Mysterium Tremendum: The Awe-ful Weight of Sacramental Celebration

Part of the series Stewards of God's Mysteries, a series considering the theology and practice of lay sacramental authority.

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Altar with Lectern in Foreground, Sacred Heart Chapel
Saint Benedict's Monastery, St. Joseph, MN

One common argument in favor of lay celebration is that a bad preacher can do far more damage than a bad celebrant. Therefore, if we allow lay persons to preach in public worship, why would we deny them the authority to celebrate the Sacraments?

There is a ring of truth to this. The Church long ago determined that Sacraments administered by scoundrels are still means of God's grace. Poor theology doesn't turn the Blood of Christ into poison, but poor theology can do great damage to the Body of Christ as expressed in the assembly of the faithful.

I deeply respect the emphasis on preaching. The pulpit should not be approached lightly. As important as sermons and homilies are, though, the Sacraments are infinitely more vital.

Let us consider more fully what we mean by ordination to Word and Sacrament. We go to seminary and take classes to learn and practice preaching. Preaching is an art upon which we can improve. We should be concerned with what is said in the Church's pulpits and exercise discretion when inviting guest and lay preachers. I'm not advocating for lowering the bar of preaching; on the contrary, I am completely convinced that we need a homiletical revival and a renewed emphasis on Scripture in our preaching. I've heard too many sermons in which well-meaning presbyters fail to consider the full implication of their words.

But we must recognize that ordained ministry is not defined by areas in which we risk doing harm. It's defined by the call of the Holy Spirit affirmed by the Church. And while we're on the topic of things in the ministry that can do great harm if done poorly: building management, pastoral care, faith formation, budgeting, and running a committee or staff meeting all carry with them the terrible truth that they can fracture the Church. We learn all of these things in seminary and "on the job." This is why we expect our clergy -- and indeed, most of our parish leadership, staff and non-staff -- to undertake some form of continuing education. Ministry involves quite a bit of risk, but that is not the threshold of ordination.

What sets the ordained presbyter apart is the Sacraments.* We cannot improve upon the Sacraments through classes or workshops. Sure, we might better be able to chant different sections, memorize specific prayers, grow more relaxed in the manual acts, and learn to think more carefully about the rubrics, but none of that makes the Sacrament itself better. Proclamation of the Gospel is the common vocation of all Christians, but presiding over the Sacraments is the specific domain of ordained pastors and bishops.

Everything else that we do -- be it preaching or pastoral care or even the budget -- flows from our authority as celebrants of the Sacraments. It is the Sacraments, those physical means of God's grace, that set us apart as the Body of Christ.

Yes, everything else we do has real-world consequences. Preaching and pastoral care and faith formation and budget work can all set a parish up to do well or ruin lives. But only the Sacraments bring God's grace to us. Only they have that sense of numinous awe, that weight of glory. It's not that these other aspects of ministry are unimportant; far from it. Rather, it's that the Sacraments are paramount.

*Again, I write this in recognition that deacons in other traditions are permitted to celebrate other Sacraments, especially Holy Baptism, and that UM deacons might even have the bishop's permission to preside at the Altar.

The Eucharist and Social Justice

The prolific Lutheran liturgist Frank Senn offers these reflections on Corpus Christi:

Going back to my college years in the early 1960s, I recall how liturgical renewal was inseparable from social renewal, and the sacrament of Holy Communion was central to both. From the beginning—all the way back to the problems in first century Corinth—the Lord’s Supper was social dynamite, bringing masters, clients, and slaves together at the same meal. In the civil rights movement of the sixties we came to realize that those who ate and drank together at the Lord’s table should not eat and drink separately in the cafeterias. Likewise, those who were baptized in the same font should not have to swim in separate swimming pools.

Stewards of God's Mysteries: On the Sacraments and Lay Celebration

Presbyter's stoles

It's a bit ironic that as the Church in the United States lives into its renewed emphasis on weekly celebration of the Eucharist, the number of ordained clergy is beginning to decline and local parishes are struggling to afford full-time pastors.

This is leading to some difficult conversations about how to fill these positions: do we change the requirements for ordination? Do we permit lay persons to celebrate the Sacraments in specific circumstances? If so, what's the mechanism for such licenses?

As it stands today, both my tradition of origin (the UMC) and the tradition in which I currently serve (the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) permit lay celebration in particular circumstances. In the UMC, lay persons may be licensed as local pastors; with the bishop's approval, they are appointed to a charge and granted the title "Reverend." In the ELCA, the bishop may approve a lay person as a "synodically authorized minister" -- who is not considered a pastor. In both traditions, the lay celebrant is limited to their parish. Unlike a fully ordained presbyter,* these lay persons may not celebrate the sacraments outside the regular duties of their ministry to that single congregation.

Over the next few weeks, I'll consider some of the arguments for and against lay celebration.

With all due respect to my family and friends who have served the Church as lay celebrants, there is a better way. It better serves the Church catholic if we ordain all of our celebrants as presbyters.

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*Definitions and snarky side notes:

• Yes, I know that both the United Methodist Church and the Episcopal Church prefer to style themselves as "The". I'm not going to do that because it's stupid.
• I know that charge, parish, and congregation are not, strictly speaking, the same thing. However, for sake of ease, I'm going to use them interchangeably.
• We don't seem to agree on what to call our parish pastors: are they pastors, priests, elders? I'm going to stick with the Greek and call them presbyters -- which is especially helpful when talking to "low church" folks and when comparing presbyters to deacons and bishops, who also fulfill a pastoral function.
• Instead of "licensed local pastor" or "synodically authorized minister," I will be using the term "lay celebrant" as it gets directly the heart of the matter I want to discuss.

Praxis: Faith Inspires Justice and the Care of Souls

Over at Covenant, Episcopal seminarian Matthew Burdette writes on the place of theology in theological education as seminaries and seminarians push ever further towards the "practical":

A useful illustration of this dynamic is the centrality given to pastoral care, the current conception of which is a 20th-century innovation. Prior to this time, pastoral ministry was generally conceived of in moral and sacramental terms, rather than in therapeutic (and therefore medical) terms, which is currently dominant. It has become a widespread requirement for ministers of different faiths to undergo the training of Clinical Pastoral Education, or CPE, usually in the context of hospital chaplaincy. One of the stretching and beneficial characteristics of CPE is that ministers work with ministers of other faiths, as well as offer pastoral care to people of other faiths. Beneficial as interfaith learning is, a question does loom over the whole process: If I can offer the same pastoral care to a patient as the imam, and if I think that pastoral care is at the center of ministry, then what is the significance of those doctrinal matters that separate me from the imam?

The question is a serious one, and my own suspicion is that there is a correlation between the pervasive focus on this model of pastoral care and the implicit Unitarianism espoused by many clergy in mainline Protestantism. The same question emerges from the focus on social justice. When a parish’s or cleric’s social vision is indistinguishable from a party platform, and when the Church’s message is said to find its telos in that social vision, one must wonder why anyone should bother with the religious baggage. Again and more pointedly: When pastoral care or social action are assumed to be the goal of theological education, then the particular matters of doctrine that are the content of the Christian faith become irrelevant and distracting; focusing on them deters from what theology or ministry is allegedly about.

...The presumption that theological education is for some practical end is perhaps also related to widespread biblical illiteracy and poor catechesis. It is difficult to prioritize teaching the Christian faith when the implicit assumption is that its content is inconsequential.

I couldn't agree with Burdette more. Just as "Intro to Worship" is about more than just what color stole to wear and the proper way to bless the assembly, so to should our classes on conflict transformation and pastoral care more than crash-courses in community organizing and family systems.

As I've said before, so many young clergy and seminarians are passionate about social justice and pastoral care but neglect any sense of theological framework. Instead, many of my colleagues -- wonderful and loving people that they are -- try to wrangle a Christian identity out of progressive social actions. In this view, the Church would function just as well without God -- perhaps even better if we get to catch up on sleep on Sunday mornings.

The Church's rediscovered passion for social justice and pastoral care -- even among younger fundamentalists! -- is commendable. Good will come of it. But this new passion is not enough if it is not based in belief in the Triune God.

The Church is called to work for justice and to care for souls, but those vocations flow out of our sacramental identity. We are the Body of Christ. Here we stand. We can do no other.

"Go Weird or Go Home"

Living Church's blog, "Covenant," offers these reflections on "Evangelism of the Weird":

The weirdness of the Christian faith is a potent weapon against indifference among the faithful and a strong tool for fanning the flames of curiosity among the unchurched. Strange practices abound in the tradition — Rogation processions, the burying of the Alleluia before the start of Lent, eucharistic adoration, the marking of the forehead with ashes on Ash Wednesday, the washing of the feet on Maundy Thursday, the entire drama of the Great Vigil of Easter. And these are just the liturgical bits. Something as simple as making the sign of the cross in a public place, offering a blessing over a meal, or even carrying a Bible or a prayer book under your arm is enough to get you strange looks in many places today. These things are strange to people who do not understand them. They may even seem frightening.
As Christianity has become increasingly domesticated in its practice in the West, our tendency has been to let these strange practices go or to try to do them in secret so as not to draw attention to ourselves. This has been a mistake. What the current moment calls for is an even greater commitment to our distinctiveness from the world. While emphasizing these practices may turn some people off, many of them were never going to darken the door of a church anyway. Embracing the oddness of our faith reinforces the power of the Christian narrative for those of us already committed to it and sends a strong signal to others that there is something different about the Christian Church, that Christianity is not just one more club or party but a radically unique way of living and being in the world.
This is not to say that we should just seek out weirdness for the sake of weirdness. Not every strange practice is salutary. Whatever we are doing ought to be congruent with the faith proclaimed in Holy Scripture and taught by the great saints of the Church for 2,000 years. In that same vein, while newer practices can be very useful and meaningful, we ought to give a preference to those activities that have a long, rich history in the life of the Church. This is especially true when we are attempting to recover something that has been lost or obscured. The washing of feet at Maundy Thursday, for instance, has been discontinued or played down in many parishes, but it goes back to the New Testament and has been practiced liturgically since at least the post-apostolic age.

"Special" Eucharists: Against Novelty in the Liturgy

During the series on the paschal candle, I wrote about the difference between "special" and "unique." Something becomes special when it has meaning over and above what would normally be ascribed to a similar item, event, location, or what-have-you, whereas something is unique when it is less common. By way of example:

Woodcut of Holy Communion
Wittenberg, 16th c.

• A meal with the whole family might be more special than grabbing a burger at the drive-thru while rushing to an afternoon meeting -- even if the family meal is a nightly occurrence.
• Hopefully, rushed fast food meals eaten hastily in the car are a unique experience, happening very rarely. Presumably, that rather stressful lunch would not hold any special significance.
• A meal with the extended family is understandably special and unique -- reserved for a few holidays during the year.

Unfortunately, our culture has tended to conflate these two meanings. While I'm sure that Catholics and Orthodox Christians have made the same mistake, it seems to me to be a decidedly Protestant problem.

As weekly celebration of the Eucharist has become more common in the Episcopal Church and the ELCA following the height of liturgical renewal in the 20th century, many laity and clergy have objected that regular Communion makes the Sacrament makes it less meaningful.

Apparently doing something too often makes it "less special." 

To paraphrase the Rev. Dr. Ted Hackett, I would hate to be married to one of those people.

The Sacraments are special. This is most certainly true.

That is, the Sacraments have meaning beyond normal water, bread, and wine. They are special, though, not because of how rarely we celebrate them but because of a divine promise. Baptism is "special" because God has promised to unite us into the Body of Christ in our Lord's death and Resurrection through water and the Divine Word. The Eucharist bears meaning because Christ has promised to be present.

Paraphrasing another Candler faculty member, nothing we can do makes these Sacraments more or less meaningful. Their value is an act of divine grace; sacramental meaning is not derived from how rarely we celebrate them.

And while such resistance to the sacramental pulse of Christian worship is waning, another (equally harmful) emphasis on "specialness" is creeping in.

In many communities, there is a new push to bring in "special" elements to make "meaningful worship experiences."

A seminary might use champagne for the Eucharist on Easter.

One community might change wines in accordance with the liturgical seasons to highlight different emphases -- darker, heavier wines for Advent and Lent, a sweeter wine for Easter.

A parish might use a different, more "exotic" bread for World Communion Sunday. 

In a congregation where the bread is usually store-bought, they might have students bake a "special" bread for their first Communion.

While canon lawyers might argue over the validity and licitness of champagne or leavened breads, and I am interested -- if not entirely convinced -- by those arguments, that is not where I take issue.

Rather, I'm concerned with the attempts to make the Eucharist "more special," to bring out meaning other than the Body of Christ made present.

The Eucharist is and always will be the Church's participation in the Body of Christ, a lifting up of our hearts as we offer to God our thanks and praise. Every time we celebrate the Sacrament is a communion with the entire Church of God throughout all ages past and all ages to come. While we may speak of one Divine Service at 8:30 and another at 11:00, or one Mass on Saturday evening and another on Sunday morning, we truly celebrate only one Eucharist.

Any attempt, therefore, to highlight one eucharistic celebration over another -- to make the Sacrament on one Sunday appear different from the Sacrament on another Sunday -- is to obscure the essential unity of our worship. While the readings and prayers and paraments may change, God's means of grace remain the same.

Where is the harm? In trying to call attention to one over the others, we obscure the importance of all others. By using "special" bread, we call into question the meaning of every other Sunday when we use ordinary bread. By using "special" wine, we call into question the unity between the Sundays when we use other vintages -- or just the giant jug of Manischewitz. When we lift up one particular celebration over all others, we leading our parishioners to believe that the average Sunday is somehow lacking: that God is somehow less interested in plain bread or cheap wine.

God, of course, will show up in the Manischewitz and in the merlot, in the wafer and the fresh baked bread. Grace abounds. But we must be mindful of how our parishioners -- and we ourselves -- perceive the elements. We should do nothing to suggest the Eucharist is somehow "better" one Sunday.

If you are going to use fine wine, use it every week. Every time we gather is cause for the "good stuff."

If you are going to have your parishioners bake the bread fresh, do it every week. Every time we celebrate the Sacraments we should approach them with the joy of our first Communion.

God's Sacraments mean more than we will ever understand, are more special than we will ever know. Our task isn't to make them novel but to celebrate them with abundant joy. When we celebrate the Eucharist on the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, we approach the same risen Lord that we celebrate during the Great Vigil of Easter.

In the Clarity of this Bright and Holy Light: The Paschal Candle as a Resurrection Sign

The final installment of We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Light, a series on paschal candle and its use throughout the liturgical year.

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Paschal Candle
Basilica of Saint Mary, Minneapolis, MN

Christ is the light of the world. This profound truth is the most basic meaning behind every single candle we burn in our sanctuary. But do they have meaning beyond that?

To my mind, that is the driving question at work in our use of the paschal candle.

There are, to be sure, plenty of other issues at work. There are other candles burning in the sanctuary, and the name we give to them will affect how and when utilize them. Different placements for each candle will exert different pressures. A prominent candle raises more questions when it is unlit, and our tendency will be to light it more frequently. Likewise, a candle suspended from the ceiling, just above our line of sight, might burn out without being noticed. An oil candle -- one which can be used and refilled without ever losing its shape or stature -- might entice us to more frequent usage.

These other issues feed into the larger question: what do these candles mean? In the very first post of this series, I cited to Anita Stauffer's Altar Guild and Sacristy Handbook, where she claims that the evening light and the paschal candle have different meanings: "The paschal candle is a resurrection symbol, while the evening prayer candle is a more general reminder of the light of Christ." But that's where she leaves it; the claim is far more nuanced than a single sentence. After all, Christ is the light of the world ultimately because of his Resurrection. Why not use the paschal candle as a marker of Christ's illumination of the evening darkness?

Moreover, we proclaim every Sunday to be a "little Easter" -- that is, every Sunday is a celebration of the Resurrection -- and so why limit the paschal candle to only the Great Fifty Days, the Sacrament of Baptism, and the rite of Christian burial? Why not let the candle shine every Sunday as a reminder of Christ's light through Resurrection?

I doubt anyone will be surprised to read that I have not changed my position. I still hold that the Church should only light the paschal candle during the Fifty Days of Easter, at Baptisms, and during funerals -- and, possibly, at All Saints'. (Indeed, I've become more convinced that the paschal candle should not be used at Christmas to replace the Christ candle. Our paschal candles come laden with visual symbols of the Passion and Resurrection. While the Lamb of God might make sense during Christmastide, a lily does not.)  We have so many rich symbols of Christ's light sitting disregarded. Let us explore these symbols by bringing them to the foreground and allowing them to shine brightly rather than opting for a single multi-purpose year-round candle. If we turn the paschal candle into a generic "everyday use" item, we do so at the risk of undermining both its function and the function of every candle it would be replacing. Worse still, if we use the paschal candle as an "all-purpose feast day" candle, lit on any day of unique significance -- Reformation Sunday, Transfiguration, Ash Wednesday -- it becomes all the more muddled. Rather than pointing to the Resurrection, it becomes the sign of nothing more than that the paraments have changed color. 

Too often, the issue is reduced to "specialness." Such an argument lacks the nuance so often required by good theology and is often used to advocate against weekly celebration of the Holy Eucharist -- a position I cannot support. "Special" things maintain that quality even when done frequently -- and indeed, some acts become more special the more often we do them. Who among us would say that kissing a spouse, reading to a child, or enjoying a conversation with a close friend is "less special" if done on a daily basis?

Rather, it comes down to an issue of unique meaning and function.

Before proceeding, let me make a crucial distinction -- and one I've been trying to put into terms since jumping down this rabbit hole. What's the difference between "special" and "unique"? In this context, I would suggest we often use "special" to mean something along the lines of "imbued with extra meaning or significance." "Unique," on the other hand, might be defined as "possessing a quality not found in other, similar items." So some things might be special but not unique (eating a meal with friends or family). Others might be unique but not special (a chipped coffee mug). Still others might be both (a favorite toy from childhood).

Under these definitions, then, every candle in a parish is special in that they are set apart for the worship of the Triune God. The candles at the Altar, the red lamp burning in the sanctuary, the paschal candle, the votives in the iron stand, the candles in the Advent wreath, and the mass-produced paraffin numbers we use for Christmas Eve and the Easter Vigil: they are all special in that they carry meaning beyond that of ordinary candles at home. Each of them represents the light of Christ in the world.

Each of those candles, though, has a unique meaning. The Advent candles mark the weeks passing towards Christmas, building the amount of light in the darkness of winter. Their companion, the Christ candle, marks the arrival of the Nativity. The sanctuary lamp reminds us of God's eternal presence (and, depending on where you are, Christ's presence in the Sacrament reserved in the tabernacle/aumbry): a constant light shining even in an otherwise-vacant space. The Vespers light is Christ's light illuminating the night.

The paschal candle's unique meaning points very specifically to the Great Vigil of Easter. Lit from the new fire on the night in which our Lord passed over from death into life, its light very specifically points to the Resurrection -- not as an over-arching emphasis (as we do every Sunday) but in very concrete terms. This candle, unlike all others, is inscribed with signs of Christ's victory: the Cross, the lily, the Paschal Lamb, the Alpha and Omega. Five grains of incense are placed in its wax. 

Week-in and week-out, we proclaim our Lord's Passion and Resurrection. This is the very nature of Christian worship. But for fifty days, from sun-down on Holy Saturday until Pentecost, we proclaim our Lord's victory in our boldest terms. We turn our entire liturgy to that cause, adding our Allelulias and making every hymn one of joyful adoration. This candle -- more so than any other in our sanctuaries -- points us to that wonderful season of the Easter feast.

The function of the paschal candle, then, is to carry that meaning to other times when we look specifically and concretely to the Resurrection.

The paschal candle carries all of that extra meaning with it into the Sacrament of Holy Baptism. When we usher people forward to be brought into the Body of Christ, we do so quite literally in the light of Easter. The paschal candle reminds us that in Baptism, we join with Christ in passing from death into life.

The same candle brings hope into our funerals. When we bury our beloved kindred in Christ, we know that they are only asleep for a time but that they, promised life everlasting through their Baptism into Christ, will pass into life everlasting.

All of our candles show the light of Christ shining in the darkness, with the subtle hints of the Resurrection echoing underneath. The paschal candle brings the subtext of the Resurrection to the foreground. We cannot, through overuse, rob it of that meaning. We cannot make it "less special." We can, though, undercut its function.

The paschal candle acts as something of a liturgical highlighter, calling our attention to the Sacrament of Baptism and the Church's burial rites while also drawing forward the meanings of Easter. It makes us mindful of the connection between Christ's Resurrection and our own hope for the Life Everlasting, bringing forward a visual manifestation of a single common thread.

Through over-use, we drown out these connections, obscuring their meaning. The paschal candle will always continue to bear its meaning; the difference is in our own ability to discern its significance.

Mingled with the Lights of Heaven: Consistent Use of Lights in the Liturgy

Part of We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Light, a series exploring the use of the paschal candle throughout the liturgical year.

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Over the past week and a half, I've become aware of just how complicated our use of the paschal candle really is. I set out to write a single post on the topic, but I suddenly found myself grabbing more books and planning out multiple posts. I originally thought I would research this over a weekend and write a post on a Monday afternoon and be done with it.

As Christians, we place a lot of emphasis on ordinary, physical things. Some of them are readily apparent: we worship an incarnate and self-giving God who gave us Sacraments as physical means of grace. Others we we give to God and ask God to bless for our use: palm branches and beeswax and grains of incense.

This emphasis on the physical requires us to think and act carefully. How we treat the Sacraments matters (more on this later). But how we treat those things that are less than Sacraments but are nevertheless offered to God for our use in the Divine Liturgy also matters.

Paschal Candle in Baptistery,
Cathedral of Saint Paul, St. Paul, MN

It matters how we use candles. That's why both clergy and laity have strong opinions about the use of the paschal candle and its counterparts. The Tradition has handed down specific meanings ascribed to our candles: when and how they are used, what they signify, even how and in what order they are to be lit. On top of that, we bring in our own meanings to these candles. As previously mentioned, I've heard a number of different explanations on why most parishes have two candles on the altar. As humans and as Christians, we look for meaning in the world around us. The paschal candle is a light surrounded by other lights, one candle mingled among many. We look for its significance: what does that one candle say or do that the others don't? We see signs, and we seek to understand them in context, to see the meaning in why they are where they are. 

For that reason, we must remember that consistency matters.

Paschal Candle sans Font, sans Context
Trinity Lutheran, Owatonna, MN

Lutherans will continue to disagree over the proper use of the paschal candle. This debate will not disappear any time soon. Whichever way you take it, though, be consistent. Make sure that the local custom is known and followed. Make sure all of the clergy, altar guild, sextons, acolytes, and anyone else who lights the candles knows which candles to light.

The worst possible solution is, "It's lit whenever it gets lit." Any and all significance is lost when the candle is lit at the whim of the person with the taper.

If the parish norm is to light the paschal candle every week, make sure it's lit every week. If the local practice is to light it only during the season of Easter, during Holy Baptism, and at funerals, make sure it gets lit on those occasions. Do not let it become a liturgical Cheshire Cat, appearing and disappearing at random. Take the time to discuss the candle with acolytes and altar guild members.

Believe it or not, people in the pews do notice what happens up front. Children ask their parents questions. Visitors notice things that are different from their home congregation. Those new to the faith wonder why things are done the way they are. Make sure there's an answer for these inquirers that extends beyond, "Shoot, did we forget to light that today?"

Fed By the Melting Wax: Wax and Oil Candles as Sources of Tension

Part of We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Fire, a series on the use of the paschal candle.

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For it is fed by the melting wax which the bees, your servants, have made for the substance of this candle. -- Exsulet, Lutheran Book of Worship

Oil Paschal Candle
St. James Lutheran, Burnsville, MN

I went to extinguish the paschal candle, used as part of our Lenten Vespers.

Down goes the snuffer.

1. 2. 3.

Up.

And the flame is still there.

"Right," I thought. "It's an oil candle."

Anyone who has ever served as an acolyte or on an altar guild knows that wax candles are easier to extinguish, but they also disappear. Church supply companies have come up with all sorts of clever ways to maintain the straight lines we crave in our candles: basic followers that keep wax from dripping down, spring-loaded contraptions that feed the candle up as it melts while the outward appearance remains almost unchanged, and refillable oil candles that look almost like real candles. Electric lights are made to look like candles, though they are less convincing than oil lamps.

Wax Paschal Candle in Baptistery
Saint Joseph's, Speyer, Germany

Most candles now are made of paraffin or some substance other than beeswax now. The line from the Exsultet, "which the bees, your servants have made" is less apt than it used to be.

I'm sure there are theological claims to be made here, but on a purely practical level, I wonder what the use of oil-based candles has done to our practice of lighting the paschal candle.

The paschal candle is historically quite large, measured in feet rather than inches. It had to be big: burning for fifty days and then at every baptism and funeral for the rest of the year, it ran the risk of becoming a paschal nub rather than a rich sign of God's abundant providence.

Of course, oil is also consumed as it burns, but the outward appearance of the lamp remains unchanged. A community might re-use the same lamp for years without it shrinking a single millimeter. Some of the imagery and symbolism may be lost (scoring the year into the candle, embedding grains of incense), but the candle itself remains as tall as ever. If Almy is any indication, an oil candle pays for itself in only two years -- and that's buying the cheapest wax candle possible.

My question, though, is not about cost-value analysis, the theological differences between beeswax and oil (though we might consider omitting a few phrases in the Exsultet, reason enough for me to keep using beeswax), nor the imagery of a candle that melts and shrinks. Rather, I wonder if the stability and re-usability of oil candles have made us more prone to light them more frequently.

If we can light the paschal candle without having to worry that the candle will melt away before we've had our last pre-Easter funeral, are we more likely to use the candle to the point of excess?

We would do well, though, to remember that just because we can doesn't mean we should. New designs allow us to keep our candles looking impeccable and keep our paschal candle standing tall year-round. Now it is certainly possible to keep the paschal candle lit during every service throughout the year. We should be mindful, though, that ability and merit are not the same thing. Just because it's possible does not mean it's beneficial.

Burning to the Honor of Your Name: Paschal Candles and Sanctuary Lamps

Part of We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Fire, a series on the use of the paschal candle through the liturgical year.

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"Christ the Light of the World is present in this space." This is one of the most basic claims the Church makes in her architecture and design. We furnish our sanctuaries in such a way as to allow ample light in. When we gather after nightfall and in the short days of winter, we light more candles, expelling the darkness. The flames which once served a practical function, providing light by which to read, have become more and more symbolic.

We proclaim that the lumen Christi is present in our midst, as well we should. We make a mistake, though, if we assume that our paschal candle is the only way to communicate Christ's illuminating presence. Week in and week out, we light candles on the Altar. (The real question is why two? Over the course of my life, I've heard numerous answers to this question: the divine and human natures of Christ and the Old and New Testaments chief among them. Realistically, though, it's likely a mixture of utility and symmetry.) Some of us light candles beside the pulpit, a reminder that Scripture is an ever-present lamp unto our feet.

More than that, though, we have a light that remains lit year-round, burning even after the Divine Service has ended. It goes by many names: the presence candle, the altar lamp, the sanctuary lamp. They're usually encased in red glass and suspended from the wall or ceiling. Per the Altar Guild and Sacristy Handbook:

Some churches have a sanctuary lamp in which a candle burns continuously throughout the year. The lamp is suspended from the ceiling or mounted on the chancel wall; it is never properly placed on the altar itself. In general, sanctuary lamps follow the ancient Jewish custom of always having a light burning at the altar and have come to symbolize God's living presence among us. As such, they are not extinguished following a service. [p. 20]

Surprisingly, as ubiquitous as these candles are in liturgical parishes, their history is difficult to trace. They get a passing reference in The New Westminster Dictionary of Liturgy and Worship (usually my starting point for such matters owing to its usually-thorough nature) and only a single citation in the General Instruction of the Roman Missal (discussed below). The ELCA worship staff's FAQ sheet on sanctuary lamps traces their more contemporary usage to the twelfth century (though sadly without citing a source for further reading).

Whatever the lamps' history, suffice it to say that their origin dates back to Jewish practice and at some point became associated with the Eucharist as that the consecrated elements were reserved in the tabernacle:

In accordance with traditional custom, near the tabernacle a special lamp, fueled by oil or wax, should shine permanently to indicate the presence of Christ and honor it. -- GIRM 316

A burning sanctuary lamp, in medieval practice, guided practice to ensure that proper respect and devotion was given to the Body of Christ.

In the sanctuary lamp's most basic meaning, then, it communicates that Christ is present, either in the the consecrated Host or more generally in a space set aside for Christian worship. Per New Advent:

Mystically it signifies Christ, for by this material light He is represented who is the "true light which enlighteneth every man."

Sanctuary Lamp
Basilica of Saint Mary, Minneapolis, MN

Again, we see that many of our candles have overlapping meanings: the paschal candle and the sanctuary lamp both signify Christ.

As we contemplate the usage of the paschal candle, I wonder: why are we so eager to light another candle when we have one that is so often ignored? From the ELCA worship staff again:

While some assemblies may continue this custom of a sanctuary lamp, it may be a case of something practiced that is not understood, a kind of “we’ve always done it” but without being clear why. A congregation will need to ask what is communicated by the presence of such a lamp.

At the same time, I wonder if we are venturing into similar territory with our paschal candles. Do we light it without asking what is communicated by its presence? Has the paschal candle become something we light because it's there, or does its light communicate something above and beyond the presence of Christ our True Light?

To better understand that, perhaps we should also consider where we place our sanctuary lamps. They are often hung high above the floor as a practical consideration. New Advent explains:

The lamp is usually suspended before the tabernacle by means of a chain or rope, and it should hang sufficiently high and removed from the altar-steps to cause no inconvenience to those who are engaged in the sanctuary. It may also be suspended from, or placed in a bracket at the side of the altar, provided always it be in front of the altar within the sanctuary proper (Cong. Sac. Rit., 2 June, 1883).

The downside of that placement, though, is that they become almost impossible to see. Of the various parishes I've served and visited, most of them have the lamp well above the line of sight, to the point that one must actively search out the lamp. Once spotted, it's nearly impossible to tell if the lamp is burning; both its altitude and its red case hide the small flame within. Our symbol for the presence of Christ is a small flame often hidden from view.

As discussed previously, we have conflated the roles of the Christ and paschal candles. It seems, too, that we have added the sanctuary lamp into this amalgamation. Both flames call to mind the light of Christ, but they have distinct origins and point to separate Sacraments. In calling attention to the paschal candle -- a light linked to the Sacrament of Holy Baptism -- we have pulled attention away from the sanctuary lamp -- a light linked to the Sacrament of the Altar.

One possible way forward is to bring down our sanctuary lamps, that perpetual flame we have for too long ignored. Instead of lighting the paschal candle week-in and week-out, we might consider moving the sanctuary lamp to a more prominent place -- either lowering its chain or mounting it on a wall near to the Altar.  We might even incorporate the lamp more fully into the liturgy; rather than a dim light only visible when the lights are out, we could use the flame as the source for the Altar candles, lighting the taper from our red lamp and carrying its light to the Table.

No matter the path, we owe it to our parishioners to fully consider all of the signs in our sanctuaries before opting to ignore one in favor of the other.

[Edit: I realize that current Catholic practice is to keep the sanctuary lamp burning nearer the tabernacle in Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, and more liturgical Episcopal and Lutheran parishes have placed the lamp closer to the aumbry. I'm operating under the assumption that those parishes are more likely to follow the rubrics regarding the paschal candle. I'm writing with less liturgical Lutherans in mind, assuming that they both maintain an ever-burning sanctuary lamp and are more likely to light the paschal candle on a weekly basis.]

Let Your Light So Shine Before Others: Placement of Font and Paschal Candle as Sources of Controversy

Part of We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Fire, a series on the use of the paschal candle throughout the liturgical year.

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One astounding result of the Liturgical Movement has been the renewed emphasis on an embodied sacramental theology. The Sacraments are no longer hidden away: lay Catholics are offered the Chalice; liturgical Protestants are moving towards weekly celebration of the Eucharist; real bread is offered at the Altar. The emphasis on lay participation has led to a wonderfully tangible liturgy.

Baptistery
Pisa, Italy

The renewed sacramental emphasis has also led to a more prominent place for the Font (and with it, the paschal candle). Many parishes have moved the Font out of the corner, taken the lid off, and kept water in it throughout the week. It's no longer a bird bath hauled out of storage when needed but a permanent furnishing on par with the Altar. In so many ways, these developments have produced good fruit. I have seen Lutheran laity, unbidden, approach the Font, dip their fingers in, and make the sign of the cross -- a sign that is still viewed by some as suspiciously Roman but is, nevertheless, becoming more commonplace. Granting more prominence position to our baptismal furnishings starts us down the path to more fully remembering and living into our baptismal identities.

Important though this development is, we have inadvertently brought upon ourselves a new issue. In many parishes, the old designs are still in place. The building was crafted without a permanent baptismal space. In many places, the solution has been to put the Font up front, either in the chancel or at the front of the nave (in what would have been the transept in larger churches). It's easy to understand why: during the Sacrament of Baptism, the assembly can see what's happening without having to awkwardly turn around in the pews. The Font and the Altar are right up front, meaning that the preacher can easily gesture towards both of them and all liturgical action looks forward in the same direction. On a practical level, it makes a certain amount of sense: the Sacrament and its accompanying furnishings are made plainly visible.

Baptistery, Interior
Pisa, Italy

It's worth noting that there are options other than putting the Font in storage or placing it in or near the chancel. In older times, the Font would be placed in a separate room or even in a separate building. Note in the photo above: at the Pisa cathedral, the baptistery is physically distinct from the cathedral itself. The cathedral in Florence follows a similar pattern, as does Saint John's Lateran in Rome. At the cathedral in Speyer (Germany), the original baptismal font is in the crypt. These chambers had large Fonts -- of such size that adults could be baptized by immersion. Baptism in these contexts featured a large procession -- following the ancient pattern of the Great Vigil of Easter.

More modern buildings have followed the pattern but in a more compact form. At Saint John's Abbey in Collegeville (Minnesota), the baptistery is located in the narthex, and a large set of doors separates the Front from the central nave. The Roman Catholic cathedrals in Savannah (Georgia) houses its Font at the back of the nave. [Edit: Mount Olive Lutheran in Minneapolis, MN and Ebeneezer in Columbia, SC have also placed their Fonts near the narthex.] Entering the church through the center doors, then, Christians are reminded that entry into the Church flows from the Font towards the Altar. In arranging the furnishings, we invite Christians to remember their entry into the Body of Christ through the Sacrament of Baptism as they venture forward to receive the Body of Christ in the Sacrament of Holy Communion.

This arrangement rubs us the wrong way. We like to stay stationary. If something is worth looking at, it happens up front, just like at a lecture, play, or concert. Moving the Font out of the chancel towards the narthex means people would have to get up, to move around. To be honest, we're lucky if we can get them to face the Cross or the Gospel during processions -- to say nothing of being in the procession themselves. But as Pfatteicher says in his Manual on the Liturgy:

Too often the font is located in a corner or set in the chancel so that it can be seen (as if the chancel were a stage on which all the action takes place.) In a Christian church the is not one place of action (the chancel) and seats for the audience (congregation). There is room in which the people of God do their service, and in this room the focus shifts as the service progresses. [p. 150-51]

In our attempts to emphasize Baptism, we risk inadvertently re-enforcing the message that important events take place "up front" as opposed to throughout the entire space. In many places, we have bolted ourselves to the floor, just like our pews.

Notice, though, that I say we risk re-enforcing the stage/performance mentality. My concern is that the Font be prominently placed and remain stationary: numerous configurations, if done well, permit the sort of sacramental emphasis essential to Christian liturgy. Just so, any and every configuration has its certain risks. If I may be so bold, the one absolute rule I would posit is this: the Font, once placed, does not move. Our seating may move around it, just as our lives revolve around our baptismal identity, but the Font and Altar stay put; they are permanent features in an ever-shifting world.

Baptismal Font
Saint John's Lateran, Rome

Why am I spending so much time talking about where we put the Font? Because outside of Easter and funerals, the paschal candle stands next to the Font. As soon as we put the Font up front, we raise an issue: why do we light all of the candles in the chancel area except for one? Our decisions about architecture and design have subtle but far-reaching implications; in moving the Font, we have changed how the paschal candle is perceived. The candle became more prominent, and so did its darkness throughout the year. We have moved a large, ornate candle to the foreground, but we rarely light it. It's no wonder, then, that pastors, altar guilds, and acolytes are so uncertain about its meaning, "special-ness," and function. The paschal candle would be, in practical terms, a non-issue in other configurations. Its unlit wick would be less prominent in the narthex. We would not risk an over-eager acolyte or altar guild member rushing out to light the one that "got missed."

I realize I'm thinking of configuration in practical terms, but there is a reason for that. The paschal candle is a sign: it points to something else. As with vestments and manual acts, the candle's importance comes from the practical matter of how it is seen. The paschal candle's significance comes, at least in part, from how it is displayed and thus how it is understood. If it is the lone, unlit candle surrounded by flame and electric light, prominently displayed week in and week out, it will be understood differently than the candle illuminated every time its environment (the baptistery) is used.

The Light of Christ: Use of Candles at the Great Vigil, Christmas Eve, and Vespers

Part of We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Fire, a series on the use of the paschal candle throughout the liturgical year.

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Advent Wreath
sans Christ candle

There has been a certain amount of conflation between the paschal candle lit during the Great Vigil of Easter and the Christ candle lit on Christmas Eve. Presumably to emphasize symbolic continuity, many parishes have adopted the custom of using a single candle which is lit at the Easter Vigil (or perhaps at the Sunrise Service) and at the reading of the Nativity on Christmas Eve. The Christ candle, as part of the Advent wreath, is a much later tradition -- some fifteen hundred years, at least -- than its paschal counterpart. Despite the chronological chasm between the two flames, there is a certain amount of sense to one candle which connects the two greatest feasts. That same single candle serves as both the crown of the Advent wreath (though physically distinct from the wreath) and as the candle lit from the new fire of the Paschal Feast. In these parishes, that single candle is interchangeably called both the Christ candle and, less frequently, the paschal candle.

(As an aside: I wonder how many parishes, having conflated the paschal and Christ candles, firmly insist on wearing blue in Advent and violet in Lent to properly distinguish between the seasons?)

Paschal Candle
Cathedral of Saint Paul, St. Paul, MN

Compounding the conflation of the Christ and paschal candles, there is also the candle used during Vespers. Our evening liturgy begins with the Lucernarium, a service of light in which we illuminate the darkness with a tall candle while singing a hymn proclaiming that God illumines the world (the Phos Hilaron). At the Easter Vigil, we gather in darkness and illuminate the night with a tall candle while singing a hymn proclaiming that God illumines the world (the much longer Exsultet). The Catholic Encyclopedia at New Advent even suggests that there may be some ancient connection between these two acts:

Others see in this an allusion to the ceremony of the paschal candle. However, the Lucernarium may have had, at that time, some analogy with the ceremony of Holy Saturday, and the hymn could thus be adapted to one or the other. In the "Old Gallican Sacramentary" (Thomasi, "Opera", VI, 395) we find for Holy Saturday an oratio ad duodecima, designed to celebrate the light as well as the Resurrection, which would seem thus to favour our hypothesis. St. Basil also speaks of a hymn being sung at the moment when the torches were lighted, doubtless the famous hymn--"Lumen hilare" (cf. Cabrol, l. c., 47-8). [Caveat: I am well aware that New Advent is outdated, and I don't know the current state of research on connections between the Vigil and Lucernarium.]

Add to these similarities that the Altar Guild and Sacristy Handbook tells Lutherans, "[The candle used at Vespers] should be almost as large as the paschal candle," and only offers the distinction that it should be white and unadorned and only offering the distinction that this plain candle is "a more general reminder of the light of Christ."

It's a recipe for confusion. We have three large candles which play significant roles in evening liturgies, and their basic meanings overlap: whatever extra nuances exist, all three of these lights indicate to the assembly that Christ is the light of the world. Even in terms of ritual action, all three of these candles are used to distribute light from a central source to smaller tapers. It's immediately apparent that these three candles are similar, but how are they different?

Our liturgical texts do us a disservice by not fully exploring the idiosyncrasies of liturgical symbolism. They state that the candles are not interchangeable but fail to adequately explain why -- or worse, leave the issue after simply stating a firm rule. As a reader and a liturgist, I leave Stauffer's Altar Guild book wondering why the candle used during Vespers is not a reminder of Resurrection. I've spent a lot of time thinking through these issues and have come to my own conclusions. But how many of our altar guild members, acolytes, and folks in the pews are left wondering why sometimes we have extra candles? We owe it to our parishioners to have these discussions out in the open, to discuss them at workshops for our acolytes, when meeting with the altar guild to talk over Easter arrangements, to point out these holy objects in our preaching.

We Sing the Glories of This Pillar of Fire: Use of the Paschal Candle, Revisited

Exultet during the Vigil
Gloria Dei Lutheran, St. Paul, MN

Last year, I wrote a few pieces on the paschal candle and its use throughout the liturgical year. As is often the case, I've continued to argue with myself about what I wrote and how I said it. As is so often the case, though, in putting my words to paper (or the screen), the project has quickly spiraled beyond what a single post can bear.

At the start, I should say I still think the paschal candle should be lit on All Saints' and All Souls' for the same reason we light the candle at funerals: the burning paschal candle re-affirms our faith that all the Baptized will see the Resurrection of the Body. I know I'm coming at this from a decidedly Protestant perspective and that I'm thinking of All Saints' more as an annual funeral rather than a feast for a given saint. (After all, we don't light the paschal candle on the Feast of Saint Andrew, so why should we on All Saints'?) But All Saints' has morphed, at least among many Lutherans and Methodists, to a more generalized remembrance for the Faithful Departed, and as such, use of the paschal candle is fitting.

Putting that aside, what are the issues at work in our use of the paschal candle? How did we develop such a divide (at times, deep and bitter) in our use of the paschal candle? What do the different positions intend to say? What does the paschal candle mean, and how does it function?

Posts in this Series:
1) The Light of Christ: Use of Candles at the Great Vigil, Christmas Eve, and Vespers -- On the conflation of various candles used within the liturgy
2) Let Your Light So Shine Before Others: Placement of Font and Paschal Candle as Sources of Controversy -- Discussing the placement of baptismal fonts and the emphasis such a location puts on the paschal candle
3) Burning to the Honor of Your Name: Paschal Candles and Sanctuary Lamps -- Have we developed two candles competing to signify Christ's presence?
4) Fed By the Melting Wax: Wax and Oil Candles as Sources of Tension -- How do practical decisions about the construction of candles subtly influence our decision to light the paschal candle?
5) Mingled with the Lights of Heaven: Consistent Use of Lights in the Liturgy -- Whatever you decide, be consistent.
6) In the Clarity of this Bright and Holy Light The Paschal Candle as a Resurrection Sign -- On the unique meaning and function of the paschal candle, and how that meaning is hindered when the paschal candle is lit outside of the Fifty Days

A Divine Liturgy for a Fallen World

Jonathan Aigner at Ponder Anew highlights this quote from Robert Johnston:

Unwilling to address life honestly, our worship floats above the fray in irrelevance. Rather than recognize that pain is an important part of contemporary life, we anesthetize our existence. We fail to allow into our worship the dark side.

As is his wont, Aigner turns his attention to the shortcomings of contemporary worship, its tendency towards emotional manipulation, rock star adoration, and entertainment.

Johnston's words, though, call to mind a quieter but equally dangerous tendency within the "creative" liturgy movement. As the Emergent movement continues to disintegrate, one stream has continued in its attempt to marry a humanistic Protestant liberalism to a watered-down liturgy. As a result, we end up with Confessions that don't confess anything, Kyries that sound more like bad pop music than a cry for divine help (I'm looking at you, ELW Setting 8), and a refusal to sing hymns that are too "dark" or "heavy."

The problem is the exact same thing we see in the contemporary movement: a steadfast refusal to admit the necessity of lament, a denial of sin and evil, and a peppy self-help theology that focuses on Brene Brown rather than Christ.

We need to make room in the liturgy for "heavy" songs because the world is heavy. We can clap our  hands and sing "This Little Light of Mine" until the cows come home, but what comfort does this bring to the young widower or to the single mother on food stamps?

I've said it before, and I will say it again: the Divine Liturgy must confront the reality of sin in our world. It must confront us with our sinful prejudice and our unholy greed. It must find the words to express the grief of young black man who has lost count of how many times he has been stopped and frisked. It must offer TRUE repentance and reconciliation.

The Divine Liturgy is a source of great hope -- but that hope only has meaning when it is brought out of the context of lament. The Mass is the Light of Christ shining in the world -- but that Light cannot ignore the Darkness of sin and Death.

Credo: Progressives and the Need for Robust Theological Thinking

The Apostles' Creed
13th century

Eternal Functional Subordination is an odd debate, but why does it matter? Why pay attention to Fundamentalist in-fighting?

I'm tempted to say, "Because theology matters."

But why? Why does theology matter? Who cares?

Sadly, "Who cares?" seems to be the driving force behind many Progressive Christians -- even authors, seminarians, and pastors.

Or, more accurately, we have been freed to ask the questions that matter, but we have been too apathetic to think through the answers. The result is, at best, an orthodox but incomplete answer; at worst, it's heresy.

"How do we understand the inter-relationship of the Trinity?" has become "God exists in community" sans engagement with the Creeds or the debates between the Greek East and Latin West.

"How do we think about the atonement?" has become "All the theories suck, and in the end, God is love and forgives" sans any engagement with the imagery woven into Scripture or the writings of our ancestors in the faith.

"Who may partake of Holy Communion?" has become "It's mean to exclude people" sans any sacramental theology or discussion of Holy Baptism.

In its most extreme form, Progressives have adopted Bultmann's rejection of a historical Resurrection. (And, if that's the case, let's pack it in. Without the Resurrection, our faith is in vain.)

There are, among the ranks of Progressive Christianity, those trying to take us back to the early 20th century and the days of Protestant Liberalism.

Charles Taylor traces the genealogy of this move in his masterpiece A Secular Age (or, if you don't have time for a tome of that size, James K.A. Smith provides a thorough summary in How (Not) to Be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor). In the Enlightenment, we see a shift from emphasis on the transcendent to the immanent, from things other-worldly to this-worldly. As a result, the emphasis moves from God's ability to save humanity to human ability. To quote Smith:

The result is a kind of intellectual Pelagianism: we can figure this out without assistance. Oh, God still plays a role -- as either the watchmaker who got the ball rolling, or the judge who will evaluate how well we did -- but in the long middle God plays no discernible role or function, and is uninvolved.

We are left with an emphasis on charitable action sans theology, a God who may be Alpha and Omega but is absent for the rest of the story, a God we do not need to contemplate and who doesn't care what we believe so long as we do good.

Picking up on similar themes while discussing Progressive Christianity's hesitance to think about sin and Satan, Richard Beck quotes Scot McKnight:

According to McKnight, for these "skinny jeans" Christians the kingdom of God means "good deeds done by good people (Christian or not) in the public sector for the common good." As he notes, given their focus on social justice these "skinny jeans" Christians have "turned the kingdom message of Jesus into a politically shaped message."

And sure enough, not a day goes by that I don't see seminarians posting heart-warming videos of good deeds proclaiming, "Kingdom of God is here!"

"The Kingdom of God has come near" becomes "Look at this cool non-profit" sans metanoia.

To be clear, I am not opposed to good deeds. As a Lutheran shaped by the Wesleyan tradition, I firmly believe that God's grace is at work in the world, even among those outside the Church, erupting into this world in unexpected ways. But as a Lutheran shaped by the Wesleyan tradition, I also believe that those works -- glimpses of God's grace though they may be -- are not sufficient to justify sinners.

Love and community are powerful speaking points. They are important elements of human existence and the Kingdom of God. But the very same reason these themes resonate also makes them important to define carefully. Too many Progressive Christians are unwilling to do the heavy theological lifting required to carefully define love and community.

Every human being desires love and community. It's part of the human condition. This commonality means that artists and culture makers have their own vision of human flourishing through love and community. It's why love songs and buddy adventure movies and rom-coms and dramas about human relationships (romantic and platonic) are so common.

The same can be said for charitable giving. There are a number of secular groups doing great work to alleviate human suffering across the world, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation chief among them. Countless non-profits are doing great work at the local level.

And yes, I will gladly grant that this is the Kingdom of God breaking into the world. The imago Dei didn't shatter in the Fall. Divine love is at work, even when human beings aren't aware of it.

But we must speak theologically about these things. It's not enough to look at someone feeding the hungry and say, "It's the Kingdom at work, y'all."

Such good works are like the first shoots of a crop coming up. They must be tended carefully, cultivated. For the Church, that means doing the theological heavy lifting to name the forces that defy God, to call out sin, and to name the powers and principalities for what they are. It means to speak of grace not in terms of human deeds but of God working through us.

And yes, it absolutely means feeding the hungry and clothing the naked and welcoming the refugee -- but doing so in the name of Christ. It means calling people into the Church through the Sacraments. Through our own works we might save people from the grave for a time, but by calling them into the Body of Christ by the grace of God through the waters of Baptism, they gain the assurance of salvation unto everlasting life.

Moreover, Progressive Christianity has a unique voice to contribute to the Church. Our willingness to engage with difficult questions (if we're willing to do the difficult work of seeking answers), our concern for things that happen in this life (if we're willing to care about matters transcendent), and our openness to the marginalized (if we maintain a belief in membership in the Body of Christ) can provide a powerful witness to the Kingdom of God. Affirmation of LGBT Christians, concern for the poor, and engagement with science are good; the Church should do these things. We must be aware, though, that our Fundamentalist kindred will push back against us.

Let us return to the EFS debate for a moment. Progressive Christians affirm egalitarian gender roles and the ordination of women. One of the driving forces behind EFS is precisely a rejection of these beliefs. If we want to engage our Fundamentalist friends and family, we must be well-versed in Scripture and the Tradition. We must engage with theology.

The Church is changing, especially in the US. We can no longer assume to be the norm. I for one, think this is a good thing. The Church some of its best work when it was on the outs. Justin Martyr, Iranaeus, Augustine, and Bonhoeffer wrote some of our best treatises while trying to figure out how to be the Church in the shadow of imperial oppression, the collapse of civilization, or, in Bonhoeffer's case, both.

But if we are to meet this challenge, if we are to re-discover what it means to be the Church, then we must be prepared to put forward a thought-out theology rather than a set of comforting aphorisms. If we are to continue being the Church, then it is not enough to do good deeds and think positive thoughts. To be the Church, to be the Body of Christ, to love as God loves, requires more. To be an in-breaking of the Kingdom of God means being more than Sunday morning do-gooders. I can feed the hungry and protect the environment without the Sunday morning wake up call -- and all the better, because I enjoy weekend brunch, hiking trips, and farmers' markets.  If we want to continue being the Church, we must be willing to stand before the assembly and say, "I believe...."

The Eternal Functional Subordination Debate: Why It Matters

Something strange is happening in the Fundamentalist world. For a few decades now, Wayne Grudem and a few others have been teaching that God the Son is eternally subordinate to God the Father.

The argument is as such:
Because
a) The Father begets the Son, and
b) The Son economically submits to the will of the Father
Therefore,
c) The Son is immanently (eternally) subordinate/submissive to the Father

The position is termed "eternal functional subordination," or "EFS" for short, and for a time, it was coupled with the position that the Son did not exist from eternity. Its advocates also attempt to maintain that while despite such subordination, the Son is not less than the Father.

The position becomes even more convoluted because EFS advocates then take this bewildering attempt at Trinitarian theology and try to apply it to human gender relations. It has become a long and mind-boggling way of arguing that women should submit to men while also trying to maintain that women are not inherently inferior to men.

The major disconnect is that subordination is inherently inferiority. To say that the Son is eternally subordinated to the Father is to say that the Son is immanently less than the Father. It is true that the Father takes precedence in the order of being (that is to say, the Son and Holy Spirit are begotten and precede, respectively, from the Father). This so-called "monarchy of the Father," (spelled out by the ELCA and Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America in this document; cf. para. 4) though, does not relate to obedience and submission. To suggest otherwise is to suggest that somehow the Persons of the Trinity have different eternal intentions or goals that the Son must relinquish to obey the Father. Or, using the terminology of the Athanasian Creed, would be to suggest that the members of the Trinity are not co-equal in majesty and glory.

(And, while we're at it, to say that women must submit to men is to say that women are inherently inferior to men. Of course, the claim is always just under the surface of Fundamentalist complementarian writing, but they refuse to acknowledge it. The Son is eternally begotten by the Father, and is consubstantial/of one being with the Father. In a lesser way, according to Genesis 2, Eve is made after Adam from a part of Adam's body; she is made of the same stuff. In Genesis 2 -- and notably, not in Genesis 1 -- Adam takes precedence in the order of Creation, but there is no reason to believe that Eve is therefore inferior to or must be submissive to Adam. Substance matters far more than order.)

For whatever reason, this debate exploded onto the scene during the summer of 2016. I won't go into the full details of the debate (there's simply not enough time), but you can read some of the main arguments as summarized by Scot McKnight here, as well as a longer rebuttal published on "Mortification of Spin" here and a snarky post "guest written" by John Calvin. patron of so many EFS advocates, here.

Interestingly, both complementarians and egalitarians sided against the EFS advocates. This is a minority position, even within the Fundamentalist/Complemenatrian/Pseudo-Calvinist camp.

The debate spread to the Evangelical Theological Society's annual meeting, where Bruce Ware (one of the EFS advocates changed his position to admit that the Son is eternally begotten after all. (Here's Southern Baptist Theological Seminary's article on the matter.)

There are a number of reasons to completely discount this position. I won't go into them in detail (again, there really isn't time -- these are debates that have already raged  and lasted for decades leading up to Nicea and later Chalcedon), but I will offer a brief summary:

1) The Creeds -- As to the position that the son is not eternally begotten (now, thankfully, cast aside), it is one of the key elements of the Nicene Creed. To confess otherwise is to venture into the Arian heresy. As to EFS, in general: the Nicene Creed confesses that Father and Son are consubstantial. There is no lesser deity in the Trinity. The Athanasian Creed spells it out further:

But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory equal, the Majesty co-eternal....
....And in this Trinity none is afore, or none other; none is greater, or less than another; but the whole three Persons are co-eternal together and co-equal.

The Athanasian Creed goes explains that the Son is only subordinate in the Incarnation -- that is, economically. EFS, then, is right out.

2) The Trouble with the Trinity -- Discussing the Trinity is remarkably difficult. There's a reason that councils were convened and otherwise noble theologians were deemed heretics. It's easy to get on the wrong track; as when traveling a great distance, changing your bearing by a few degrees can put you off course by hundreds of miles. Turn too far in one direction, accidentally end up becoming a tritheist or a unitarian. In over-emphasizing the distinction between the Father and Son (and, let's be honest, ignoring the Holy Spirit through and through), the EFS advocates start down the shockingly short path to tritheism. If the Son is subordinate, and therefore lesser, then what we end up with is a set of three gods rather than one God who exists in trinity.

3) "God is not 'man' said in a loud voice." -- The basis for EFS is the assumption that because human sons should submit to human fathers, therefore the Son submits to the Father. Despite all of Fundamentalist rhetoric about God's holiness, that God is so much further above humanity (rhetoric that, while taken in weird directions, is at least rooted in sound theological thinking), how strange it is then that EFS advocates are attempting to take a model for human relationships and read it into the inner workings of the Holy Trinity, that blessed mystery which exists beyond human understanding.

So...why does this matter? Why spend time giving a crap about an esoteric point of theology within the Fundamentalist world? By and large, the Mainline and Progressives have ignored this debate. A few have pointed to it as an entertaining side show, but few bloggers have actually weighed in -- as though Mainline and Progressive Christians don't really care.

A few things.

First, and this one is personal: Fundamentalists, including EFS advocates, spend so much time calling progressives heretics, claiming that we are not truly Christians for our openness to the findings of modern science, for the ordination of women and an egalitarian understanding of Church and family, for a willingness to discuss, let alone affirm, the role of LGBT+ persons in the Church. And yet when Grudem, Ware, and others leaders in the Fundamentalist world accept an outright heretical opinion, Albert Mohler does mental gymnastics to explain why they are not heretics. Mohler is one of the men who led the crusade against moderates in the SBC. At SBTS, he is venerated as the patron saint of Baptist fidelity, the champion of orthodoxy, and yet he is unwilling to turn his inquisition upon his friends. Rampant hypocrisy matters, and we should be prepared to call it out while defending our position in the Church.

Second, and as importantly, orthodoxy matters. I'll write more about this in a coming post (this one has already turned out much longer than I expected), but let me offer a quick summary. Progressives have been far too quick to say that the only thing that matters is loving, but we have been unwilling to do lay theological groundwork about what Christ means when he commands us to love God, neighbor, enemy, and each other. Theology, for all of its complications, is vital to the Church. We cannot claim we are willing to ask difficult questions if we are unwilling to wrestle with how these questions might shape our theology. Otherwise, what's the point? If all we care about is a general sense of love and community -- noble goals, certainly -- but without a clear theological framework for what they look like, why not become secular humanists? It'd certainly be easier to preach on Steinbeck than Job. It'd be simpler to preach that the key to community is emotional vulnerability rather than Christ crucified and risen. This means, though, that we must be prepared to enter into debates over points of theology, to interpret Sacred Scripture and the Tradition and make arguments rather than "I feel..." statements. The EFS position is an attack on orthodoxy and women's rights
. If progressive Christians want to have a voice in the Church, we must be prepared to but forward an orthodox theology.