The Prayer Book teaching is plain: “It is my bounden duty…to worship God every Sunday in His Church” (BCP page 291). Give or take a few Sundays, Christians have been worshiping God every Sunday for the last 102,856 Sundays. It all started the First Sunday, the day of His Resurrection, when He appeared to His disciples and they worshiped Him. That same day He’d met two of His disciples on the road to Emmaus (though they didn’t know who He was), spent the afternoon talking with them and, when they sat down with Him to eat, He “was known to them in the Breaking of the Bread.”
He’s known to us in the same way. This Breaking of the Bread remains for the last 102,856 consecutive Sundays as the distinctive thing Christians do when we gather to worship. “As often as you eat this Bread and drink this Cup, you show forth the Lord’s death until he comes,” St Paul wrote to the Corinthians. The Mass, the Eucharist, Divine Liturgy, Lord’s Supper, the Holy Communion: called by whatever name, Christians have gathered Sunday after Sunday, century on century, to follow His command that we “Do This.” It sets Christian worship apart from all other worship.
That means Christians understand worship differently than other people.
To see what’s distinctive about Christian worship, we need to consider the idea of “worship” itself.
Worship comes to us as a combination of to old Anglo-Saxon words—not as in “White Anglo-Saxon Protestant” but as in the Germanic tribes of Angles and Saxons who conquered Celtic Britain in the fifth and sixth centuries after Christ. “Woerth” is value, or worth. “Schyppe” is the Old English word for “the state or condition of something.” Worship, then, is when we acknowledge the value of something. Some of us worship our car (or, in Texas, our pick-up), some of us worship our bank accounts, some of us worship the image we see in the mirror.
To worship God, is to give honor or praise-or at least-recognition to the Being each of us says fits our definition of “God.” Some people say they can do this better on the Golf Course or on a mountaintop than they can in church. They’re right, they can. It’s just that the God they’re worshiping on the Golf Course isn’t the same One Who said “Do This.”
The god of the Golf Course has an altogether different set of commandments than the Ten with which we’re familiar. He’s much more popular—there are no “Thou shalt nots” in his commandments. Even the “thou shalts” of the Golf Course god are more pieces of avuncular advice that rules.
The first basic notion of Christian worship is that we don’t know God. We can’t. He’s utterly and completely different than us. We are creatures, with limited minds and hearts. He is Uncreated, Unmade, Unknowable—except to the extent that He reveals something of Himself to us. St John of Damascus says “the few things we can say about God are all things He has shown us of Himself. God Himself, however, is completely beyond human understanding.”
When Christians worship God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, we join with Angels and Archangels and All the Company of Heaven in woerthschyppe—in showing what matters most, not merely to us, but to all creation—and before Whom all creation can only kneel in adoration, singing words beyond our comprehension: “Holy, Holy, Holy, Who Was, and Is, and Is to Come.”
The uniqueness of Christian worship is grounded in the Uniqueness of God. We “Do This” because all other “doing,” all other worship, is just stuff we’ve made up, made to order for the gods we make up.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Why Are You an Anglican?
Most of our parishes are small. Many of our parishioners are “retirement-eligible,” a new euphemism I heard this week. The language of our worship, tracing back before Shakespeare, isn’t easy to follow, the majority of tunes in our Hymnal aren’t very catchy, our Faith seems to be more fitted to times past than a Faith for the present—or the future. So why are you an Anglican?
In a sense, of course, there may be as many answers to that question as there are Anglicans. Each of us has our own reasons for believing, our own experiences of faith.
Anglicanism points us to the past. That’s an essential part of Anglicanism, its tradition. It insists that the past matters. Anglicanism, like Christianity itself, is grounded in history. “I believe in God…and in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord…Who was born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate…the third day He rose again…” We recite these words, day after day, because they’re true, historical facts, like the Battle of Waterloo or Charlie Chaplin’s birthday. We look back to discover who we are.
For all its backward glances, though, Anglicanism also insists we take our place in the present. We face the same questions everybody else does. And that’s just how God wants it. All of us have friends or relatives, for example, who are homosexuals. Even if we wanted to, there’s no way to avoid the issue. Our world is rife with inequalities and injustices, with undeserved pain and unpunished vice. Today piety is mocked and evil admired. Our faith doesn’t allow us to ignore these challenges—on the contrary—it requires us to face them. It takes either a genuine faith or a profound ignorance to believe that Anglicanism enables us to confront today’s world.
Obviously I believe Anglicanism is not only “up” to the challenge, but that it has special gifts to meet the challenges of the past, present and future with beauty and God’s Grace.
The antiquated language of the Prayer Book—indeed, even the notion of a Book of Common Prayer itself, a worship stretching back to the first centuries of the Church, an ethical life embedded in living reality of the Gospel words spoken by the Lord Jesus so long ago, the doctrines of a Faith “once delivered to the saints,” and the life of prayer, the struggle with sin and growth in Grace, these are the great treasures of the Catholic religion, of which Anglicanism is a most happy part.
“Jesus Christ is the same, yesterday, today and forever.” That truth our Faith not only enshrines, but brings us into, nurtures us in, and grows us to a maturity which will blossom in eternity.
That’s why I'm an Anglican. Why are you?
-Fr Gregory Wilcox
In a sense, of course, there may be as many answers to that question as there are Anglicans. Each of us has our own reasons for believing, our own experiences of faith.
Anglicanism points us to the past. That’s an essential part of Anglicanism, its tradition. It insists that the past matters. Anglicanism, like Christianity itself, is grounded in history. “I believe in God…and in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord…Who was born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate…the third day He rose again…” We recite these words, day after day, because they’re true, historical facts, like the Battle of Waterloo or Charlie Chaplin’s birthday. We look back to discover who we are.
For all its backward glances, though, Anglicanism also insists we take our place in the present. We face the same questions everybody else does. And that’s just how God wants it. All of us have friends or relatives, for example, who are homosexuals. Even if we wanted to, there’s no way to avoid the issue. Our world is rife with inequalities and injustices, with undeserved pain and unpunished vice. Today piety is mocked and evil admired. Our faith doesn’t allow us to ignore these challenges—on the contrary—it requires us to face them. It takes either a genuine faith or a profound ignorance to believe that Anglicanism enables us to confront today’s world.
Obviously I believe Anglicanism is not only “up” to the challenge, but that it has special gifts to meet the challenges of the past, present and future with beauty and God’s Grace.
The antiquated language of the Prayer Book—indeed, even the notion of a Book of Common Prayer itself, a worship stretching back to the first centuries of the Church, an ethical life embedded in living reality of the Gospel words spoken by the Lord Jesus so long ago, the doctrines of a Faith “once delivered to the saints,” and the life of prayer, the struggle with sin and growth in Grace, these are the great treasures of the Catholic religion, of which Anglicanism is a most happy part.
“Jesus Christ is the same, yesterday, today and forever.” That truth our Faith not only enshrines, but brings us into, nurtures us in, and grows us to a maturity which will blossom in eternity.
That’s why I'm an Anglican. Why are you?
-Fr Gregory Wilcox
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Christ is Risen! Alleluia!
The customary greeting extended towards
fellow Christians through the Easter Season is:
"Christ is risen! Alleluia!"
The ancient reply is:
"He is risen indeed, Alleluia!"
fellow Christians through the Easter Season is:
"Christ is risen! Alleluia!"
The ancient reply is:
"He is risen indeed, Alleluia!"
Saturday, April 16, 2011
IN REMEMBRANCE
Tomorrow Holy Week begins, leading us to the Three Great Days at the heart of the Christian’s year. The whole of our Faith, the Scriptures, the Creeds and the Sacraments, is conveyed during the Liturgies of those Three Days. The Night of the Eucharist and the Lord’s Betrayal on Thursday, the Friday of His Sacrificial Death and Burial, the Saturday Preparation leading to the Night that bursts to Life with Fire and Light, these solemnities are rightly called celebrations and “remembrances.”
“This is My body, which is given for you,” the Lord Jesus said to His disciples on the night in which He was betrayed. “Do this in remembrance of Me. Likewise, after supper He took the cup…” He commanded His disciples then as He commands His disciples now: “Do this in remembrance of Me.” As the Prayer of Consecration continues during the Mass, the priest says: “having in remembrance His blessed passion and precious death, His mighty resurrection and glorious ascension…” Remembrances are being made. But there are some more than interesting things to consider about these “remembrances.” They point to the coming Three Days and why these Great Days matter to you and me.
In Greek, the word we translate as “remembrance” is ANAMNESIS. It was an old word before the writers of the New Testament used it. If you look at the word a minute, you’ll see a word you already know: AMNESIA—and that helps a bit to understand the word. Amnesia is to lose memory. It’s not forgetting where you put your keys, but losing something for good. “Anamnesia”—anamnesis—is to regain the memory which was lost. Plato used it that way repeatedly. In Plato’s theory, anamnesis described the process whereby something which had been lost (in his case, "knowledge,") is restored. The translators of the Greek Old Testament, the Septuagint, developed the word a bit further, giving it a specialized meaning. They used the word to describe the “memorial sacrifice” offered by the Priests and Levites in the Temple. When the four Gospel-writers recorded Jesus’ words at the Last Supper, they each chose this word; for them, it had a special meaning.
When you and I “remember” something, we're performing a mental exercise. We “stop and think.” What was that fellow’s name? Why did I come into this room? Sometimes, we sit and “remember” with friends. We think back to things we share. Common memories strengthen common bonds. Is that what we’re doing at Mass? Are we collectively “remembering” Jesus? Is He present with us because we call Him to mind? If we remember harder or better is He more present? Did we lose Him (amnesis) and, by remembering, find Him again (anamnesis)?
When Jesus gave His disciples the Bread no longer bread and the cup now filled with His Blood, He obviously didn’t add, “Do this and please, try hard to remember Me.” His words mean something else. We are indeed remembering, but much more importantly, so is Someone Else.
I love the subtle differences between the Eastern Churches and our own. One I find most intriguing is their “remembering.” We pray, “having in remembrance His blessed Passion and precious Death, His mighty Resurrection and glorious Ascension, …” At the same place in the Eastern Mass the priest prays: “Remembering… all that came to pass for our sake, the Cross, the Tomb, the Resurrection on the third day, the Ascension into heaven, the Enthronement at the right hand of the Father, and the second, glorious Coming, we offer unto Thee these Gifts…” They “remember” something that hasn’t yet happened! The Liturgy sees “the second, glorious coming” of our Lord, an event in the future, as part of that which “came to pass for our sake.” How is this? The answer hinges on who’s doing the remembering.
The most important “rememberer” at the Mass isn’t the priest (or even the deacon, who usually remembers a lot of things for the priest!) but God. The Mass doesn’t depend on how well we remember, but on God, Who never forgets. In Him, the past, present and future are one. The Mass isn’t a memory device for forgetful Christians, but the way God lifts us to Himself. In God, Christ’s Christmas Incarnation, His Good Friday Sacrifice, His Easter Day Resurrection, His Glorious Ascension and Second Coming are all one. Christ, the eternal Son, is forever offering Himself to His Father. This has been His gift—His eternal Self-Giving—since before creation. On earth, full of selfishness and all its attendant sorrows, this Self-Giving of the Son took the form of death on the Cross. The Body broken on Golgotha is the Body now in Heaven, and present with us in the Sacrament of the Altar: each a sacrifice of Self-Giving Love. This is what God, the Three-in-One, “remembers” with us at Mass.
During these coming Three Days, He draws us into His “remembering” by making us participants. At the Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Thursday, we don’t just recall the disciples at the Lord’s Table. We ARE the disciples with Him at His Table. When we venerate His Cross during the Friday Liturgy, we are with Him on Golgotha. Saturday night, as the New Fire is struck and the Paschal Proclamation is sung, the Night illumined with candles is unlike any other night—for Christ is Risen, and so are we.
These are our High Days, Days of Remembrance. Yes, we remember the mighty acts that brought about our salvation. But it’s God’s Remembrance, always present with us to create, redeem, and sanctify, that IS the Feast.
God bless each of you with His Grace through these Three Days. May He lift us to Himself during these holy days and “remember” us at the coming Paschal Feast—the one that will never end.
“This is My body, which is given for you,” the Lord Jesus said to His disciples on the night in which He was betrayed. “Do this in remembrance of Me. Likewise, after supper He took the cup…” He commanded His disciples then as He commands His disciples now: “Do this in remembrance of Me.” As the Prayer of Consecration continues during the Mass, the priest says: “having in remembrance His blessed passion and precious death, His mighty resurrection and glorious ascension…” Remembrances are being made. But there are some more than interesting things to consider about these “remembrances.” They point to the coming Three Days and why these Great Days matter to you and me.
In Greek, the word we translate as “remembrance” is ANAMNESIS. It was an old word before the writers of the New Testament used it. If you look at the word a minute, you’ll see a word you already know: AMNESIA—and that helps a bit to understand the word. Amnesia is to lose memory. It’s not forgetting where you put your keys, but losing something for good. “Anamnesia”—anamnesis—is to regain the memory which was lost. Plato used it that way repeatedly. In Plato’s theory, anamnesis described the process whereby something which had been lost (in his case, "knowledge,") is restored. The translators of the Greek Old Testament, the Septuagint, developed the word a bit further, giving it a specialized meaning. They used the word to describe the “memorial sacrifice” offered by the Priests and Levites in the Temple. When the four Gospel-writers recorded Jesus’ words at the Last Supper, they each chose this word; for them, it had a special meaning.
When you and I “remember” something, we're performing a mental exercise. We “stop and think.” What was that fellow’s name? Why did I come into this room? Sometimes, we sit and “remember” with friends. We think back to things we share. Common memories strengthen common bonds. Is that what we’re doing at Mass? Are we collectively “remembering” Jesus? Is He present with us because we call Him to mind? If we remember harder or better is He more present? Did we lose Him (amnesis) and, by remembering, find Him again (anamnesis)?
When Jesus gave His disciples the Bread no longer bread and the cup now filled with His Blood, He obviously didn’t add, “Do this and please, try hard to remember Me.” His words mean something else. We are indeed remembering, but much more importantly, so is Someone Else.
I love the subtle differences between the Eastern Churches and our own. One I find most intriguing is their “remembering.” We pray, “having in remembrance His blessed Passion and precious Death, His mighty Resurrection and glorious Ascension, …” At the same place in the Eastern Mass the priest prays: “Remembering… all that came to pass for our sake, the Cross, the Tomb, the Resurrection on the third day, the Ascension into heaven, the Enthronement at the right hand of the Father, and the second, glorious Coming, we offer unto Thee these Gifts…” They “remember” something that hasn’t yet happened! The Liturgy sees “the second, glorious coming” of our Lord, an event in the future, as part of that which “came to pass for our sake.” How is this? The answer hinges on who’s doing the remembering.
The most important “rememberer” at the Mass isn’t the priest (or even the deacon, who usually remembers a lot of things for the priest!) but God. The Mass doesn’t depend on how well we remember, but on God, Who never forgets. In Him, the past, present and future are one. The Mass isn’t a memory device for forgetful Christians, but the way God lifts us to Himself. In God, Christ’s Christmas Incarnation, His Good Friday Sacrifice, His Easter Day Resurrection, His Glorious Ascension and Second Coming are all one. Christ, the eternal Son, is forever offering Himself to His Father. This has been His gift—His eternal Self-Giving—since before creation. On earth, full of selfishness and all its attendant sorrows, this Self-Giving of the Son took the form of death on the Cross. The Body broken on Golgotha is the Body now in Heaven, and present with us in the Sacrament of the Altar: each a sacrifice of Self-Giving Love. This is what God, the Three-in-One, “remembers” with us at Mass.
During these coming Three Days, He draws us into His “remembering” by making us participants. At the Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Thursday, we don’t just recall the disciples at the Lord’s Table. We ARE the disciples with Him at His Table. When we venerate His Cross during the Friday Liturgy, we are with Him on Golgotha. Saturday night, as the New Fire is struck and the Paschal Proclamation is sung, the Night illumined with candles is unlike any other night—for Christ is Risen, and so are we.
These are our High Days, Days of Remembrance. Yes, we remember the mighty acts that brought about our salvation. But it’s God’s Remembrance, always present with us to create, redeem, and sanctify, that IS the Feast.
God bless each of you with His Grace through these Three Days. May He lift us to Himself during these holy days and “remember” us at the coming Paschal Feast—the one that will never end.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Passiontide & Holy Week
The last two weeks of Lent, from Passion Sunday (the Fifth Sunday in Lent) until Holy Saturday (the day before Easter), are called Passiontide. The second week of Passiontide, called Holy Week, includes some of the principal days of the Church Year: Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and the Vigil of Easter (Easter Even). The three main days of Holy Week, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday often go by their ancient Latin title, the Triduum Sacrum (the Three Holy Days).
From New Testament times, Christians specially observed Easter. While every Sunday recalled the Lord’s Resurrection, by the end of the first century, Christians also kept a spring-time Easter feast, near the date of the Jewish Passover. A few centuries after the birth of Christ, Christians began traveling to Jerusalem from across the Mediterranean world to re-live the Lord’s last few days on the spot. Many of the ceremonies associated with Holy Week have their origins in the worship of the churches in Jerusalem during those early days of pilgrimage.
The Lenten color used in most churches today on vestments and hangings is purple. But in medieval English churches—and still today in quite a few churches in England—the Altars and churches are hung in what is called “the Lenten Array,” unbleached linen with decorations (often the “symbols of the Passion”) colored with blacks, reds and dark oxblood. It’s customary for the weeks of Passiontide to veil all the crosses, holy pictures and statues within the church. In medieval England, these veils were placed not just during Passiontide, but for the whole of Lent. Another custom, almost completely vanished except from all but a handful of English churches, is the Lenten sanctuary veil. This practice entails the hanging of a giant veil at the Altar rail, separating the sanctuary from the nave (the main body of the church, were the people are during Mass). Where a sanctuary veil is used, it’s parted during Mass just enough to let the congregation see the Altar.
The services of Holy Week include the blessing and procession of palms on Palm Sunday. The Passion Gospel is chanted at Mass; when it is read, the clergy and people take the various “parts.” The Mass of Maundy Thursday celebrates the Lord’s institution of the Eucharist. After the Mass is concluded, it’s customary for the priest to wash the feet of his parishioners; then, the Altar and appointments of the church are all stripped while Psalm 22 (“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”) is chanted and all leave the church in silence. On Good Friday, special readings and collects precede the unveiling and veneration of the Cross. Ancient practice forbids the celebration of the Mass from Maundy Thursday until the first Mass of Easter. The Holy Saturday services begin in the evening, with the blessing of the New Fire, the blessing of the Paschal candle, the Paschal Procession and the singing of the Exultet, an ancient Easter Proclamation.
Pope St Leo the Great, in a sermon he preached in AD 457, said, “We not only know about the reconciliation of the world wrought by the Son of God by hearing of these past events, but through the power and work of God, we ourselves experience these things through the mystery of the Liturgy and Sacraments.” For us, these services are not remembrances of the past, but the Saving Acts of God present with us now.
The services of Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday are some of the most ancient and beautiful of the Liturgy. They will all be celebrated at St Joseph’s this Passiontide. They are the perfect prelude to the grand festivities of Easter Day. I hope you will join in as much as you can.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
From New Testament times, Christians specially observed Easter. While every Sunday recalled the Lord’s Resurrection, by the end of the first century, Christians also kept a spring-time Easter feast, near the date of the Jewish Passover. A few centuries after the birth of Christ, Christians began traveling to Jerusalem from across the Mediterranean world to re-live the Lord’s last few days on the spot. Many of the ceremonies associated with Holy Week have their origins in the worship of the churches in Jerusalem during those early days of pilgrimage.
The Lenten color used in most churches today on vestments and hangings is purple. But in medieval English churches—and still today in quite a few churches in England—the Altars and churches are hung in what is called “the Lenten Array,” unbleached linen with decorations (often the “symbols of the Passion”) colored with blacks, reds and dark oxblood. It’s customary for the weeks of Passiontide to veil all the crosses, holy pictures and statues within the church. In medieval England, these veils were placed not just during Passiontide, but for the whole of Lent. Another custom, almost completely vanished except from all but a handful of English churches, is the Lenten sanctuary veil. This practice entails the hanging of a giant veil at the Altar rail, separating the sanctuary from the nave (the main body of the church, were the people are during Mass). Where a sanctuary veil is used, it’s parted during Mass just enough to let the congregation see the Altar.
The services of Holy Week include the blessing and procession of palms on Palm Sunday. The Passion Gospel is chanted at Mass; when it is read, the clergy and people take the various “parts.” The Mass of Maundy Thursday celebrates the Lord’s institution of the Eucharist. After the Mass is concluded, it’s customary for the priest to wash the feet of his parishioners; then, the Altar and appointments of the church are all stripped while Psalm 22 (“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”) is chanted and all leave the church in silence. On Good Friday, special readings and collects precede the unveiling and veneration of the Cross. Ancient practice forbids the celebration of the Mass from Maundy Thursday until the first Mass of Easter. The Holy Saturday services begin in the evening, with the blessing of the New Fire, the blessing of the Paschal candle, the Paschal Procession and the singing of the Exultet, an ancient Easter Proclamation.
Pope St Leo the Great, in a sermon he preached in AD 457, said, “We not only know about the reconciliation of the world wrought by the Son of God by hearing of these past events, but through the power and work of God, we ourselves experience these things through the mystery of the Liturgy and Sacraments.” For us, these services are not remembrances of the past, but the Saving Acts of God present with us now.
The services of Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday are some of the most ancient and beautiful of the Liturgy. They will all be celebrated at St Joseph’s this Passiontide. They are the perfect prelude to the grand festivities of Easter Day. I hope you will join in as much as you can.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Refreshment Sunday
The Fourth Sunday in Lent has for centuries been commonly called “Refreshment Sunday.” It marks the mid-point of Lent. In many churches the vestments and altar hangings change from purple to a rose color, marking the day as a mild break from the rigors of the season.
The name also derives from the Gospel for this Sunday, which tells the story of the Lord Jesus miraculously refreshing the hungry multitude that followed Him, from a basket containing five loaves of bread and two small fish. “What do they amount to for so many people?” His disciples groused. The Lord took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to His disciples to distribute. The five loaves and two fish satisfied the hunger of 5000 people.
Since the earliest times, Christians have taken this miraculous feeding as a type of the Holy Eucharist. Faded pictures on the walls of the Catacombs in Rome, eighteen hundred years old, depict the basket of five loaves and two fish near early Christian Altars. This association continues today as Refreshment Sunday calls to mind the gift of Christ, Who gives Himself to us in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar.
Every Sunday for almost 2000 years, Christians have gathered to offer this “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving,” as Christ Himself commanded us to do. Why is it so important?
In the Eucharist, the Lord Jesus Himself comes to be with us. “The same One Who came down to Blessed Mary, and was born in Bethlehem, comes to us on the Altar,” says St Bernard, “as our Savior and Food.” He comes to be with us and feed us on Himself. We bow and kneel in His Presence with us at the Altar just as any of us would bow and kneel before Him if He were to walk into the room.
He comes, St Bernard remarks, as our “Food.” By eating His flesh and drinking His blood, He gives Himself to us. His life becomes ours. The Catechism teaches us the sacrament is “an outward, visible sign of an inward spiritual Grace.” Grace isn’t stuff. We can’t bottle it or put it somewhere. Grace is God’s presence and power among us.
In the Eucharist, during Holy Communion, you and I eat and drink Grace, “that He may dwell in us, and we in Him.”
What could be more refreshing-more satisfying-to the hearts of His faithful people?—Fr Gregory Wilcox
OUR HOLY WEEK SERVICES ARE LISTED AT THE BOTTOM OF OUR "WEEKLY SCHEDULE" PAGE
The name also derives from the Gospel for this Sunday, which tells the story of the Lord Jesus miraculously refreshing the hungry multitude that followed Him, from a basket containing five loaves of bread and two small fish. “What do they amount to for so many people?” His disciples groused. The Lord took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to His disciples to distribute. The five loaves and two fish satisfied the hunger of 5000 people.
Since the earliest times, Christians have taken this miraculous feeding as a type of the Holy Eucharist. Faded pictures on the walls of the Catacombs in Rome, eighteen hundred years old, depict the basket of five loaves and two fish near early Christian Altars. This association continues today as Refreshment Sunday calls to mind the gift of Christ, Who gives Himself to us in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar.
Every Sunday for almost 2000 years, Christians have gathered to offer this “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving,” as Christ Himself commanded us to do. Why is it so important?
In the Eucharist, the Lord Jesus Himself comes to be with us. “The same One Who came down to Blessed Mary, and was born in Bethlehem, comes to us on the Altar,” says St Bernard, “as our Savior and Food.” He comes to be with us and feed us on Himself. We bow and kneel in His Presence with us at the Altar just as any of us would bow and kneel before Him if He were to walk into the room.
He comes, St Bernard remarks, as our “Food.” By eating His flesh and drinking His blood, He gives Himself to us. His life becomes ours. The Catechism teaches us the sacrament is “an outward, visible sign of an inward spiritual Grace.” Grace isn’t stuff. We can’t bottle it or put it somewhere. Grace is God’s presence and power among us.
In the Eucharist, during Holy Communion, you and I eat and drink Grace, “that He may dwell in us, and we in Him.”
What could be more refreshing-more satisfying-to the hearts of His faithful people?—Fr Gregory Wilcox
OUR HOLY WEEK SERVICES ARE LISTED AT THE BOTTOM OF OUR "WEEKLY SCHEDULE" PAGE
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Praying through Lent
"Discipline" carries unpleasant connotations. When we say somebody was “disciplined,” it usually means somebody did something to them we wouldn’t want done to us. When I was a boy, “disciplined” and “punished” meant the same thing; it bespoke the strap, the paddle or being sent to bed without supper.
So when we talk about the Lenten disciplines of Fasting, Prayer and Almsgiving, we start out with a few strikes already. It’s worth noting, though, that the word “discipline” is related to the word “disciple” (or, “disciples,” as in “The Twelve”).
If we can lay aside the notion—at least for a few minutes—that “getting disciplined” and “getting whipped” mean the same thing, and focus briefly on the relationship between “discipline” and “disciple,” a more profound meaning emerges. The traditional Lenten disciplines aren’t punishments for our sins, but ways we train ourselves; they’re the sprinting and deep-knee bends and bench-presses of the spiritual life.
St John of Damascus says “Prayer is the lifting of the heart and mind to God.” It is a way of continual fellowship—friendship—with God, Who has made us for Himself. We’ve been created to enjoy this “friendship with God,” as St Thomas Aquinas says, from now till world without end.
If it’s supposed to be all that, why is it listed as one of the Lenten disciplines? How is “prayer” different in Lent than at any other time?
The short answer is, it’s not. But Lent is a time of “training.” If prayer, fasting and almsgiving are the “exercises” of Lent, Lent itself is our spiritual “two-a-days”: a season of the spirit, a time we specially devote to prayer.
The Common Prayer Book provides a special daily collect for Lent. It’s on page 124. Eastern Orthodox Christians have a daily prayer they recite during Lent, the beautiful Prayer of St Ephrem the Syrian. The season provides us special devotions, like the Stations of the Cross, but Lenten prayer means more than that. These special prayers and devotions help focus us on the penitential character of Lent. But the real emphasis of Lenten prayer is prayer itself, not special prayers for the time of year.
To “lift the heart and mind to God,” doesn’t just mean to engage in what teachers of prayer call “colloquial” or “conversational” prayer. Such prayer is good, but it doesn’t so much to “lift the heart and mind to God” as much as to bring God into the daily activities of our lives. The short book, The Practice of the Presence of God, by the French 17th century kitchen-monk Brother Lawrence, is the best thing yet written about “colloquial” prayer. Lawrence shows how such a conversation becomes a high prayer, transcending what most of us know as “conversational prayer.”
To lift “the heart and mind to God” is to put yourself, your time, your emotions and thoughts, at God’s disposal. It requires time, which most of us think we don’t have much of. There is money to be made, families to be cared for, places to go, people to see, television to watch.
In the old John Wayne movie The Alamo, one of the characters asks Davy Crockett if he ever prays. Crockett bitterly answers “I never found the time,” implying he’s always had more pressing things to do.
If our prayer is to lift the heart and mind, it takes the time. Not just now and then, but the regular gift to God of yourself, your energy, your time. In other words, it requires discipline. An excellent book to help with this is on this site, under the tab "Readings for the Spiritual Life." Tito Colliander's book is available in weekly, digestible chunks.
Praying through Lent means making the time, offering the Lord all you are. He’s already given you all He Is.
So when we talk about the Lenten disciplines of Fasting, Prayer and Almsgiving, we start out with a few strikes already. It’s worth noting, though, that the word “discipline” is related to the word “disciple” (or, “disciples,” as in “The Twelve”).
If we can lay aside the notion—at least for a few minutes—that “getting disciplined” and “getting whipped” mean the same thing, and focus briefly on the relationship between “discipline” and “disciple,” a more profound meaning emerges. The traditional Lenten disciplines aren’t punishments for our sins, but ways we train ourselves; they’re the sprinting and deep-knee bends and bench-presses of the spiritual life.
St John of Damascus says “Prayer is the lifting of the heart and mind to God.” It is a way of continual fellowship—friendship—with God, Who has made us for Himself. We’ve been created to enjoy this “friendship with God,” as St Thomas Aquinas says, from now till world without end.
If it’s supposed to be all that, why is it listed as one of the Lenten disciplines? How is “prayer” different in Lent than at any other time?
The short answer is, it’s not. But Lent is a time of “training.” If prayer, fasting and almsgiving are the “exercises” of Lent, Lent itself is our spiritual “two-a-days”: a season of the spirit, a time we specially devote to prayer.
The Common Prayer Book provides a special daily collect for Lent. It’s on page 124. Eastern Orthodox Christians have a daily prayer they recite during Lent, the beautiful Prayer of St Ephrem the Syrian. The season provides us special devotions, like the Stations of the Cross, but Lenten prayer means more than that. These special prayers and devotions help focus us on the penitential character of Lent. But the real emphasis of Lenten prayer is prayer itself, not special prayers for the time of year.
To “lift the heart and mind to God,” doesn’t just mean to engage in what teachers of prayer call “colloquial” or “conversational” prayer. Such prayer is good, but it doesn’t so much to “lift the heart and mind to God” as much as to bring God into the daily activities of our lives. The short book, The Practice of the Presence of God, by the French 17th century kitchen-monk Brother Lawrence, is the best thing yet written about “colloquial” prayer. Lawrence shows how such a conversation becomes a high prayer, transcending what most of us know as “conversational prayer.”
To lift “the heart and mind to God” is to put yourself, your time, your emotions and thoughts, at God’s disposal. It requires time, which most of us think we don’t have much of. There is money to be made, families to be cared for, places to go, people to see, television to watch.
In the old John Wayne movie The Alamo, one of the characters asks Davy Crockett if he ever prays. Crockett bitterly answers “I never found the time,” implying he’s always had more pressing things to do.
If our prayer is to lift the heart and mind, it takes the time. Not just now and then, but the regular gift to God of yourself, your energy, your time. In other words, it requires discipline. An excellent book to help with this is on this site, under the tab "Readings for the Spiritual Life." Tito Colliander's book is available in weekly, digestible chunks.
Praying through Lent means making the time, offering the Lord all you are. He’s already given you all He Is.
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