I’ve been gone from Texas for a long time—and in thirty years one forgets some things. I forgot the heat. My cool, breezy home on the California beach, like the mythical sirens that seduced Odysseus’ men, erased from my memories of Texas a fact living here won’t let you forget—it’s hot as the hinges of hell in the summer. And like those hinges, the heat is unremitting: day and night, rain and wind notwithstanding. Siestas aren’t options for a lazy afternoon. Here, they’re a necessary tool for survival.
“To everything there is a season,” writes the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, “and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Summer in this part of the world is a time for us to slow down. The constant heat is an ever-present reality, ignored only to our peril. When I was a Boy Scout, I spent many a summer in a camp outside Wimberly, with a few hundred other excited boys. One of my memories is assembling every morning for prayers and the Pledge of Allegiance (are they still allowed to do that?). And every morning we’d have a casualty or two—one of us would literally collapse to the ground of heatstroke.
We’re sacramental creatures. God made all of us that way. That means what affects our bodies also affects our souls, our spirits; equally, what affects our spirits affects our bodies. The heat of summer has a spiritual impact (just look at how many people are “too tuckered” to come to Mass in the morning but manage to make it to a Sunday afternoon barbeque!).
Most churches here cut back their programs during the summer. I understand why. At St Joseph’s, I’ve bowed—albeit reluctantly—to common sense and we’ve cut back some weekday activities for the summer.
“To everything there is a season.” For us, as sacramental beings, that means every season has its time and purpose. Spring, with its rebirth, is particularly in evidence where I live: the brown fields burst green; the long row of trees that line both sides of the road from my gate within a few weeks provide a shaded canopy of sheer delight. Fall’s cooling breezes and soft evenings, winter’s cold chill that drives us inside to find the warmth of human companionship. “To everything there is a season.”
So what about the sizzle of summer?
Here’s my suggestion: find a good book, a comfortable chair and an afternoon fan. Take a spiritual siesta. We need to refresh and nourish both body and soul. We nourish our souls when we feed on the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar. How about taking a few afternoons during the summer to refresh our minds and hearts too?
We call it “spiritual reading.” Find a good book—there are many great Christian classics written on the spiritual life, from the Confessions of St Augustine to the novels of C S Lewis. Choose a book of the Bible—say, one of the Gospels or the Book of Genesis. You might be surprised at what you find. Or, if you want a book to lull you into a summer’s nap, open the Book of Leviticus! Any of our parish clergy would be happy to make a suggestion—no doubt each of us has his favorite. Every week on this site, I post a chapter from one of mine—Tito Colliander’s work on the spiritual life.
A small little book, like The Practice of the Presence of God, by Brother Lawrence, with its short, pithy selections or something a bit longer—St Teresa of Avila’s Way of Perfection (not as terrifying as it sounds—she originally wrote it for young women just entering a convent to explain some of the bald facts of living as a Christian with other people)—find something which suits you, something which will turn your mind, three or four times a week for ten or fifteen minutes, to those things which are eternal, which will outlast the summer’s heat! –Fr Gregory Wilcox
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Trinitytide
Whitsunday, which we celebrated a few weeks ago, brings to an end the first half of the Church Year, which began with Advent last November. From now till this coming November (with the promise of a long, hot summer in between) we are in the second half of the Church’s year, called Trinitytide.
Unlike the first half of our year, which focuses on the birth, life, death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, Trinitytide simply counts the Sundays from the Feast of the Holy Trinity till the next Advent. In some ancient Church calendars—and in some modern ones—these Sundays were just called “Sundays of the Ordinary Year.” Some modern church calendars mark these Sundays from Trinity to Advent as “Sundays after Pentecost.” Whatever we call them, it’s the longest time on the Church’s calendar.
The liturgical color of Trinitytide is green; the color of growth.
At St Joseph’s, there is growing work to be done this season. We have an Altar Guild to establish, a choir to grow, and, hopefully, new parishioners to bring in. I will be working on re-constructing parish rolls and a parish register. That will enable me to visit your homes and get to know you a bit better as I try to establish the “ecclesiastical status” of those of you attending St Joseph’s.
The Parish Register is the official record of the parish. It tells who our members are, who was baptized, confirmed, married, and died here. It’s an essential record of the life of St Joseph’s.
It’s missing and nobody seems to know where it is. So I’ve got to put together a new one, and it will take time—research, digging through parish documents, asking questions, getting help from you. It will be a task, but one I’m looking forward to, as it will enable me to get to know each of you a bit better.
I’ve asked Bruce Boyer—and am happy to say he’s agreed—to put together an official history of St Joseph’s. This will be good for us to have, and invaluable to me in working on the register. Reconstructing the register and producing a history of the parish will help us as we look to the future of St Joseph’s. More than most, Anglicans understand that our future is embedded in our past. This Trinitytide season of 2011 will be a time of re-learning something of our roots, that come the new Church Year, we’ll be ready for a fresh set of challenges—which the Lord, without doubt, will send our way.
This Trinitytide will be a green time for us—a time of quiet growth for St Joseph’s. Next week, a few notes and suggestions as to making it a time of quiet growth for each of us spiritually, too.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
Unlike the first half of our year, which focuses on the birth, life, death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, Trinitytide simply counts the Sundays from the Feast of the Holy Trinity till the next Advent. In some ancient Church calendars—and in some modern ones—these Sundays were just called “Sundays of the Ordinary Year.” Some modern church calendars mark these Sundays from Trinity to Advent as “Sundays after Pentecost.” Whatever we call them, it’s the longest time on the Church’s calendar.
The liturgical color of Trinitytide is green; the color of growth.
At St Joseph’s, there is growing work to be done this season. We have an Altar Guild to establish, a choir to grow, and, hopefully, new parishioners to bring in. I will be working on re-constructing parish rolls and a parish register. That will enable me to visit your homes and get to know you a bit better as I try to establish the “ecclesiastical status” of those of you attending St Joseph’s.
The Parish Register is the official record of the parish. It tells who our members are, who was baptized, confirmed, married, and died here. It’s an essential record of the life of St Joseph’s.
It’s missing and nobody seems to know where it is. So I’ve got to put together a new one, and it will take time—research, digging through parish documents, asking questions, getting help from you. It will be a task, but one I’m looking forward to, as it will enable me to get to know each of you a bit better.
I’ve asked Bruce Boyer—and am happy to say he’s agreed—to put together an official history of St Joseph’s. This will be good for us to have, and invaluable to me in working on the register. Reconstructing the register and producing a history of the parish will help us as we look to the future of St Joseph’s. More than most, Anglicans understand that our future is embedded in our past. This Trinitytide season of 2011 will be a time of re-learning something of our roots, that come the new Church Year, we’ll be ready for a fresh set of challenges—which the Lord, without doubt, will send our way.
This Trinitytide will be a green time for us—a time of quiet growth for St Joseph’s. Next week, a few notes and suggestions as to making it a time of quiet growth for each of us spiritually, too.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Athanasian Creed
You know the Apostles’ Creed. We say it every day at Morning and Evening Prayer. You know the Nicene Creed. We say it every Sunday and Holy Day at Mass. But do you know the Athanasian Creed? It has been in every Book of Common Prayer, except that of the Episcopal Church, since there have been Books of Common Prayer, since the first one, published in 1549.
The Athanasian Creed is part of our heritage as Anglicans. The English Book of Common Prayer requires that it be recited on thirteen different Holy Days throughout the year, most especially on Trinity Sunday, as the Creed so much emphasizes the dogma of the Holy Trinity.
It’s long. The Quincunque Vult (to use its Latin title from the Prayer Book), is more than twice as long as the Nicene Creed. Its phrases recite a detailed description of the Church’s belief about the Holy Trinity, insisting on the equal divinity of each Person of the Trinity while at the same time describing the differences between the Persons.
In discussing the equal divinity of the Persons, for example, the Creed says: “there is one Person of the Father, another of the Son, and another of the Holy Ghost. But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory equal, the Majesty co-eternal. Such as the Father is, such is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost.”
On the other hand, regarding the distinctions between the Persons, it reads: “The Father is made of none, neither created, nor begotten. The Son is of the Father alone, not made, nor created, but begotten. The Holy Ghost is of the Father and of the Son, neither made, nor created, nor begotten, but proceeding.”
It’s not meant to be simple, but thorough.
The Creed is named after the renowned Archbishop of Alexandria, St Athanasius the Great. He was one of the driving forces behind the Council of Nicaea which met in AD 325, the Council which produced our Nicene Creed. St Athanasius didn’t write the creed which bears his name—it was produced two hundred years after his death, to combat anti-Trinitarian heresies lingering in Spain—but the creed was called after him because it forcefully (and, yes, lengthily) teaches the faith for which St Athanasius fought.
So this Sunday at Mass, we’ll proclaim the Athanasian faith of the One Church using the words of the Athanasian Creed. I can’t promise you’ll understand the Trinity any better after you’ve said the Creed than you did before saying it, but I can assure you you’ll think about it more than you have in a month of Sundays saying the Creed of Nicaea.
The Athanasian Creed is part of our heritage as Anglicans. The English Book of Common Prayer requires that it be recited on thirteen different Holy Days throughout the year, most especially on Trinity Sunday, as the Creed so much emphasizes the dogma of the Holy Trinity.
It’s long. The Quincunque Vult (to use its Latin title from the Prayer Book), is more than twice as long as the Nicene Creed. Its phrases recite a detailed description of the Church’s belief about the Holy Trinity, insisting on the equal divinity of each Person of the Trinity while at the same time describing the differences between the Persons.
In discussing the equal divinity of the Persons, for example, the Creed says: “there is one Person of the Father, another of the Son, and another of the Holy Ghost. But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory equal, the Majesty co-eternal. Such as the Father is, such is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost.”
On the other hand, regarding the distinctions between the Persons, it reads: “The Father is made of none, neither created, nor begotten. The Son is of the Father alone, not made, nor created, but begotten. The Holy Ghost is of the Father and of the Son, neither made, nor created, nor begotten, but proceeding.”
It’s not meant to be simple, but thorough.
The Creed is named after the renowned Archbishop of Alexandria, St Athanasius the Great. He was one of the driving forces behind the Council of Nicaea which met in AD 325, the Council which produced our Nicene Creed. St Athanasius didn’t write the creed which bears his name—it was produced two hundred years after his death, to combat anti-Trinitarian heresies lingering in Spain—but the creed was called after him because it forcefully (and, yes, lengthily) teaches the faith for which St Athanasius fought.
So this Sunday at Mass, we’ll proclaim the Athanasian faith of the One Church using the words of the Athanasian Creed. I can’t promise you’ll understand the Trinity any better after you’ve said the Creed than you did before saying it, but I can assure you you’ll think about it more than you have in a month of Sundays saying the Creed of Nicaea.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Member of Christ
The Prayer Book tells us when we were baptized we became “a member of Christ.” As we noted last week, unus Christianus, nullus Christianus. “One Christian is no Christian.” We cannot be Christians by ourselves.
In the beginning, God said “It is not good for man to be alone.” He followed His observation by creating Eve to be with Adam, and so laid the foundation—not only for the family, but for society as well.
The Church is God’s bringing together—from the scattered and contentious race of man—a Family “of all nations and kindred and peoples and tongues” of His own. From its beginning, the Church understood God drew its members together “for our salvation and that of the whole world.” “We are His family and the sheep of His pasture.”
Families are both wonderful and exasperating, made up of people sometimes loving and sometimes loathing each other. Many of the closest bonds we form on earth are with family members, and oft-times, the greatest tensions and trials of our lives come from members of our family. When the Church is likened to a family, it’s not meant to be a perennially pleasant comparison. The comparison tells us something about God and each other (and maybe ourselves, too).
We are part of each other. “No man is an island,” John Donne reminds us. Your cousin may be delightfully witty and your nephew deadly dull. They remain related regardless. The man who occupies the pew in front of you may have a bad singing voice or a ill-fitting toupee; the pretty woman in the choir may draw admiring glances from the men and disapproving glares from the ladies, but each—the unknowing toupee-man, the attractive soprano, the admiring men and disapproving women—all are “members of Christ,” the “family for which our Lord Jesus Christ was contented to be betrayed, and given up into the hands of wicked men, and to suffer death upon the cross,” as one of the Collects for Good Friday reads.
God puts up with us, and He expects us to put up with each other. He loves us, and He expects us to love each other.
This is why we have parishes. Places where Christ’s members, His family, come together to worship Him, receive the Sacraments, intercede for the fallen world, and learn how to love each other, even if we don’t always like each other (and sometimes, of course, our best friends may be in the neighboring pew).
It’s no accident that you belong to the parish you belong to—God brought you there, to do—and to be—something. In your parish, as in your family, God is “working out your salvation.” It’s not always easy, it’s sometimes challenging, and it’s often fun and happy and exhilarating. God has made you His own in baptism and plopped you down in a parish to figure out what that means. So jump in with both feet and figure it out. The answer has eternal implications! -Fr Gregory Wilcox
In the beginning, God said “It is not good for man to be alone.” He followed His observation by creating Eve to be with Adam, and so laid the foundation—not only for the family, but for society as well.
The Church is God’s bringing together—from the scattered and contentious race of man—a Family “of all nations and kindred and peoples and tongues” of His own. From its beginning, the Church understood God drew its members together “for our salvation and that of the whole world.” “We are His family and the sheep of His pasture.”
Families are both wonderful and exasperating, made up of people sometimes loving and sometimes loathing each other. Many of the closest bonds we form on earth are with family members, and oft-times, the greatest tensions and trials of our lives come from members of our family. When the Church is likened to a family, it’s not meant to be a perennially pleasant comparison. The comparison tells us something about God and each other (and maybe ourselves, too).
We are part of each other. “No man is an island,” John Donne reminds us. Your cousin may be delightfully witty and your nephew deadly dull. They remain related regardless. The man who occupies the pew in front of you may have a bad singing voice or a ill-fitting toupee; the pretty woman in the choir may draw admiring glances from the men and disapproving glares from the ladies, but each—the unknowing toupee-man, the attractive soprano, the admiring men and disapproving women—all are “members of Christ,” the “family for which our Lord Jesus Christ was contented to be betrayed, and given up into the hands of wicked men, and to suffer death upon the cross,” as one of the Collects for Good Friday reads.
God puts up with us, and He expects us to put up with each other. He loves us, and He expects us to love each other.
This is why we have parishes. Places where Christ’s members, His family, come together to worship Him, receive the Sacraments, intercede for the fallen world, and learn how to love each other, even if we don’t always like each other (and sometimes, of course, our best friends may be in the neighboring pew).
It’s no accident that you belong to the parish you belong to—God brought you there, to do—and to be—something. In your parish, as in your family, God is “working out your salvation.” It’s not always easy, it’s sometimes challenging, and it’s often fun and happy and exhilarating. God has made you His own in baptism and plopped you down in a parish to figure out what that means. So jump in with both feet and figure it out. The answer has eternal implications! -Fr Gregory Wilcox
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Unus Christianus, nullus Christianus
The Prayer Book Catechism is straightforward in its teaching: “…in baptism, I was made a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.”
We did not, the Prayer Book says, become Christians when we “accepted Christ as our personal Savior.” We didn’t become Christians “the hour we first believed,” or when we became convinced we were sinners. Those notions, so prevalent in modern Christianity, are foreign ones to the religion of the Prayer Book.
“In baptism I was made a member of Christ.”
That means you weren’t made a Christian when you decided to be one, but when God decided to make you one. Even if you were baptized as an adult and went through baptismal preparation, even if you chose the time and place of your baptism, nothing you could do would make you a Christian until the priest poured the waters of baptism over your head. Being a Christian is less a matter of believing than it’s a matter of being. God made you a Christian through the sacramental waters of baptism.
We can’t baptize ourselves. Somebody has to baptize us. That doesn’t sound profound, but it tells us something important—even essential—about the Christian religion. The Christians of the first few centuries had a saying quite at one with the Prayer Book: unus Christianus, nullus Christianus. “One Christian is no Christian.” You can’t be a Christian by yourself.
“In baptism I was made a member of Christ.”
If we are members of Christ, part of His body, the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, we are also members of each other. Fellow Christians don’t simply “go to the same church” we do—in the waters of baptism we are “born again” into the One Family of Faith.
If you have been baptized, you are a Christian. You may not live the life of a Christian, you may deny every article of Faith in the Creed. But you and I are Christians because it pleased God to make us Christians. Only He knows why. You may have been baptized because your parents wanted you to, or even because everybody else in your family is baptized and it’s just “what we do. We don’t really go to church all that much, but…” The reasons for your baptism don’t affect the reality of God’s sacramental act.
Baptism is the beginning of a Christian’s life. After the priest baptized you, he said to your Godparents and the others present: “Seeing now, dearly beloved brethren, that this Child is regenerate,” [that is to say, “born again”] and grafted into the body of Christ’s Church, let us give thanks unto Almighty God for these benefits; and with one accord make our prayers unto Him, that this Child may lead the rest of his life according to this beginning.”
Baptism isn’t magic, it doesn’t mean we are “going to Heaven,” but it does mean our footsteps are set on the path of the Lord Jesus, following Him where it pleases Him to lead us. We can always leave the path.
Baptism means God has made you His own in a special way, for a special reason. We are meant to “work out our salvation” with other Christians, as members one of another. And the parish church is essential to the “working out of our salvation.” There we receive the sacraments, offer to God the weekly sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, and have to “work out our salvation” with people we may not know very well and sometimes may not particularly care for! But “in baptism I was made a member of Christ.” Unus Christianus, nullus Christianus.-Fr Gregory Wilcox
We did not, the Prayer Book says, become Christians when we “accepted Christ as our personal Savior.” We didn’t become Christians “the hour we first believed,” or when we became convinced we were sinners. Those notions, so prevalent in modern Christianity, are foreign ones to the religion of the Prayer Book.
“In baptism I was made a member of Christ.”
That means you weren’t made a Christian when you decided to be one, but when God decided to make you one. Even if you were baptized as an adult and went through baptismal preparation, even if you chose the time and place of your baptism, nothing you could do would make you a Christian until the priest poured the waters of baptism over your head. Being a Christian is less a matter of believing than it’s a matter of being. God made you a Christian through the sacramental waters of baptism.
We can’t baptize ourselves. Somebody has to baptize us. That doesn’t sound profound, but it tells us something important—even essential—about the Christian religion. The Christians of the first few centuries had a saying quite at one with the Prayer Book: unus Christianus, nullus Christianus. “One Christian is no Christian.” You can’t be a Christian by yourself.
“In baptism I was made a member of Christ.”
If we are members of Christ, part of His body, the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, we are also members of each other. Fellow Christians don’t simply “go to the same church” we do—in the waters of baptism we are “born again” into the One Family of Faith.
If you have been baptized, you are a Christian. You may not live the life of a Christian, you may deny every article of Faith in the Creed. But you and I are Christians because it pleased God to make us Christians. Only He knows why. You may have been baptized because your parents wanted you to, or even because everybody else in your family is baptized and it’s just “what we do. We don’t really go to church all that much, but…” The reasons for your baptism don’t affect the reality of God’s sacramental act.
Baptism is the beginning of a Christian’s life. After the priest baptized you, he said to your Godparents and the others present: “Seeing now, dearly beloved brethren, that this Child is regenerate,” [that is to say, “born again”] and grafted into the body of Christ’s Church, let us give thanks unto Almighty God for these benefits; and with one accord make our prayers unto Him, that this Child may lead the rest of his life according to this beginning.”
Baptism isn’t magic, it doesn’t mean we are “going to Heaven,” but it does mean our footsteps are set on the path of the Lord Jesus, following Him where it pleases Him to lead us. We can always leave the path.
Baptism means God has made you His own in a special way, for a special reason. We are meant to “work out our salvation” with other Christians, as members one of another. And the parish church is essential to the “working out of our salvation.” There we receive the sacraments, offer to God the weekly sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, and have to “work out our salvation” with people we may not know very well and sometimes may not particularly care for! But “in baptism I was made a member of Christ.” Unus Christianus, nullus Christianus.-Fr Gregory Wilcox
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Feast of Feet
Ascension Day is this coming Thursday. It’s a Holy Day of Obligation, and we’ll have Mass for the feast, but it’s not one of the popular feast days; most Christians will spend Ascension Day not knowing it is Ascension Day.
But I love the feast, though it may seem to be for an odd reason. I first came to love Ascension Day because of the Holy Feet.
Since the Renaissance, most classic paintings of the Ascension of Christ show him seated on the clouds, surrounded with angels; all the Apostles are standing below, looking up at Him as He sits in splendor. El Greco, Rembrandt, Titian, Michelangelo—everybody who was anybody during the Renaissance painted the Ascension. Each one followed the same pattern.
But in the Middle Ages, that wasn’t so. They had a more earthy, palpable view of the Faith than those who came later. Medieval paintings and manuscript illuminations of the Ascension show the Apostles standing and looking up. But they don’t see a Levitating Jesus—or at least, not all of Him. The Apostles are shown looking at the bottom of the Lord Jesus’ feet. It’s all you can see, because the rest of Him is already taken up into the clouds.
I first loved it because I was a boy and I thought it was a lot more fun than all the stuffy, uninteresting depictions of the Ascension as an excuse for the Great Artists to showcase their talents. But I loved it because it seemed more real. If this really and truly happened, the Apostles would, at some time, have been standing their looking up at the soles of their Lord’s Holy Feet. I loved it then, not quite understanding why. I love it just as much now—because it’s so wonderfully sacramental.
God did become one of us. “Like us in all things,” St Paul reminds us, “excepting sin.” In one of his sermons preached on Christmas Day many hundred years ago, St Cyril of Alexandria poked at the same truth: “God wore diapers for our sake.”
The Lord Jesus’ feet stick out from the clouds on Ascension Day to tell us “it’s true! He did come. Really come like you and me. He’s been through the wringer, just like each of us goes through it—and He went back “to prepare a place for us.”
I love Ascension Day. I love it’s truth and I love its depiction. ‘Cause it means someday (deo volente) my feet, and yours, too, will be sticking out from the clouds.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
But I love the feast, though it may seem to be for an odd reason. I first came to love Ascension Day because of the Holy Feet.
Since the Renaissance, most classic paintings of the Ascension of Christ show him seated on the clouds, surrounded with angels; all the Apostles are standing below, looking up at Him as He sits in splendor. El Greco, Rembrandt, Titian, Michelangelo—everybody who was anybody during the Renaissance painted the Ascension. Each one followed the same pattern.
But in the Middle Ages, that wasn’t so. They had a more earthy, palpable view of the Faith than those who came later. Medieval paintings and manuscript illuminations of the Ascension show the Apostles standing and looking up. But they don’t see a Levitating Jesus—or at least, not all of Him. The Apostles are shown looking at the bottom of the Lord Jesus’ feet. It’s all you can see, because the rest of Him is already taken up into the clouds.
I first loved it because I was a boy and I thought it was a lot more fun than all the stuffy, uninteresting depictions of the Ascension as an excuse for the Great Artists to showcase their talents. But I loved it because it seemed more real. If this really and truly happened, the Apostles would, at some time, have been standing their looking up at the soles of their Lord’s Holy Feet. I loved it then, not quite understanding why. I love it just as much now—because it’s so wonderfully sacramental.
God did become one of us. “Like us in all things,” St Paul reminds us, “excepting sin.” In one of his sermons preached on Christmas Day many hundred years ago, St Cyril of Alexandria poked at the same truth: “God wore diapers for our sake.”
The Lord Jesus’ feet stick out from the clouds on Ascension Day to tell us “it’s true! He did come. Really come like you and me. He’s been through the wringer, just like each of us goes through it—and He went back “to prepare a place for us.”
I love Ascension Day. I love it’s truth and I love its depiction. ‘Cause it means someday (deo volente) my feet, and yours, too, will be sticking out from the clouds.—Fr Gregory Wilcox
Saturday, May 21, 2011
O Come, Let Us Waste Our Time with the Lord
We Americans, since first bumping against Plymouth Rock, have prided ourselves on our practicality. Leaving behind the monarchies and hierarchies of the Old World, we set out to make a society where men and women were valued not on who their ancestors were, but on what each of us did with ourselves. We like to think of ourselves as heirs of that tradition. When a Britisher looks down his nose at American culture as “utilitarian,” we rightly feel a certain excusable pride.
Our “practicality” invented the light-bulb, cracked the atom and put men on the moon (okay, that was with the help of smuggled-in Nazi rocket scientists). When we look at a question, Americans don’t ask “is it true” but “will it work?” We’re the sort of people who get things done, but sometimes we don’t stop to ask if we should do something just because we can do it.
This “practical” approach touches everything we do, even the worship of Almighty God. When we talk about worship, (“weorth-schyppe”), we do so in utilitarian terms. Worship is worth-while if we “get” something out of it: if it entertains us, makes us feel good about ourselves, if it helps us “grow” spiritually, gives us a break “from the madding crowd.” In other words, we worship because it does something for us—benefits us some way or other. If we "get" something from it (you choose what), that makes it worth-while; it justifies the time we spend doing it.
If that’s so, then we’re not worshipping God, even if we tell ourselves we are. If, as we talked about in last week’s post, “woerth-schyppe” is focused on (W)who we value, and we worship because it benefits us, then who, beloved, are we woerth-schypping?
We don’t worship because it’s good for us, makes us feel good about ourselves, lets us lay down our burdens, because the priest is handsome or the choir is splendid or the communion-wine is really good; we worship because God is God—He Who Is——and we have, from time to time have, if not caught a glimpse of Him, at least seen traces of His presence. We worship Him—not for our sakes—but for His.
Worship isn’t practical, it’s un-utilitarian. God doesn’t need it. He doesn’t feel better about Himself if we say nice things to Him. We justify it as entertaining or educational or emotionally satisfying (and it can be those things, but they’re incidental). In the best sense of the word, worship is “useless.” It doesn’t benefit us in ways that we can see. But at its most basic level, worship makes us truly human. It raises us to what we were made for—communion with our Creator. To be, as St Thomas said, “friends of God.”
Worship is not about us, but God. It is utterly useless to us—and it’s the thing—more than any other thing, which raises us to be who we were made to be. –Fr Gregory Wilcox
Our “practicality” invented the light-bulb, cracked the atom and put men on the moon (okay, that was with the help of smuggled-in Nazi rocket scientists). When we look at a question, Americans don’t ask “is it true” but “will it work?” We’re the sort of people who get things done, but sometimes we don’t stop to ask if we should do something just because we can do it.
This “practical” approach touches everything we do, even the worship of Almighty God. When we talk about worship, (“weorth-schyppe”), we do so in utilitarian terms. Worship is worth-while if we “get” something out of it: if it entertains us, makes us feel good about ourselves, if it helps us “grow” spiritually, gives us a break “from the madding crowd.” In other words, we worship because it does something for us—benefits us some way or other. If we "get" something from it (you choose what), that makes it worth-while; it justifies the time we spend doing it.
If that’s so, then we’re not worshipping God, even if we tell ourselves we are. If, as we talked about in last week’s post, “woerth-schyppe” is focused on (W)who we value, and we worship because it benefits us, then who, beloved, are we woerth-schypping?
We don’t worship because it’s good for us, makes us feel good about ourselves, lets us lay down our burdens, because the priest is handsome or the choir is splendid or the communion-wine is really good; we worship because God is God—He Who Is——and we have, from time to time have, if not caught a glimpse of Him, at least seen traces of His presence. We worship Him—not for our sakes—but for His.
Worship isn’t practical, it’s un-utilitarian. God doesn’t need it. He doesn’t feel better about Himself if we say nice things to Him. We justify it as entertaining or educational or emotionally satisfying (and it can be those things, but they’re incidental). In the best sense of the word, worship is “useless.” It doesn’t benefit us in ways that we can see. But at its most basic level, worship makes us truly human. It raises us to what we were made for—communion with our Creator. To be, as St Thomas said, “friends of God.”
Worship is not about us, but God. It is utterly useless to us—and it’s the thing—more than any other thing, which raises us to be who we were made to be. –Fr Gregory Wilcox
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)