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.

"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.

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.]

"Always Refer to Your Baptism" -- Il Papa on Making Eucharist Together

In recent weeks, representatives from the ELCA and the US Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) put forward a bold declaration of points where we have come to agree on the Church, ministry, and the Eucharist. (For a more detailed summary of the process, consult the Catholic News Service article.) They recognize the differences that divide us -- women in ministry, full acceptance of LGBT persons, married priests and bishops, explanations of how Christ is present in the Bread and Wine -- but these differences are not what makes this document unique. Rather, it is the declaration that Catholics and Lutherans should be able to (occasionally) commune together.

The document, called "Declaration on the Way," is well worth the read and has made quite a splash within ecclesial circles -- along the same lines of the "Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification," the groundbreaking work released in 1999. "Declaration on the Way" still has a long way to go. While the ELCA bishops have approved it, their decision is not binding. Rather, it will go before our Churchwide Assembly in 2016. From there, it will go to the Lutheran World Federation, the worldwide communion of independent Lutheran denominations. Likewise, same document will go before the entire USCCB for a vote on whether or not to send the proposal to Rome, where it would be considered by the Vatican's group on ecumenical relations. It's a long way to go, to be sure. The schism between Augsburg and Rome is not yet healed.

The en via, though, recognizes a central fact about the Eucharist: While it is a sign of ecclesial unity, it is also the means by which we are gracefully united into the Body of Christ. The Eucharist upholds our baptismal unity.

And Pope Francis has taken up this issue himself in recent weeks. He attended Vespers at the Lutheran parish in Rome, and in doing so, encouraged Lutherans and Catholics to forgive each other for the horrible persecutions they have perpetrated against each other and to work together. In and of itself, this is a marked shift from the pre-Vatican II church, but not unexpected from this Pope, who has met with the female presiding bishop of the ELCA and has worshiped alongside the Archbishop of Canterbury.

And then a woman asked a question. She and her husband are in a mixed Lutheran/Catholic marriage, and she wanted to know if she would ever be allowed to share the Eucharist with her full family. The Pope's response is worth quoting at length, as found at Whispers in the Loggia:

I think of how the Lord told us when he gave us this mandatumto “do this in memory of me,” and when we share the Lord’s Supper, we recall and we imitate the same as the Lord. And there will be the Lord’s Supper in the final banquet in the new Jerusalem – it’ll be there! But that will be the last one… in the meantime, I ask myself and don’t know how to respond – what you’re asking me, I ask myself the question. To share the Lord’s banquet: is it the goal of the path or is it the viaticum [etym. “to accompany you on the journey”] for walking together? I leave that question to the theologians and those who understand.

It’s true that in a certain sense, to share means that there aren’t differences between us, that we have the same doctrine – underscoring that word, a difficult word to understand. But I ask myself: but don’t we have the same Baptism? If we have the same Baptism, shouldn’t we be walking together? And you’re a witness of a likewise profound journey, a journey of marriage: itself a journey of family and human love and of a shared faith, no? We have the same Baptism.

...
I can only respond to your question with a question: what can I do with my husband that the Lord’s Supper might accompany me on my path? It’s a problem that each must answer [for themselves], but a pastor-friend once told me that “We believe that the Lord is present there, he is present” – you believe that the Lord is present. And what's the difference? There are explanations, interpretations, but life is bigger than explanations and interpretations. Always refer back to your baptism – one faith, one baptism, one Lord: this Paul tells us; and then consequences come later.

I would never dare to give permission to do this, because it’s not my own competence. One baptism, one Lord, one faith. Talk to the Lord and then go forward. [Pauses] And I wouldn't dare – I don’t dare say anything more.

Video of his response from the Catholic News Service:

The Pope's response reminds me of the ELCA's presiding bishop when I had the chance to ask her about our relationship with Rome this summer:

That is a scandal....The Reformation needed to happen, but we should not celebrate when the Church is fractured....With Christ, all things are possible....I'm not going to put a date on it, but it is our Lord's will.

A time is coming at this, the end of the age, when we will gather together and join the unending hosts of heaven in celebrating our Lord's presence among us.

Thanks be to God.

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Post-Script: As an aside, Il Papa addressed the gathering of the Catholic Church in Italy with the following words and a hat-tip to the Lutheran tradition:

"The reform of the church then, and the church is semper reformanda ... does not end in the umpteenth plan to change structures," he continued. "It means instead grafting yourself to and rooting yourself in Christ, leaving yourself to be guided by the Spirit -- so that all will be possible with genius and creativity."

Scattered Thoughts on Eucharistic Praxis: Expanding on Frustration

My previous post was born out of frustration after three days of participating in Eucharistic liturgies done poorly -- or rather, in ways which seem to neglect the supreme importance of the Church's sacramental celebration. Certainly, Christ was still present in the elements; grace abounds. But our practice, while entirely dependent upon God's grace, should not be performed sans care or thought.

Likewise, my frustration should not be tossed out as a glib offering without proper explanation of why I find certain practices so troubling.

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1. It is indeed right and salutary to provide an alcohol-free element. It is not right for that option to be cranberry juice.

The Vine and its fruit are important images for the Church. Throughout Scripture, the Vine is used as a way to understand God's relationship to Israel and the Gentiles -- that we are branches grafted upon the Vine. Likewise, Christ claimed to be the Vine -- not the bog (or the berry bush, for those of you out there using Blackberry Manischewitz). The central symbol is not just that Christ is a fruit-bearing plant, but that he is a particular type of plant.

In rushing to do good -- to provide for the inclusion of the entire Church in the Eucharist -- we should not ignore the symbols of our faith.

2. Your bread should not be heavily flavored, as with garlic. Your bread should definitely not have parmagiano cheese dust on it.

There are some recipes for Communion bread which call for small amounts of honey. What makes garlic cloves or cheese powder so different?

For starters, the honey (much like the salt or sugar) is thoroughly mixed into the bread in a way that minced garlic is not, and certainly in a way that cheese powder does not.

More importantly, though, is that the recipe used for the bread should not distract  from the centrality of the bread. If one uses honey, it should not make the bread so sweet as to taste like cake. Cloves of garlic, olives and other fruits, and cheeses distract from the bread itself.

With both the bread and the wine, one is forced to ask, "Can Christ be present in cranberry juice or bits of garlic clove? Can Jesus show up in parmagiano cheese?" Certainly. I suspect that Jesus is fully capable of showing up in the coffee and donuts we share in the fellowship hall after the service and in the beer and pizza I enjoyed frequently during seminary. Let's hope that the Triune God is present at all of our meals. But this is not a question of God can do. It's a question of where Jesus told us he would show up: that on the night in which he was betrayed, he took bread and wine, and said that are his Body and Blood given for us.

3. The appropriate response upon receiving the Host and the Chalice is not, "Thank you."

Please, don't thank me. In the Eucharist, neither the celebrant nor the servers (ordained and lay) are the major actors. I do firmly believe that the celebrant and servers play some role in the Sacrament -- but then again, so do the laity who faithfully participate in the celebration. The entire point of the Eucharist is to give thanks to God rather than mortals.

So instead, either respond with, "Thanks be to God," or even more appropriately, "Amen" (which literally translated means "surely" or "certainly" -- as in, "This truly is the Body and Blood of our Savior.")

4. When you receive, actually receive -- with open hands. I am not about to move the Host back and yell, "Psych!" nor am I Mr. Miyagi training you to snatch a pebble from my hand.

Much like prayer, there are a number of ways to reverently receive -- with open hands, via a spoon (as is the Orthodox tradition), or directly on the tongue (a practice maintained in certain Catholic circles, but which I have also seen performed in Lutheran parishes). And, like positions of prayer, it is difficult to say that there is a "right" way to commune. However, there are ways which are more reverential. Snatching is most certainly less reverential in that it treats the Sacrament like a buffet line.

Moreover, those serving at the Altar are doing just that -- serving. This is a sacred duty that many of us undertake with great care as it is an opportunity for us to live into Christ's call that we be "servants to all."

Finally, there is a practical aspect. If the Host is locally made bread rather than the thin, flat wafer, grabbing it from the server can lead to crumbs. Crumbs at the dining room table are annoying; crumbs at the Lord's Table are disrespectful of the Body of Christ itself.

5. I know. The plastic cups resemble shot glasses. That does not mean, however, that you must "toss it back."

I'll be honest: this one is more of a pet peeve. There is something, though, that strikes me as disrespectful when a communicant slings there entire head back as though the Precious Blood were a shot at a bar. I am the first to say that we need to stop using the "thimbles" for the Sacrament (and my goal for every parish I serve is to move them away from the practice). But if we are stuck with the shot glass/thimble method of distribution, we can at least treat it as reverently as possible.

As with receiving the Host, there are certain actions that are more dignified than others. Simply tilting the cup to the mouth is more dignified than throwing one's entire head back while communing.

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Our practices are important -- not because they are pleasing to God or do anything to justify us, but because they form us into a people who show our awe and thankfulness towards God. In doing so, we open ourselves to the work of the Holy Spirit in a manner similar to reading Sacred Scripture or giving alms to those in need.

In adopting more faithful practice, we cooperate with God's work through the Sacraments and allow for our continued sanctification.

Scattered Thoughts on Eucharistic Praxis

1. It is indeed right and salutary to provide an alcohol-free element. It is not right for that option to be cranberry juice.

2. Your bread should not be heavily flavored, as with garlic. Your bread should definitely not have parmagiano cheese dust on it.

3. The appropriate response upon receiving the Host and the Chalice is not, "Thank you."

4. When you receive, actually receive -- with open hands. I am not about to move the Host back and yell, "Psych!" nor am I Mr. Miyagi training you to snatch a pebble from my hand.

5. I know. The plastic cups resemble shot glasses. That does not mean, however, that you must "toss it back."

Frankly, I'm a bit surprised any of this needs to be said.

Towards a Catholic Roman Church

I often tell people that I'm on the catholic side of the Lutheran tradition -- looking from Augsburg to Rome, or perhaps swimming in the Tiber.

I'm also asked why I'm a Lutheran instead of a Roman Catholic, given my passionately high view of the Sacraments and liturgy, my lofty ecclesiology, favor for Tradition in addition to Scripture, etc.

The easy answer to that question is that I'm married but still feel called to ordained ministry. Because those are (almost) mutually exclusive* options for Roman Catholics, I decided to keep my affiliation north of the Alps.

There are, though, other issues I care about which prevent me from crossing the Tiber: admitting all baptized Christians to the Altar, ordination of women, and treatment of LGBT Christians.

As much as I respect the current Bishop of Rome, and as much as I long to see the Protestant and Catholic traditions reconciled, I also recognize that these issues will continue to divide us.

There has been movement towards reconciliation, and we should celebrate that movement. The ELCA Presiding Bishop has met with Pope Francis at the Vatican, and she is committed to interdenominational dialog. (Of course, her husband is a priest in the Episcopal Church, so dinner with the family is an ecumenical event in her household.) Along with the "Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification" and "From Conflict to Communion," these are hopeful signs.

As Il Papa prepared to arrive in Cuba and the US, a retired bishop in California stirred the waters by calling for women's ordination and an end to clerical celibacy. He asks not just for a papal declaration but fore a new council, a Vatican III. (For a more detailed explanation, check out the Jesuit magazine, America's article on the topic.)

With Bishop Quinn's op ed, NPR thought it a good time to remind their audience that some parts of the Catholic Church have already started ordaining women -- but that they have also been met with excommunication. Outside of the "independent" Catholic communities (an oxymoron if ever there was one, valid though their goals may be), the Old Catholic tradition -- those who broke off after Vatican I -- do allow married and women clergy, and they have gone through the same growing pains as the ELCA, PC(USA), and Episcopal Church over the issue of LGBT inclusion. (Unfortunately, they lack a strong presence in the US.)

What's it going to take? When can we hope for a truly catholic Church? Will Augsburg, Rome, and Canterbury ever reunite? (To say nothing of Geneva and the East.) Not until we are willing to recognize each other's clergy. If I may be so bold, the stumbling block on this issue is in Rome.

As much as I long for a full reconciliation between the divided Western Church, I must admit I do not see it happening in my lifetime.

There is one sign, though, of things to come for which I truly hope, one indicator that we are moving in the right direction, towards unity, which will precede all others, and may occur before I die.

Before any other move towards unity, we must -- and will -- come together around the Eucharist which will be open to all baptized Christians.

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*Priests in certain Eastern Catholic rites may be married. So may Anglican priests who become Catholic under provisions set up by St. John Paul II and Benedict XVI. These priests are fully in communion with the Bishop of Rome.

A Truly Catholic Liturgy: Sharing the Table

Part I of a series of reflections from the Wild Goose Festival
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I spent the past weekend at the Wild Goose Festival in Hot Springs, North Carolina. Wild Goose is a celebration of the intersection between progressive politics and spirituality -- largely from the perspective of post-Evangelical North American Christianity. It's the sort of place where people, without any small talk, immediately begin sharing their stories of hurt and, at times, abuse in the Church and how they've come to find love and acceptance within the same Church (though certainly within a different parish or denomination). It's the sort of place where people give away free food to their fellow campers, where bottles of bourbon are passed like the Pax, and where disagreements become charitable and edifying conversation.

As I prepared for the weekend, looking over the schedule of performances and presentations, I noticed an hour-long block scheduled for Saturday night: "7:00 PM -- Liturgy: Roman Catholic Mass, Justice Tent."

Immediately, I asked the question. With everything that I've heard about Wild Goose and the type of people who attend, would this be an open table? Would I, a Lutheran, be invited to share the Body of Christ? To drink from the Cup of Salvation?

On to my calendar it went, and I looked forward to it all weekend. When people in my group asked me what I was planning on doing that night, I excitedly told them, "Oh, there's a Catholic Mass tonight."

And then they asked me the other question. "You won't be able to take Communion, will you?"

"I don't know. I mean, officially, no. But if there's ever going to be an open table, it's going to be here."

With no small amount of skepticism, my friends saw me off on Saturday night. I found the tent and stood around awkwardly while people filed in. We moved some chairs around to encircle the make-shift Altar as the priest prepared the chalice and paten. We sat as he welcomed us and said the words I'd been waiting for: "This is an open table."

The liturgy started, and I knew the words (with, granted, a few minor changes in phrasing). I could participate.

And then we got to the sermon. The priest read the Gospel and told us he had nothing to add. It was a festival of teaching, and he wanted to know what we had heard among the tents and tables. What were we picking up in this place that we would carry back to our parishes. People shared in the communal homily.

We celebrated the Eucharist. The priest prayed the Canon, we offered our Amen, and the paten was passed, from person to person. And then the chalice. We were all serving each other at the Altar. We were all the Body of Christ.

When the Sacrament got to me, I shared with my Roman brothers and sisters. The five-hundred-year schism between Rome and Augsburg was, for a moment, healed. Through the Eucharist, we participated in a proleptic vision of God's Kingdom. There was neither Greek nor Jew, male nor female, slave nor free, Protestant nor Catholic. We were united into one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church. As the grains of wheat, once scattered upon the hill, were gathered to become one bread, so too was the fractured Church united.

After, we were dismissed in peace to love and serve our Lord.

I wandered down to the Episcopal tent and joined in praying Compline.

Gloria in Excelsis Deo.