of celebration and high feasting.
Worship in the synagogue, long before the time of Christ, centered around reading from Scripture and the chanting of Psalms between the readings (separate readings from the Torah—the first five Books of Moses—and the Prophets). From the beginning, Jewish Christians joined these to the Eucharist: the prayers, Scriptural readings and chanting of Psalms they had received from the synagogue preceded the Eucharistic rite they had received from the Lord Jesus Himself. Eventually the Alleluia chant came to be specially associated with the words of the Lord read to His people in the Gospel. Both St John Chrysostom (AD 380) and St Augustine of Hippo (AD 400), refer to the Alleluia chant sung immediately before the Gospel as the universal practice of the Church.
Anciently, the first alleluia was intoned by the deacon and then sung a second time by the people. A Psalm was chanted, followed by a final alleluia—this one differing from those preceding it by what was called a “jubilus,” an elaboration of the original alleluia. This we continue at St Joseph’s today.
The Alleluia serves as the joyful greeting of Christ’s people to their Lord, as they stand to hear His words.
Bruce, this Alleluia's for you.
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…Pray for the Dead?
The custom of praying for the dead reaches back before the time of Christ. It was common Jewish practice and mentioned in the second book of Maccabees:
Judas Maccabaeus “took up a collection among his soldiers, which he sent to Jerusalem to provide for an expiatory sacrifice. He acted nobly in this, inasmuch as he had the resurrection of the dead in view; otherwise, it would have been useless and foolish to pray for the dead…Thus he made atonement for the dead that they might be freed from their sin.”
Prayers for the dead formed an integral part of Jewish practice at the time of Christ: the Lord and His followers undoubtedly observed this as the other daily practices of Judaism.
The early Christian Church continued this practice. Prayers for the dead are inscribed on the walls of the catacombs, dating from the late second and early third centuries; Tertullian, a prolific Christian author who died about AD 230, says prayer for the dead is a duty of Christians.
This prayer played a regular part in Christian worship from the beginning, as it had among the Jews. During the celebration of the Eucharist, the names of the dead were read at the Altar, emphasizing, among other things, that the unity of the church was not broken by death. The dead were present with the living as the liturgy was offered (“therefore, with angels and archangels and all the company of Heaven”). Lists of the names of the living and the dead who were remembered at the Mass (called “diptychs”) were kept on the Altar and read by the celebrant or one of his assistants during the prayers.
So all this tells us the practice dates from before the beginning of the Church; but why do we pray for the dead? What good does it do?
“The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God,” says the book of the Wisdom of Solomon, “and there shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the foolish they seemed to be dead and be utterly destroyed, but they are in peace.”
We don’t know all that happens after death; Scripture gives us some direction, but we’re left with this certainty—the dead are in the keeping of God. We die with the stains of life on our souls; we can be certain that God, in His mercy, cleans our grubbiness away. The medieval Church developed the notion of purgatory to describe this and emphasized those prayers which asked God to purge the souls of the dead from sin. While that’s certainly a part of Christian prayer for the dead, the greater emphasis, explicit in the Prayer Book, is that the dead may “continue to grow” in God’s love.
As the diptychs teach us, the Church is undivided, even by death. We pray for the living, we pray for the dead—and we can be sure the dead pray for us to. “All are one in Christ Jesus.”
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…Keep the Ember Days?
The Prayer Book provides us with the major propers (a Collect, Epistle and Gospel) for what it calls “The Ember Days, at the Four Seasons.” In so doing, the Prayer Book is following a very ancient custom of the Church.
The Ember Days are observed “at the Four Seasons.” The church calendar calls for us to observe the Ember Days, according to a Middle English rhyme:
“Fasting days and Emberings be
Lent, Whitsun, Holyrood, and Lucie."
The Ember Days fall between the third and fourth Sundays of Advent (usually the third week of December—St Lucy’s Day mentioned in the rhyme is December 13), the first and second Sundays of Lent (late in February or early in March), the week after Whitsunday (the end of May or beginning of June), and the week after Holy Cross Day (September 14).
These were important days on the agricultural calendar of (pagan) Rome:
1) in mid-December, olives were harvested;
2) in early March, the Romans observed their Spring festival;
3) in early June, wheat was harvested;
4) in mid-September the harvest of grapes began.
From very early times, then, Christians—who could not join in the pagan celebrations at the conclusion of each harvest—offered prayers of thanksgiving for the harvest-times. The Pontifical Book of Pope Callistus of Rome (AD 212) calls for Christians to celebrate the thanksgivings with simplicity, prayer and—to offset the pagan rites—fasting.
Initially then, the Ember Days were days of thanksgiving at harvest-times observed by the Christians in Rome. For reasons lost to history, Pope Gelasius (AD 492-496) ordered the Saturdays of these seasons to be set aside for ordinations to the diaconate and priesthood, and it has remained so today. The Prayer Book propers for the Ember Days make no mention at all of harvest-times and thanksgivings, but focus entirely on the Sacrament of Holy Orders. The Collect appointed prays that God “will put it into the hearts of many” to offer themselves for the ministry of the Church.
In our day, perhaps we can make the Ember Days times of prayer for the “fruitful ministry” of God’s Holy Church, as well as days of thanksgiving for the “kindly fruits of the earth.” For both, we are all dependant on God, Who gives the harvest.
Incidentally, in Latin the Ember Days are simply called “quarterly fasts” in Latin (jejunia quattuor temporum –“fasts of the four seasons"). “Ember” derives from two Anglo-Saxon words: ymb (“around”) and ryne (“running”). Ymbryne then, is a “cycle” (“ember,” meaning hot burning coals, comes from an unrelated Anglo-Saxon word).
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…say the Gloria Patri all the time?
In the Prayer Book rubrics (ritual and ceremonial directions) for the Order for Morning Prayer, we read:
“And at the end of every Psalm, and likewise at the end of the Venite, Benedictus es, Benedictus, Jubilate, may be, and at the end of the whole Portion, or Selection from the Psalter, shall be, sung or said the Gloria Patri: Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, * and to the Holy Ghost; As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, * world without end. Amen.”
Similarly, in the Order for Evening Prayer, the rubric says:
“…likewise at the end of the Magnificat, Cantate Domino, Bonum est confiteri, Nunc dimittis, Deus misereatur, Benedic anima mea, may be sung or said the Gloria Patri; and at the end of the whole portion or Selection of Psalms for the day, shall be sung or said the Gloria Patri…”
These directions in the Prayer Book reach back 1,000 years before there ever was a Book of Common Prayer. In the famous Rule of St Benedict, written about AD 525, the monks are ordered to follow the already-revered custom of concluding every Psalm and Canticle with the Gloria Patri. While St Benedict fixed as a written rule what had long been a Christian custom, the notion of concluding Psalms with fixed words of praise reaches back even farther. In the Synagogue and the Temple in Jerusalem, long before the time of Christ, certain Psalms were always sung with a “doxology,” an ascription of praise to God not in the original text. In the Prayer Book Psalter, these Jewish doxologies (doxology means “words of praise” in Greek) are at the end of Psalms 40, 72, 89, & 106.
When Christians sang or recited the Psalter in the early centuries, they added their own doxology, one explicitly Trinitarian. The Gloria Patri reached its present form sometime in the third or early fourth century. Originally composed in Greek, it quickly was adopted in the Latin-speaking Churches of the Western Roman Empire. The Latin words have remained unchanged for 17 centuries or more:
Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.
In English this literally means:
Glory [be] to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, both now, and always, and to the ages of ages. Amen.
This doxology (sometimes called the Lesser Doxology to distinguish it from the Greater Doxology, the Gloria in Excelsis—“Glory be to God on High”—sung during the Mass) was added to the Church’s texts to emphasize the complete Trinitarian nature of Christian worship.
What does it mean?
The same “glory” which is given to the Father, the doxology proclaims, is to be given to the Son and to the Holy Ghost. Each of the Three Persons is equally God. As the Athanasian Creed says: “in this Trinity none is before, or after other; none is greater, or less than another; but the whole three Persons are co-eternal together and co-equal.” “As it was in the beginning”—that is, as all Three Persons have always been fully God from before the worlds began, “is now”—as it was, so it is, “and ever shall be, world without end”—and shall be forever.
The Gloria Patri is a brief but profound hymn putting into words the fundamental truth of the Christian religion: God is Three and God is One, unchanging, eternal, the Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier of all worlds.
We say the Gloria Patri a lot in Anglican worship: we can never say it too much.--Fr Gregory Wilcox
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Have the Baptismal Font at the Entrance of the Church?
In many churches, just as you come in the door—and at St Joseph’s, just as you enter the nave (the part of the church were the people are)—sits the baptismal font. Some churches, particularly in Europe, have a baptistry—sometimes a separate room, sometimes even a separate building—at the entrance to the church. Why?
Because, as the Book of Common Prayer teaches us, we become Christians through baptism. “In baptism, I was made a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven” (BCP p 283). As an outward sign of this great truth, since the first days Christians built churches (the earliest surviving building actually constructed to be a church which still survives, is in Salhiye, Syria; it was built about AD 235) the baptistery was placed at the entry-way.
Those churches which have holy water at the door, which people often use when they make the sign of the cross upon entering, is from the same belief. They “take” the holy water as a remembrance of their baptism, saying “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,” as they do—the very words the priest pronounced over each of us when we were baptized.
The font at the door recalls the fact that each of have been "born again"-in the waters of baptism.--Fr Gregory Wilcox
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Have “Days of Obligation?”
The Book of Common Prayer lists “a Table of Feasts to be kept throughout the year.” These are days the Church requires that the Mass be celebrated. Certain of those days, according to Anglican Church Law (called “Canon Law”) people are called on to attend Mass. These include, the Prayer Book says, “all the Sundays of the Year,” but also the Feasts of Christmas Day (December 25), the Epiphany (January 6), the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary (March 25), the Ascension of our Lord (the Thursday following Rogation Sunday) and All Saints (November 1). These Holy Days take us through the year with Christ and His Saints.
The Church calendar is actually two calendars. The old Latin names for them are the Temporale (calendar of time) and Sanctorale (calendar of Saints). The Prayer Book follows the ancient practice of combining these two calendars into one to make up the Church Year.
The Temporale takes us through the Sundays of the year: the Third Sunday in Advent or the Twelfth Sunday after Trinity are examples. At the heart of the Temporale, though, is Easter. The number of Sundays from Epiphany through Advent are determined by the date of Easter every year. Because the date of Easter is not tied to the solar calendar but the variable lunar calendar, its date changes year by year. In church language, that makes Easter a “movable feast.” The other principle Feast of the Temporale is Christmas. Because its day is fixed (always December 25), Christmas is an “immovable feast.”
The Sanctorale is the calendar of Saints. St Joseph’s Day, for example, is celebrated on March 19th every year. Each saint the Church reveres has a feast day, usually the day they died (their “heavenly birthday,” to use the old Latin phrase), if it’s known.
Some feasts are more important than others. Without disrespect to St Aldhelm, who is one of many saints celebrated on May 25, Christmas is a more important feast. Those feast days called “Days of Obligation” are ones the Church regards as her principal celebrations of the year, and she intends her members to participate in them.
Sometimes they’re on week-days. That can be inconvenient, but that’s sort of the point. Our Faith isn’t a Sunday-only religion. We’re called to live with Christ seven days a week. So sometimes Christmas falls on Monday—and we just went to church for the Fourth Sunday of Advent the day before! Ascension Day is always on Thursday. Inconvenient? No doubt. Discipline usually is.
“Discipline” and “disciple” come from the same word. A disciple is somebody being trained through discipline. The Days of Obligation are a way for us to put ourselves to the test a little bit. They’re a way for us to say to God we love Him and will give up more than we have to. You and I are being trained, by keeping little things like the Days of Obligation, for an eternity of life with God.-Fr Gregory Wilcox
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…Burn the Paschal Candle?
The Paschal Candle, burning at the front of the church, is a sign of the Resurrection of Christ. It burns at all services throughout the Easter season (more anciently called Paschaltide—“Pascha” is the Greek word for Easter), for the forty days from Easter until the Feast of the Ascension. During Mass on Ascension Day (which tells the story of Christ’s Ascension into heaven), after the Gospel is read, the Paschal Candle is extinguished. After Whitsunday, the Candle is placed beside the baptismal font in the church, recalling that the Sacrament of Holy Baptism is an Easter Sacrament. From that time on, the Paschal Candle is lit only when the Sacrament of Baptism is being administered.
In some Cathedrals and large churches, the Paschal Candle burns continually, day and night, from the time the Holy Fire is struck at the Easter Vigil until the Mass on Ascension Day. It calls to mind Christ’s presence with His Apostles from the time of His Resurrection until He ascended to His Father. As He was with them, so He is with us. –Fr Gregory Wilcox
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…Have a Lamp Burning by Itself in the Sanctuary?
When you look at the sanctuary of St Joseph’s, as in many Anglican and Roman Churches, you see a candle hanging by itself on the left wall. A red glass globe marks it as distinct from the other candles burning in the church.
It’s called a “Sanctuary Lamp.” When it burns, it tells us that our Lord is present with us in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar. The Sacrament is kept in the tabernacle surmounting the Altar at St Joseph’s, locked except during Mass. In some churches, the Sacrament is not “reserved” in an Altar tabernacle, but in a special box set into the wall of the sanctuary called an “aumbry.” The long-standing tradition of the Church calls for a Sanctuary Lamp to burn continually, as long as the Blessed Sacrament is reserved either in a tabernacle or an aumbry.
Those who follow the practice of genuflecting (touching the right knee to the floor on entering and leaving their pew), will often look, upon entering an unfamiliar church, for the burning lamp. The genuflection (genu is Latin for “knee,” and flectare for “to bend’) is a sign of reverence for the Lord present in the Blessed Sacrament.
At St Joseph’s the Blessed Sacrament is continually reserved on the Altar. One reason for this is it allows the clergy to always have access to the Sacrament in a time of emergency, when someone is dying and in need of Last Rites (which include Holy Communion), or if someone is ill or for some other reason unable to attend Mass on Sunday. At such times, it is the DUTY of the clergy, never an imposition, for a parishioner to request Holy Communion.
The light burns constantly to remind us the Lord Jesus is present in this special way.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
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…Have Altar Rails?
Most Anglican churches, like many Roman, Lutheran and Methodist parishes have Altar Rails, dividing the church into two parts: the chancel and the nave. This arrangement is an ancient one.
Since Christians first built churches (the oldest surviving church building dates from about AD 260), a special place has always set aside for the Altar. In these old churches, a low screen, between 2-3 feet tall, separates the area around the Altar from the rest of the building. Often these early churches have an elevated platform built into the screen from which the Scriptures were read (called an ambon or pulpitum). These early screens have a gate in the center for access to the chancel (which is called a “sanctuary,” meaning a “sacred place”).
These screens, at first made of stone and later of wood, marble or wrought iron, separated the Altar from the rest of the church as our Altar rails do today; unlike Altar rails now, however, people didn’t kneel there to receive Holy Communion. For the Church’s first thousand years, all Christians both in the Eastern and Western Churches, stood to receive the Blessed Sacrament (as they still do in Orthodox Churches today).
In the Middle Ages, these Altar screens grew taller. Most English cathedrals still have tall screens, usually of stone, separating the nave (where the people are) from the sanctuary (where the Altar is). Pews didn’t exist before the late 1400s, so people before then milled all around the nave during Mass. Sometime in the 11th and 12th centuries, when the practice of kneeling before communion became widespread in Europe, the Altar screen provided a convenient place for people to kneel. In those churches where the screens had become tall chancel or rood screens (a “rood” is a depiction of the Crucifixion with a large crucifix and flanking figures of the Blessed Virgin and St John the Evangelist), new rails, the size of the old, low screens, had to be built and the Altar rail as we now know it came to be.
These Altar rails allowed people to kneel and receive Holy Communion and, at the same time, fulfilled their ancient function, separating the nave from the sanctuary. Until the Reformation (and in some places in England, well into the 18th century), each Altar rail had a long linen cloth that ran its length, called a “houseling cloth.” When people knelt to receive Holy Communion, they placed their hands under the cloth and lifted it to just below their chins, to prevent the Sacrament from falling to the ground if it was dropped. Until after Shakespeare’s time, it was commonly said that a person who had received Holy Communion had been “houseled.” A few parish churches in England retain the houseling cloth to this day.
The Altar is the most sacred part of the church, signifying to us both the Throne of God and the Place of Christ's Sacrifice. When Anglicans bow upon entering church, they’re not bowing to the Cross, as is sometimes said, but to the Altar (at least, that’s what we've been taught for many centuries). Many Christians genuflect (touch the right knee to the floor) when the Blessed Sacrament is present in the sanctuary, but when it is not, they bow to the Altar instead. If the Altar is the sign of God’s Throne and Christ’s Cross, the sanctuary, where the Altar sits, is the sign of Heaven in our midst. The Altar rail, then serves quite appropriately as the place where God and man meet. It is the Gate of Heaven.
Given what the sanctuary signifies, we all, clergy and lay people alike, should treat the sanctuary with reverence, and the Altar with holy awe. Nothing should be placed upon it except the things used in during Mass. When Mass is not being offered, nothing should sit on the Altar. It’s not a shelf. We see how the Church has always regarded it in the ancient rule which orders the priest to kiss the Altar whenever he approaches or turns from it during the Liturgy.
The Altar rail stands in our parish church not so much dividing the church into two parts as uniting the Church into one: the place where God and His people come together.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
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...Have Confession?(Parts One & Two, combined)
“We do? I thought only Catholics had confession.”
Aside from the sometimes disquieting notion that the Episcopal/Anglican questioner is unaware that they’re already a Catholic (which is not the same as being a Roman Catholic), it seems to come as a genuine shock to many Anglicans to learn that we “have” confession.
Of course, we all know that the Prayer Book provides frequent “confessions” of sin. Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, the Mass, the Office of the Visitation of the Sick, the Prayers for the Dying, all these Prayer Book services provide a Confession of Sin followed by a declaration, made only by either a bishop or priest, of absolution: the sins we confess are forgiven.
Why do we “have” confession? So our sins can be forgiven.
That's no surprise, at least to most of us. The “confession” many are surprised at us “having” is "private" confession to a priest.
We may tell ourselves we don’t need a priest to forgive our sins, we confess directly to God and He forgives us. It’s a nice, neat and convenient answer, but it’s not what the Lord Jesus thought nor intended. After His Resurrection, He appeared to His disciples and said: “Receive the Holy Ghost. Whosoever sins you forgive, they are forgiven; whosoever sins you retain, they are retained.” He left His Church, through His apostles and those who followed them, the authority and power to forgive sins.
Okay, say He did tell His priests to forgive sins, they certainly do it in all those services listed above. Why bother then, to confess sins to a priest privately?
While Anglican custom and tradition give several reasons for “private” confession and absolution, let’s see what the Prayer Book has to say and what we can learn from that. In the Office of the Visitation of the Sick, the priest is instructed that the sick person “shall be moved to make special confession of his sins, if he feel his conscience troubled with any matter.”
A few sentences above this, the same set of rubrics tells the priest to “address the sick person of the meaning and use of the time of sickness, and the opportunity it affords for spiritual profit.” If we take these two rubrics together, the notion is that, when a person has the opportunity for spiritual reflection (as is sometimes occasioned by illness), part of that reflection should be the examination of his conscience and the offering of a confession of sin to a priest, if he feels his conscience troubled.
Any person who examines is conscience and isn’t “troubled” as a result, probably hasn’t looked too deeply.
One of the real reasons people don’t want to confess their sins is that it’s embarrassing. Those who think that are quite correct. It is. I have been going to “private confession” six to ten times a year for the past forty-five years. I’ve been embarrassed and ashamed too many times to recall. I’ve been embarrassed and ashamed that I did things I ought not to have done and it’s harder to own up to that in front of another person than it is to God, Who knew what I’d done all along—and didn’t say anything to me about it—except in my “troubled conscience,” which I was often quite successful in ignoring.
And there’s the rub. The Lord left power to forgive sins with men—not much better nor much worse than anybody else, for the most part—so we could turn to our fellow men to confess our sins and find forgiveness, rather than relying on our all-too-easily quieted consciences. It’s embarrassing to own up in “public-privacy” of the confessional, but that’s built in to the whole idea. God doesn’t care if we’re embarrassed by our sins—some things seem to indicate that He thinks our embarrassment might be a good thing, if we turn from our sin and receive His forgiveness.
Many people—many good Anglicans—will never come to “private confession.” The Prayer Book requires the priest to frequently move the people to it, but doesn’t require anybody to come. Some will refuse because they just don’t like the idea and never consider it. Others will think about it—maybe even think it’s a good idea for other people (and they might even have an idea about who those other people are!)—but on reflection decide it’s just not for them. Some will decide to come—but never quite “get around” to it (if this is starting to remind you of a parable you’ve heard, all I can say is, “he that has ears to hear…”). Finally there are those who will come—in spite of not quite knowing how to do it and being embarrassed at what they have to confess.
Speaking as both a priest and “penitent” (a person who makes their confession), I can say this. I can’t judge the people who don’t come. But those who do, I know, are among the “seed wich fell on good ground,” who will spring up to bear spiritual fruits “an hundredfold.”—Fr Gregory Wilcox
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...Anoint the Sick?
The Lord Jesus commanded his disciples to “heal the sick” as part of their calling. Since the earliest days of the Church, her priests have obeyed His words. In the New Testament epistle of St James, the Apostle wrote, “Is any sick among you? Let him call for the presbyters (priests) of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord: And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.”
The Church counts Holy Unction as one of the Seven Sacraments. The purpose of the sacrament is to heal the sick. It’s not magic, God’s healing is a gift, a grace given for salvation. Sometimes, the anointed person doesn’t get better; in fact, sometimes they die. “Last Rites,” given by a priest when a Christian is at the point of death, includes the Sacrament of Unction and Holy Communion. The person given Last Rites is presumed to be dying, and most of the time, this ends up being so. Not always. God has His own purposes for us, and sometimes it’s to raise us up when we’re dying. But the most powerful effect of the Sacrament of Unction is not the miraculous cures which sometimes occur. The Sacrament can heal the broken spirits of the sick and dying. It can anoint us with the gift of God’s presence in our suffering and pain.
The greatest danger to us in lingering and profound illness isn’t that we’ll die, but that we’ll despair, give up pour hope, turn in on ourselves, “curse God and die.” The Church’s ministry to the sick and dying is one of its most important and unpopular tasks. Unpopular because it is so often depressing. That’s why the Sacrament is so crucial.
The Sacraments don’t “work,” they’re not effective because we believe in them hard enough, like children trying to bring back Tinkerbell. They’re effective because they’re Sacraments. We aren’t the ones who “cause” the Sacraments to “work,” God is. Christ isn’t present with us in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar because we believe He is, but because He said He would be.
So in times of illness (not just death or even life-threatening diseases), it is meet and right to call the priest and ask him to bring you the Sacrament of Unction, the Sacrament of Healing. It isn’t inconvenient or a bother, it’s the vocation of the clergy to do so. It’s one of the reasons they got ordained, to obey Jesus own command: “heal the sick.” The priest anoints, the people pray, God heals.
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…Have Candles on the Altar?
Most of the time we’re in church, the lights are on and it’s daytime to boot. Why the candles?
In the early centuries of the Church, “artificial light” was most often not ceremonial or symbolical but quite necessary. Lamps were needed indoors to see. For the first several centuries, most churches employed, not candles but oil lamps, as did most everyone else. To this day, in Eastern Orthodox churches, oil lamps rather than candles are the norm in church.
The ancient Romans used candles (the word itself, candeo, means “to burn”), as did the Egyptians and other Mediterranean cultures, ceremonially. Important Roman officials, in the daytime, had candles burned before them when they went through the city in procession and inside during important civic occasions. This use was purely symbolic (the pharaohs had lighted papyrus bundles burning continually in their presence as a sign of their divinity—this seems to be the source of the Roman practice, given the Roman penchant for civil religion and the custom of seeing the Emperor as “divine”).
Candles placed on or around Christian altars, which became commonplace between AD 200-300, seems to share this ancient notion of acknowledging the “divine presence” at the Altar (the practice of acolytes carrying candles in procession, particularly before the Gospel Book at Mass, traces directly to this ancient Roman practice).
So the candles at the Altar are a sign acknowledging the presence of the Lord at the Altar. Since the candles placed there are signs of Christ’s divine presence, before too long the number of candles came to have symbolic importance. From very early times, no more than two candles were allowed to be placed on the Altar itself, though others were allowed near the Altar. The Altar was the sign of Christ (and when people bow when coming into church, the Anglican rationale has been that they’re bowing, not to the Cross, as is sometimes said, but to the Altar itself, the central “sign” of Christ in the church, unless the Blessed Sacrament is present). The two candles are a sign of the two natures of Christ, one human the other Divine.
Over time, other candles around the Altar came to have symbolic meaning too, but none were seen as having the importance as the two “Eucharistic Lights,” as the two burning on the Altar came to be called. So important were these two candles and their meaning that in the early Middle Ages, no other candles were allowed to be placed on the Altar itself. Other shelves, called either gradines or retables, might have candles placed on them, but the Altar was reserved for the Two Candles.
Over time, six candles came to be placed on the gradine (from graduus, the Latin word for “step”). These are called “Office Lights” and are usually lit when one of the Daily Offices (Morning or Evening Prayer) is being said. The six candles are also lit during Mass when it is Sung Mass, as opposed to a Low Mass (when there is no singing).
The other light in the church, the Sanctuary Lamp, burns as a sign of Christ’s presence in the Blessed Sacrament. It’s meant to burn day and night as long as the Blessed Sacrament is present. The Sanctuary Lamp is usually (as it is at St Joseph’s) suspended somewhere in the Sanctuary.-Fr Gregory Wilcox
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...Call Priests “Father?”
“…You are not to be called rabbi, for you have one Master, and you are all brothers. And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven. Neither be ye called masters, nor be called teachers, for you have one teacher, the Christ. The greatest among you shall be your servant…”
Christians have called their bishops and priests “father” since the earliest days of the Church. Were they ignorant of the above verses?
When the Lord Jesus spoke these words, He wasn’t forbidding calling people from calling rabbis “rabbis,” masters (or we’d say, “misters,”) “masters,” fathers “fathers” or teachers “teachers.” What He was doing was making a point about Who He was and about who His servants should be.
On the night in which He was betrayed, before giving His disciples bread and wine made His Body and Blood, He wrapped a towel around Himself, took a basin of water and washed the feet of His disciples. St John tells us:
“When He had washed their feet… He said to them, “Do you understand what I have done? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet…you should do as I have done to you…”
When the Lord spoke to His disciples about calling men “Father,” “Rabbi,” “Master” or “Teacher,” He was warning them because He knew these were just the things they would be called. He was not forbidding titles of love and respect. But if titles became ways in which they “lorded it over” people, they were forgetting what the titles meant. The Lord showed us the true meaning of “lordship,” when He washed His disciples feet, fed them with His Body and Blood, and gave His life for all who would call Him Lord. “Lordship” in the Gospel means not bossing people around but giving oneself as a servant. “The Son of Man,” St Mark quotes the Lord as saying, “came not to be served but to serve, and give is life as a ransom for many.”
We call priests “Father” because they stand, for us, in the place of Christ. At Mass, they speak His words, they feed us with His Body and Blood, they pronounce forgiveness to us in His Name. Priests baptize us as babies and bury us when we grow old and die; they are our shepherds and pastors, caring for us spiritually through the days of our lives. It is meet and right to call them by this ancient title of affection.
But priests are men. None of those sharing the gift of the priesthood of Jesus is worthy of it; none deserve it. We give it to them because they share the work of Jesus among His people today. St Paul wrote to the Corinthians: “Even if you should have countless guides to Christ, yet you do not have many fathers, for I became your father in Christ Jesus through the gospel."
Underlying this title of affection, though, is a great Gospel truth. The priesthood of Jesus continues on earth, through the priesthood of the Church. Whether it’s dynamic young Father Handsome or doddering old Father Forgetful, both have been raised above their deserving to share Jesus’ priesthood. This was—and remains—Jesus’ intention. He remains active and present in His Church and the ministry of His presence, His sacraments, is carried out by men, faltering and sinful. This is part of the mystery of redemption. One of my favorite verses in the Bible concludes one of my favorite stories in the Gospels: “And they were amazed that God had given such power to men.”
It’s good to show respect and affection for God’s priests, calling them “Father.” But it also serves as a healthy reminder to priests, reminding them that the priesthood is not their own: they share it with Him Who came to serve, and to give Himself for others.
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…Baptize Babies?
The New Testament several times refers to the baptism of whole households, a term which customarily meant infants and children. St Irenaeus (about AD 150), the Bishop of Lyons, says that “children and the smallest infants are born again to God” in baptism, and other Christian writers of the second century testify to the practice. The Prayer Book assumes the baptism of babies as the norm, and in all likelihood, most everyone reading these words were baptized as babies.
Some Christians, however, not only doubt the practice but refuse to recognize its validity. Baptists, Disciples of Christ, the Church of Christ, most Pentecostals and members of the Assembly of God, Mennonites, Amish, Plymouth Brethren, Seventh-day Adventists, many “non-denominational” groups, the Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormon all reject infant baptism, which they call “paedobaptism” (literally, the baptism of children”). While there’s not much these diverse groups could agree on, they all agree that it is meaningless to baptize infants and children.
Even then, they disagree with each other about why babies shouldn’t be baptized, but most of them would certainly say two things: first, baptism is for the forgiveness of sins, and infants are incapable of sin, and second, baptism requires repentance and faith, and an infant is capable of neither.
Those sound like pretty good arguments. So why have Christians done it for nineteen hundred years and more?
The ancient practice of the Church is addressed in the Book of Common Prayer; it raises a different set of issues than those of the above-mentioned objections.
The Catechism (BCP p 283) says, “in baptism…I was made a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of Heaven.” Not too much here on forgiveness of sin, although that certainly applies to those “of riper years” who come to the Sacrament. Not too much because the Church since the beginning understands baptism to be much more than simply a tool for forgiving sin. St Paul said “As many of you as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ.”
In baptism, the Prayer Book teaches us, we are made Christians not because of our faith, but because in this Sacrament (as in all of them), God is the principal actor, not us.
Later on, the Catechism asks: “Why then are infants baptized, when by reason of their tender age, they cannot [forsake sin and believe the promises of God]?” and the answer follows: “By the faith of their sponsors infants are received into Christ’s Church and become recipients of grace…”
So the New Birth of Baptism comes from God; the faith into which I’m baptized is the faith of my sponsors. That “faith” isn’t the personal set of beliefs of my godparents (who knows what that might be?), but the faith of the Church, in whose place they stand. This is the faith into which we are baptized.
The Sacrament of Confirmation, though usually separated by a dozen years or more from baptism, is, among other things, a personal seal on the baptism each of us has received. While we are given the sacramental gifts of Confirmation, we also renew the vows made for us at the time of our baptism.
Baptism isn’t the completion of a Christian’s life, but the beginning of it. Immediately after the water is poured over the child, the priest marks the forehead of the newly-baptized with the sign of the Cross and says: “We receive this Child into the congregation of Christ’s flock: and do sing him with the sign of the Cross, in token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under His banner, against sin, the world and the devil; and to continue Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto his life’s end.”
That battle, often an unseen warfare, is one we will each fight from birth “unto our life’s end.” Baptism, with its graces and gifts, girds us every one-man, woman and child-for the battle.--Fr Gregory Wilcox
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Kneel When We Pray?
It’s uncomfortable. Almost nobody ever really kneels, anyway. Why bother?
You probably learned it when you were a kid in Confirmation class. Anglicans “stand to praise, sit to hear, kneel to pray.”
We kneel before God as a sign of submission, humility and obedience. It was one of two classic postures for prayer employed by the Jews long before the time of Christ. In the Old Testament, it was the outward sign of an inward disposition to prayer. Solomon dedicating his temple “kneeling down in the presence of all the multitude of Israel…” Esdras the Scribe wrote “I fell on my knees…before the Lord God,” and Daniel the Prophet, exiled to Babylon, “opened the windows in his upper chamber towards Jerusalem, knelt down three times a day, and worshiped…" Early Christians had the example of the Lord Jesus Himself, Who knelt in the garden of Gethsemane to submit Himself to His Father, on the night in which He was betrayed. The apostles understood kneeling as a sign of prayer and self-offering to God. Sts. Peter and Paul are frequently depicted kneeling in prayer in the Acts of the Apostles. In St Paul’s epistles, “to pray” and “to bend the knee” are synonymous (note Philippians 2:10; Ephesians 3:14, etc.). St James, the first bishop of Jerusalem and brother of our Lord, spent so much time on his knees praying that, it was said, “his knees were as calloused as a camel’s.”
The Greeks and Romans did not kneel to pray; indeed, Aristotle wrote that kneeling for prayer was a “barbaric custom, fit only for slaves and the ignorant.” In the ancient world of the Middle East, it was seen as a sign of submission, particularly before a king (that’s why it was so despised by the democratically-minded Greeks).
St. Augustine of Hippo tells us: “We pray with our bodies, bending our knees, as is appropriate for those who turn to the Lord in supplication.” This phrase, “bending our knees,” is used by St Paul and St Luke in the New Testament as meaning “to pray.” The phrase is unique to the New Testament; it isn’t found in Greek literature any time before—in other words, it’s a specifically Christian phrase, denoting a specifically Christian approach to prayer. We kneel before our Lord the King: in reverence and worship, in submission and surrender, acknowledging our dependence on Him and our willingness to follow Jesus in saying, “Thy will be done.”
A story comes from the book of the Sayings of the Desert Fathers, according to which the devil showed himself to a certain Abba Apollo. The wise monk knew immediately who stood before him because the devil had no knees. He understood that the inability to kneel, to humble oneself before God, was the very essence of the diabolical.
Yes, it’s uncomfortable, yes, most of us don’t really kneel as much as we sort of squat and lean back on the pew with our bottoms. But bothering in the first place goes back a very long time, to acknowledge the very essence of the human—that “it is He Who made us and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture.”-Fr Gregory Wilcox
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Pray for the Dead?
As Anglicans, we offer prayers for the dead and remember them, not only at the time of death, but continually afterward in the Mass. One of the sections of the "Prayer for the Whole State of Christ’s Church" is devoted to the practice, and gives us a good indication of what Anglican belief and teaching about the dead is.
“And we also bless Thy holy Name for all Thy servants departed this life in Thy faith and fear; beseeching Thee to grant them continual growth in Thy love and service, and to give us grace so to follow their good examples, that with them we may be partakers of Thy heavenly kingdom…” (BCP 74-75)
We pray that our beloved dead, like those we love here on earth, may continue to grow in the love of God and devote themselves to His service. They, like we, are capable of spiritual growth. Unlike us, the dead are free of the distractions and temptations of this life. In the Burial Office of the Prayer Book (BCP 335), the priest prays for the dead, asking that “the good work which Thou didst begin in them may be perfected…” The Prayer Book teaching, then is that the spiritual struggles and trials of our lives here will be brought to perfection there. “The God of peace,” reads another prayer from the Burial Office, “Who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ…make you perfect in every good work to do His will, working in you that which is well pleasing in His sight…” Scripture teaches us plainly that we as Christians are called to perfection: “Be ye therefore perfect,” the Lord Jesus said to His disciples, “even as your Father in heaven is perfect.”
The greatest saints of the Church, however, all fail to reach such a standard. Not one of us (except the Lord and perhaps one other), has gone through life sinless, attaining the call—demand even—of perfection. The Prayer Book recognizes that this call to perfection is both a universal call—God’s expectation for all men—and at the same time, an impossible one to reach. Is this some kind of religious puzzle that can’t be solved—like a thousand piece picture puzzle with some of the essential pieces left out of the box?
The Prayer Book recognizes the conundrum, and guides us to its solution. At the hour of our death, we are each of us carrying the spiritual habits and dispositions of a lifetime. In my selfish life on earth, I have pursued my eternal calling to live with God imperfectly. We each have “followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts.” But as God has healed our weaknesses in life, so He will continue to do in death, granting us “continual growth” in His love and service. We don’t know what form that service will take; we don’t know how the Lord will cleanse us from the grime of selfishness and indulgence we’ve immersed ourselves in during this life. When we pray for the dead, though, this is a principal part of our prayer.
We pray for the dead because we love them, and loving them, we want what’s best for them. Our faith teaches us the perfection we are called to can only come from God, through His grace. The Prayer Book prayers for the dead essentially say two things: first, that God will continue to give them grace as they continue to be perfected, and, second, that when we are perfected by God, we will share in the eternal joys of all the saints in heaven—because by then, we too, will have become one of them.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
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…Bow Our Heads at the Name of JESUS?
Some of our Anglican church customs might seem a bit unusual to an uninformed observer: sometimes we stand and other times we sit; is the “Anglican squat”—ie, knees on the kneeler and buttocks propped on the pew-a distinctly Anglican position of prayer? Why do some people genuflect before entering their pew while others bow?
One thing, however, which is probably less of a mystery, is the practice of bowing the head (not the whole body) whenever the Lord Jesus’ name is said. St Paul, almost two thousand years ago, in his Epistle to the Philippians, wrote: “At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow…” (Philippians 2.10, for those who like to keep track). The custom of treating God’s Name with particular reverence is a very ancient one. Before the time of Christ, the Jews would not say God’s name aloud. They adopted euphemisms when referring to Him—“the Lord,” “the Lord of Hosts,” “the Almighty,” “the Ineffable One,” etc—it’s quite a lengthy list—and many pious Jews even today will not write His Name, or even the word “God.” Instead they’ll write “G-d.” This great reverence for the Name of God is behind St Paul’s exhortation to the Philippians to revere Jesus’ Name.
We don’t know how long this liturgical custom has existed, but in 1274, the Second Council of Lyons gave its blessing to the already-established practice:
“Every Christian should do that which is written for all to do: that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow. Whenever that glorious name is said aloud, especially during the sacred mysteries of the Mass, everyone should bow the knees of his heart, which he can do by a bow of his head.”
The Church of England, continuing the old custom, mentions—indeed, commands—the same practice in the “Canons Ecclesiastical of the Church of England” approved by Convocation in 1604, under King James I (yes, the same King James of Bible fame). Canon 18 reads (in part):
“…likewise, when in time of Divine Service the Lord Jesus shall be mentioned, due and lowly reverence shall be done by all persons present…”
This canon was passed to answer the objections of the Puritans to the practice of bowing the head at the mention of Jesus’ name, a custom they called “wicked and degenerate, of origins papistical.” A good Puritan must have squirmed (at least a bit) whenever St Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians was read!
This custom is associated only with the name of Jesus. When the Lord’s title, “Christ” is said, no bow is called for (“Christ” isn’t Jesus’ last name—it’s from the Greek word christos, which means “anointed one”—that is, the Messiah; when we say “Jesus Christ,” we’re saying “Jesus the Messiah”).
Sometime in the late Middle Ages, the practice of bowing at the name of Jesus was extended to the Blessed Virgin as well as the saint whose day was being celebrated, so that many also bowed the head (usually not quite as deeply when either Mary’s name was said or, if it was Saint Etheldreda’s feast day, whenever “Etheldreda” was said). This pious custom lacks the antiquity and the same theological meaning. When St Paul called on the Philippians to reverence Jesus’ Name, what he was doing was telling them that Jesus was not simply the Jewish Messiah, but God Himself. He was saying that the customs they had hitherto used to venerate God’s Name should be extended to the Lord Christ, because He was God.
Those who keep this happy custom are not following some “high church” custom (bowing the head at St Etheldreda’s name might be considered that), but a Scriptural injunction that calls on us to keep God’s Name holy—one of the Ten Commandments!-Fr Gregory Wilcox
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...Say Prayers from the Common Prayer Book?
Some good and devout Christians question the value of prayers said to the Lord from a book. Shouldn’t you “just pray what’s in your heart?” The Lord Jesus criticized the Pharisees for their long public prayers and repeated petitions. Don’t we fall under His ban, too?
William Beveridge (1637-1708), Bishop of St Asaph, wrote about “praying from the fixed prayers of the Book of Common Prayer,” answering the objections of Puritans, who opposed reading prayers from a book:
“... If in public worship I hear another pray, and know not beforehand what he will say, I must first listen to what he will say next; then I am to consider whether what he saith be agreeable to sound doctrine, and whether it be proper and lawful for me to join with him in the petitions he puts up to Almighty God; and if I think it is so, then I am able to do it. But before I can do that, he is gone on to another thing; by which means it is very difficult, if not impossible, to join with him in prayers as I ought to do. But by a set form of prayer all this trouble is prevented; for having the form continually in my mind, being thoroughly acquainted with it, and knowing beforehand what will come next, I have nothing else to do, whilst the words are sounding in my ears, but to move my heart and affections suitably to them, to raise up my desires to those good things which are prayed for, to fix my mind wholly upon God, whilst I am praising him, and so lift up my soul in performing my devotions...”
Sensible; but doesn’t the Puritan objection still apply? Can I “pray from my heart” (as the Puritans insisted Christians ought to do), if I read the words of another?
You can enter into what Bishop Beveridge means, though, if you think about your own experience. Though it’s not unusual to see a congregation of Anglicans with their noses buried in their Prayer Books during the liturgy, if you forget your Prayer Book or there are none in the pews, you will still be able to worship as efficiently as you would with them. Why? Because for years and years, Sunday after Sunday, if you “worship God in His Church every Sunday” as the Prayer Book calls us to do, you’ve heard these words hundreds of times. They have become a part of your vocabulary (how many non-Anglicans can say the word “inestimable” as easy as you?)—not just the vocabulary of your mind, but of your heart. The Book of Common Prayer, with its noble phrases and inestimable language, teaches us how to pray, what to say to God. It guides us into high aspirations of the Spirit. It molds our spiritual lives.
Yes, there is always the danger we can say words without consciously “making them our own.” But if you have worshipped in a Protestant church, you will have seen the same thing. Words and phrases are sometimes repeated with such regularity they become predictable. That’s not a criticism of the practice as much as the observation of an all-too human tendency.
St John of Damascus says “Prayer is the lifting of the heart and mind to God.” We need not criticize anyone else to recognize that Common Prayer enables us to do that to a wonderful degree.-Fr Gregory Wilcox
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...Mix Water and Wine Together at Mass?
This custom, mentioned by the Christian writer St Justn Martyr (AD 150), was widespread in the ancient world. Both Greeks and Romans counted those who drank undiluted wine as barbarians and uncouth. The Greek historian Herodotus (450 BC) says Kleomenes, the king of Sparta, “died miserably, having adopted the nasty habit of drinking wine unmixed with water, which he learned from the Scythians” (the ancient inhabitants of what is now Iran and southern Russia; the Greeks regarded Scythians as the quintessential barbarians) “who never mix their wine. Some Spartans do this till our day and call this drinking in the ‘Scythian fashion.’ ” Plato likewise condemned the practice. The drunkard, in ancient Roman poetry, was often mocked as one who drank his wine unmixed. At large Roman feasts, one of the more-experienced wine stewards was assigned the task, before the party began, of determining how potent the wine was and charged with deciding the proper mixture of water and wine to be served to the guests: three parts wine to one part water was the most common mix recorded.
So the mixture of water and wine at Mass, mentioned by St Justin, was commonplace among Christians from the beginning. Later it was explained as having a symbolic meaning: the mixing was said to be a symbol of the union of Christ’s divinity and humanity at His Incarnation, or given some similar explanation. Pope St Gregory the Great (AD 600), wrote a beautiful prayer which is still recited quietly by the priest as he “mixes the chalice” at Mass:
“O God, Who didst wondrously create, and even more wondrously dost renew the dignity and nature of man; grant by the mystery of this water and wine, that He Who was partaker of our humanity, may make us partakers of His divinity, even Jesus Christ our Lord, Who livest and reignest with Thee, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end. Amen.”
So “the mixed chalice,” as it’s called, comes to us from the Greeks and Romans as simply good manners and a health precaution; in the early middle ages it was given a symbolic meaning and finally Pope St Gregory used the practice as a vehicle to express some very good theology.-Fr Gregory Wilcox
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