"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.

Epiphany: A Brief Word on the Forgotten Season

When writing my sermons, I often have "false starts" that don't lead anywhere. As I prepare to preach on the Baptism of our Lord this coming Sunday, I found myself reflecting on the nature of Epiphany. It's not a great introduction as far as homilies are concerned, but something I still found worth sharing.

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We're at an odd point in our liturgical calendar. Advent is over. Christmas has ended. We aren't at Lent yet. No, we're in the season after Epiphany. And what do we know about Epiphany? This is not the big feast day of our year – especially after the intense celebration of Christmas. Add to that our confusion of Epiphany – in the West, it developed into a celebration of the Magi, an event popular culture has rolled into Christmas day. As such, Epiphany and its surrounding events tend to go completely unnoticed. Unlike Christmas or Maundy Thursday, most Protestant congregations don't hold a special service to celebrate the Epiphany of our Lord.

By comparison, our sister and brothers in the Orthodox Church make a big deal out of Epiphany (which they know under the name Theophany). Their celebration follows the more ancient pattern and combines the visit of the Magi, our text for today (the Baptism of our Lord), and Christ's first miracle at the wedding in Cana of Galillee, turning water into wine.

This shift in perspective is important – even vital. We think of Epiphany as an end -- the end of the Christmas season (if we even make it that long), moving on to the long wait until Ash Wednesday. Time to sit on our hands and wait for a more interesting season. But if we celebrate Epiphany -- fully celebrate it, with midweek services, and a feast of its own, and bring back ALL of the readings -- if we focus on the Magi AND the Baptism of our Lord AND the Wedding at Cana, it becomes something entirely different. It's not an ending – it's the beginning of Christ's public ministry.

Lex Credendi: Liturgy is Not Enough

Last month, I wrote about the identity-bearing narratives used by white nationalists, especially co-opting certain elements of Romanticism, to build up a mythology of white male superiority. I suggested that the Church has a better narrative and better rituals which expose the violent lies of white nationalism:

The Church has better rituals than the racists. Ours are Good, True, and Beautiful. Our rituals are means of grace, by which God is present in our midst. The Holy Spirit hovers over the water in our baptismal font. Our Risen Lord meets us on the Altar Table. 

When the Church celebrates the Divine Service of the Holy Eucharist, we re-tell the grand narrative that God created the world and has redeemed humanity from our own demonic actions. We re-live our forgiveness and reconciliation, we greet each other as equals with a sign of God's peace, and we are re-membered into the one everlasting Body of Christ. And then we are sent forth in peace to serve the Lord.

I stand by what I said. The Sacraments, and the liturgy by which we celebrate them, are means of grace, and through them, God is continuing to redeem the cosmos.

Upon further reflection, though, I feel I must concede an ugly truth: racism lives on, even in liturgical traditions. The most pressing example is Dylan Roof, the terrorist who martyred nine black Christians in Charleston, SC. Roof was raised in a Lutheran (ELCA) congregation -- and one just a few miles from Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary.

More broadly, the Roman Catholic Church still has its dark corners. During the 2016 campaign, a leaked e-mail from a Democratic operative claimed that many GOP members were Catholics because they were "attracted to the systematic thought and severely backwards gender relations" and the Roman Church is "the most socially acceptable politically conservative religion." And while I know too many progressive faithful Catholics to believe that the Catholic Church is "politically conservative" (rather, like the entire Church, Catholicism defies human political binaries), there is a disturbing truth to the leaked letter.

Consider Rudy Giulliani and Newt Gingrich, Catholics who treat the Church as a useful political tool but seem to be unconcerned with any of the Church's teachings on fidelity in marriage, the death penalty, or care for the poor.

More to the point, though, consider Milo Yiannopolous, a leading voice against women's rights and Islam. (To the point of my previous post, he took on the name of the German composer Wagner.) Yiannopolous claims to be a practicing Catholic.

More terrifying examples abound on the fringes of Rome, in movements that have been excommunicated. Antisemitism runs rampant in the "traditionalist" Latin-only organizations like the Society of Saint Pius X and its own break-away group, the Society of Saint Pius V.

Things get even weirder when you look at some of the Facebook pages dedicated to Eastern Orthodoxy. Mixed in with the videos of the Divine Liturgy and pictures of monks are dire warnings about the scourge of Islam, praises of Putin and the new Russian nationalism, and other troubling signs of European ethnic supremacy.

Certain groups embrace Catholicism and Orthodoxy not only because they are "socially acceptable" but because they play into the mythos of white nationalism. A small faction co-opts the beauty of the liturgical tradition and the violent medieval and Renaissance history of Rome and Constantinople.

Crusaders Entering Constantinople
Gustave Dore, 19th cent.

We've seen this before: 19th century British Romanticism saw both a recovery of the Catholic liturgy alongside a glorification of images of crusading knights, both as ways of bolstering British colonial attitudes. Neo-gothic parishes and cathedrals soared alongside stylized depictions of King Richard the Lionheart. Crusade language is not uncommon. They play up the imagery of Constantinople -- and Kiev and Moscow -- as the last lines of defense against the "Turks." They play up the imagery of a Holy Roman Empire fighting a holy war against invaders -- from Eastern Europe, from North Africa, from the Levant.

In short, there is a terrifying move to use the beautiful solemnity of the liturgy as a veneer for racism, to radicalize young men in the Church.

I have long been an advocate for the phrase lex orandi, lex credendi -- the law of prayer, the law of belief. What we say and do during the Mass shapes our faith. I still hold to this. But it is not enough -- or, more correctly, we need to follow through with the second half of the saying.

All too often, we settle for aesthetic liturgy devoid of any sense of orthodoxy. We leave our praxis at in the pews and at the Altar, rather than going out to live in the world as the Body of Christ.

To expose the powers and principalities that would corrupt the Church and its liturgy, we must be clear in our theology. We must be willing to label sin and evil, to point them out. We must be able to point to the Creeds and Scripture, do a doctrine of Creation, that dismantles racism. We must be able to explain what it means when we continually quote the First Epistle of Saint John, that "God is love." Those of us with the unenviable task of climbing into the pulpit must be willing to address the horror of sin, evil, and death -- not as obstacles to holistic living, but as forces that oppose God. Teachers must be catechists, willing to dissect what it means to "renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God" and to "put your whole trust in [Christ's] grace and love."

And then, we must be willing to actually go in peace and serve the Lord. The dismissal is not some polite suggestion. It's part of what makes us an apostolic Church: that we are sent out to prepare the way of the Lord. It's not vain repetition -- unless we fail to heed the commandment.

If we fail to believe what we do, we risk treating the Divine Service like a facade, a hollow structure used to hide the ugliness underneath. God has given us the Sacraments as means of grace to transform that ugliness, not hide it.

Pfatteicher's Dissent

Throughout my series, I've suggested that expressing continuity between Advent and Lent is desirable. Philip Pfatteicher, Lutheran liturgist extraordinaire and among my academic heroes, disagrees.  Here's his thinking from the Manual on the Liturgy for the Lutheran Book of Worship:

The traditional color of Advent purple, the royal color of the coming King. The preferred color in the Lutheran Book of Worship, however, is blue, which has a precedent in the Swedish Church and in the Mozarabic rite. Blue suggests hope, a primary theme of Advent. In any case, the Advent parakeets should not be the same as those used for Lent, for the character of the two seasons is quite different, and the only symbol common to both seasons is the Lamb of God.

No word on if his reasoning pertains exclusively to symbols embroider on the vestments and paraments (such as a Star of Bethlehem for Advent and the Spear of Longinus for Lent) or if his thinking extends to even simple vestments free of added emblems.

Color and Adiaphora

I have repeatedly chalked liturgical colors up to a matter of adiaphora. At the end of the day, I'm not terribly concerned.

Have I spent the better part of a week researching and writing about liturgical colors? Yes. Because I'm a nerd.

Am I going to excommunicate anyone over it? No.

Still, I don't believe adiaphora is synonymous with "unimportant." Those charged with caring for sacred things should always think carefully about everything. The seemingly trivial decisions we make have resounding implications.

In the words of Paul Strodach, from his liturgical commentary A Manual on Worship:

Use of Liturgical Colors, and hangings and vestments in such colors, are not arbitrary or recent invention or innovation. They are the development of church sue and expression through many centuries. There is a definite purpose in their employment: it is to teach through the eye. They are symbolic, and by this means the worshiper receives constantly and silently an external comment or lesson which calls to mind the period of the Church Year through which he is passing, in which he is worshiping, and the great facts of redemption memorialized. Such a contribution is very helpful: it adds its individual not to the great harmony of the worship in which he is engaging.

Prepare the Way: Penitence in Advent

Perhaps the largest point of contention for the Great Blue/Purple Debate is the function of Advent. Is it a time of preparation or of hope?

I addressed this briefly in my post on Monday, but allow me to build on what I said.

If we consider the texts assigned in the RCL and the preceding lectionaries, we see a decided emphasis on penitence as part of preparation. Yes, Isaiah has a good deal to say about hope and renewal, but John the Baptist is there, too, calling us to repentance.

Furthermore, the origins of Advent -- shrouded in the fog of historical distance though they are -- hint at penitential origins. From Bishop J. Neil Alexander's entry on Advent in The New Westminster Dictionary of Liturgy and Worship:

Fifth- and sixth-century evidence shows a variety of penitential observances in Gaul and Spain lasting as many as six weeks. Some have sought the origin of Advent in the practice of Epiphany baptism by noting parallels to the shape of Lent. Others have called attention to sixth-century synodical documents and episcopal decrees that enjoin the faithful to penitence from the feast of Martin of Tours to the feast of Epiphany. Still others have taken note of the fast of the tenth month of pagan Rome and suggest that Advent may have begun as a response of the church in the continuing memory of the pagan winter fast.

Missing from Bp. Alexander's account is the parallel of the long season of fasting that leads to the Orthodox celebration of the Nativity. The good bishop goes on to remind us that there is no consensus concerning the origins of Advent. Still, their does appear to be unity among the theories -- and our Orthodox kindred's analogous fast -- of a penitential Advent.

Paul Strodach sums up the role of Advent -- and Lent -- beautifully in his brief explanation of the color:

Violet, the color of royal mourning, is scheduled for periods of preparation and penitence.

To reiterate my conclusion from Monday, I am less concerned about the color than the function behind it. Wear blue if you want. But please -- PLEASE -- do not neglect the dual function of both penitence and hope as we prepare for the Advent of our Lord.

Black, Violet, and Blue

Pope Cope

In digging around some of my liturgical textbooks, I came across Martin Dudley's entry on liturgical colors in The New Westminster Dictionary of Liturgy and Worship (which, in my humble opinion, should be a required text for anyone involved in liturgical planning). He remarks on the connection between blue, violet, and black vestments:

Black, violet, and blue seem to be interchangeable in the medieval palette, and black was used in Jerusalem in Advent and on Christmas Eve instead of violet and was also assigned to feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This is perhaps part of the development of blue as Mary's colour, as found in Cologne.

Those who argue for certain Marian overtones -- or at least a connection between the colors of Advent and Marian feasts -- do have some room to argue from Tradition, my own misgivings notwithstanding.

Later in the entry, Dudley points to differences between purple: purpureus indicates the "red-purple" and violaceus a "blue-purple." Such distinction does survive today in the General Instruction of the Roman Missal, if memory serves.

Which brings me to a point of minutiae: I tend to call the liturgical color "purple," but properly it is called "violet." From Pfatteicher's Commentary on the Lutheran Book of Worship:

The drafters of the Commons Service Book  and the Service Book and Hymnal knew the tradition out of which they came and so specified "violet" as the proper color for Advent and Lent, translating  violaceus of the Roman rubrics. The name, in Latin and in English, was intended to describe a blue-purple. The editors of the Lutheran Book of Worship, bowing to prevailing popular practiced, used "purple" to describe the color rather than "violet," but the book encourages the use of blue, listing it first.

Work to Do While We Wait: In Praise and Defense of a Purple Advent

One of the fastest ways to start a light-hearted argument in a Lutheran church is to bring up the blue/purple debate around Advent.

Disclaimer: Results may vary. Author is not responsible for any threats of excommunication which may be incurred. Warning: Do not attempt on ELCA Clergy Facebook page as the debate may escalate quickly. Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.

Knowing that I'm treading into unduly controversial waters, let me throw a couple of cards on the table:

• My background is in the United Methodist tradition. Growing up in the 90s and 00s, purple was still the preferred color for Advent. Purple for Advent brings back a lot of nostalgia. (Also, good Lord, am I old enough to have nostalgia?)
• I'm convinced that the term adiaphora was coined specifically to resolve debates about liturgical colors. I can think of few things that matter less. Yes, colors have meanings attached to them, but these attachments are incredibly diverse. We'll come back to this, but suffice it to say that the liturgical colors aren't on the back side of the Ten Commandments. This is not a hill I'm willing to die on. In the end, if you want to send your altar guild on a shopping spree to buy a full set of blue vestments and paraments, go right ahead.
• It's adiaphor, but I'm still passionate about it.
• I favor simplicity when it comes to vestments and paraments. Which is to say, vestments and paraments should be free of large, elaborate illustrations and words. (Looking at you, Gaspard.) In the same line of thought, the fewer sets needed, the better. If you can get away with using one set for two seasons, do it.
• I'm not even going near the use of a rose candle and vestments for Gaudete Sunday. I don't know why some people detest the rose candle so much, but they do. They're wrong, but they do.

So...what color should we use for Advent?

My first instinct is to look at the Tradition. What colors have we used in the past, and why?

Unfortunately, this is not an easy question to answer -- partially because there wasn't a universal custom. Certain proponents of blue will point to the Sarum Rite, and some of the more liturgically savvy proponents of blue prefer to call it "Sarum Blue" -- but the Sarum Rite actually calls for black during Advent AND Lent (hints of a connection we'll revisit later on). I've also seen that the Swedish Church used blue, but I haven't found a firm source on this -- not that I've looked very hard.

As an aside, I have read that different dyes fade to different colors, and so the black vestments in common use may have faded to different colors based on what type of dye was used. Thus, in certain areas, the black Advent and Lent vestments faded to blue, and in other areas, where a different dye was in use, they faded to purple. I like this explanation, and you can read a variation of it here.

The one problem with the above explanation is that it fails to explain for the new-found distinction between Advent and Lent. Some parishes would use blue, others purple. Sure, that makes sense. But when and why did they start using different colors between seasons?

As far as I can tell, the primary color during the first half of the 20th century was purple. Across the board, in Roman Catholic, Episcopal, Lutheran, and Methodist parishes. Across the US, and presumably Europe as well. And then, suddenly, the Lutheran Book of Worship tossed a hand grenade into the fray, listing blue as the preferred color for Advent. To be fair, I don't think they realized how passionate some parties would become about the liturgical color.

That timeline, by the way, is probably why it has become such a hot-button issue. Advent and Christmas are times when the liturgy gives way to nostalgia. For congregations that adopted the change quickly, they've been using it for nearly forty years. Even late adopters have been going on twenty. That means that we have two generations of people working in ministry who have firm associations of the blue Advent of their childhood, the same way I have firm memories of the purple from my own youth. Neither of us wants to admit that our childhood pastor could have been wrong.

Tradition struck out. What about the colors themselves, can light can they offer?

Colors and their meanings are remarkably fluid. Green, the color we associate with new life and growth, is also associated with envy. You rarely hear about a blue blood with a blue collar job. Pink and blue, the "traditional" distinctions for baby girls and boys, were reversed not long ago.

The main point I hear is that blue is the color of hope.

Prove it.

No, seriously, I want someone to show me an article from the history of art or theology that connects blue and hope -- and before the great Purple/Blue Advent shift. I've seen and heard this article numerous times, but nobody has ever backed up the claim with anything. What makes blue the color of hope? Do we only think this because it was a way to make sense of the new, blue frontal on the pulpit?

If blue is the color of hope, sure, fine, we have a place to start a conversation. But saying it's so does not make it so. It's okay if you want to start a new tradition, but don't make up facts to support your position.

A smaller group points to the connection between blue and the Blessed Virgin Mary. Fair enough, I'll buy that as a foundation, but I have two points of contention. First, given the prevalence of the Lutheran Book of Worship in starting this debate, I would find it difficult to believe that Marian devotion played a significant role. Believe me, as an Evangelische Catholic, I would love to see a renewed devotion to the Blessed Mother, but I doubt that it was a driving force for Lutheran liturgical decisions. Secondly, Mary plays only a small part in Advent; she doesn't show up until Week IV.

Both sides lay claim to the royal connections to their colors, and both sides are correct. From Rev. David Hansen's blog, linked above:

Yes, blue is the color of royalty -- but so is purple. Both colors of fabric were very expensive in the days before chemical dyes, because they required such deep, rich colored berries. If you lived around the Mediterranean, chances are your royalty wore purple -- because those were the berries (or other natural dyes) in wide use. If you lived in Northern Europe, chances are your royalty wore blue -- because those were the berries available.

Purple and blue have royal associations, and thus both are appropriate for our expectation of Christ's advent.

Advocates for a blue Advent this year also point to the penitential implications behind purple. And they're right! We use purple during Lent, and priests and pastors wear purple when visiting the hospital and hearing confession.

So really, it comes down to this: Do Advent and Lent have anything in common? Does Advent have a penitential aspect to it?

Yes. Absolutely, yes.

The liturgical calendar has a sort of symmetry about it. We mark two seasons of purple, in which we wait with proleptic anticipation for that which has happened and will happen, in penitence and hope, for Christ to show up -- in Bethlehem and Jerusalem and at the Resurrection of the Dead. The two purple seasons are followed by the two white and gold seasons, when we celebrate Christ's triumph -- his birth, and then when he returns as the First Born from among the dead. And then each of those seasons are followed by the green of ordinary time.

As we anticipate both the Nativity and the Parousia, we are called to reflect on our own shortcomings. Christ came as a savior and redeemer, and will return as a savior and redeemer. As we await both the Triduum and the Resurrection of the Dead, we are called to reflect on our own shortcomings.

Our Orthodox sisters and brothers understand this; they mark their equivalent of Advent with a full fast.

Using purple for Advent reminds us of the inherent connection between the seasons of the Church year while also reminding us that there is work to be done while we wait.

If our only goal is to differentiate between Advent and Lent, then we are going down the wrong path. Some would dismiss the penitential aspect of Advent -- as though that's the only meaning purple has -- while insisting that Advent is about hopeful preparation. But this misses the mark. Both seasons are about preparation, and preparation requires both penitence and hope. Both seasons call us to an introspective penitence while also joining in the hopeful expectation of Christ's coming in glory. In Advent, we prepare for the Feast of the Nativity, when Christ entered our world, and for Christ's return. In Lent, we prepare for Holy Week, the Triumphal Entry, the Passion, and the Resurrection, and for our Lord's return.

Put up blue, if you want. But please, don't deny the essential connection between Advent and Lent.

Song of a People: Narrative, Liturgy, and the Horror of Resurgent White Nationalism

Jonathan Aigner at Ponder Anew offers this reflection on how "contemporary" worship commodified and marketed to reach certain "target demographics" has created a self-centered Church unwilling and unable to see through the lies and greed of the Trump campaign:

Being a Christian isn’t about simply improved personal behavior in the pursuit of a happier existence. No, God wants changed lives that change the world around them. The ancient principle of lex orandi, lex credendi (“as we worship, so we believe”) holds true. If your corporate worship is self-serving, self-indulgent, and self-absorbed, the kind of disciples you create are going to be narcissistic and masturbatory, finding fulfillment in the satiation of their anxieties and desires.
No wonder a self-serving narcissist won the white evangelical vote.
[...]
Me-worship ignores the evil and oppression in the world. True worship acknowledges the anger, and the violence, and the hatred, and the injustice, and the crap in the world around us.

He's on to something here, but perhaps more than he intended.

In President-elect Trump's unquenchable desire for victory, he opened a crack into a dark cave. His rhetoric and willful use of lies and misinformation created the perfect place for white nationalists to come roaring through. Sure, there's some of the old guard Stormfront crowd. David Duke is still around. But there's a group of men about my age who have taken up the swastika as well.

If you haven't seen it already, take the time to watch The Atlantic's video of the white nationalist gathering in DC.

It's among the most terrifying videos of a grotesque campaign cycle.

Yes, the newly-elected administration has denounced the gathering, but our president-elect has reserved his harshest condemnations for Saturday Night Live and Hamilton.

These are the people that Steve Bannon has tried to court over at Breitbart.

One of my darkest secrets is that I understand the appeal of white nationalism. Let me be very clear here: I am not now, nor have I ever been, associated with a white nationalist group nor subscribed to a white nationalist ideology. I have seen too many slave cabins and concentration camps and too many pictures of lynched men to ever believe that the Klan or Nazis offer anything of real value to the world. Despite the violence, I get the draw and even feel the beginning nudges of temptation as white nationalists play down the racism and play up the romantic notion of mythic origin. I'm not suggesting that white nationalist narrative endeavors are good (quite the opposite) but instead that they are effective.

The racism that drives white nationalism is undeniably violent, and that violence moves from the verbal to the physical. Racial slurs lead to lynching and Kristallnacht.

And they dress it up so well.

Neuschwanstein
Inspired by Wagner's Lohengrin

As a young man, a socially awkward introvert who has a hard time connecting to people and is interested in Romanticism, mythology, and liturgy, I remember fondly my time in Germany. The ever-present castles the dot the hills haunt my imagination. The Bavarian countryside, with its Alpine backdrop, is among the most sublime landscapes I've seen. I've toured King Ludwig's Wagnerian palace, Neuschwanstein; it is truly impressive. Mythology is powerful, and it pulls on the heart as much as the mind. I get why someone would place Germany at the center of a white nationalist mythos. I get the appeal of a story of belonging and identity built around grand mythological imagery.

Consider the Nuremberg Rallies -- what are they if not cultural liturgies on a horrifyingly grand scale? Hitler and his brood were able to dress up their hatred and violence behind a narrative of belonging and nationhood. They disguised their acts of destruction as grand works of creation.

Yes, white nationalists use pseudo-scientific concepts to form an intellectual base, but a misappropriation of genetics and sociology will only get you so far. White nationalism appeals as much to pathos as to logos, and for that, you need a mythic narrative.

They also told a story of a grand nation that was destined for greatness and domination. It wasn't the eugenic theory that attracted German attention. It was the romantic imagery of German nation, paraded through the most picturesque German villages and with a moving symphonic score. And then -- and here's the master stroke -- they gave people a way to re-create this story, to re-live the new mythology.

Which brings us back to the present. The new white nationalists (they call themselves the "Alt Right," but don't let them hide behind a new name; call them what they are: racists) are trying to build up their new mythology, and they're taking the old conservative talking points to do it: that America is a white, European nation built on the genius of Anglo-Saxon culture. That Trump has opened the door for white nationalists to re-take what they believe to be theirs.

Of course, we know this to be false. We know the bloody history of our nation, from the attempted genocide of the native population and the enslavement of countless Africans over the centuries, to the work of Asian immigrants in building the railroads and the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. We know that some of the best aspects of our culture are rooted in immigration from all over the world.

And we know that behind the new face of white nationalism is the same old violence of the old Klan.

But they are dressing it up so well. Richard Spencer is not your average skinhead. He's not some redneck hick, teeth falling out from meth, as he burns a cross. His academic pedigree includes UVA, UChicago, and Duke, and he is impeccably well-dressed, hair pristine and in a three-piece suit. He has a "think tank" in DC with an official sounding name. He calls his movement "Alt Right" rather than what it really is: a new form of fascism supported by the old forms of white racism.

This is not the guy with the confederate flag flying off the back of his pick-up; this is someone selling the image of a metropolitan white nationalism.

He and his ilk are telling a story that racism can build up a new order.

They're lying, but they are learning to lie well.

Which is exactly why they are so dangerous.

And this brings us back to the piece from Ponder Anew.

"Adoration of the Mysitic Lamb" from the Ghent Altarpiece

The Church has a better story than the racists. Ours is Good, True, and Beautiful. Our story is one where even destruction is overturned. Ours is one in which God Almighty looks with favor upon the least of these. Ours is one that offers release to captives, words of lament and comfort for those who mourn, and calls transgressors to true repentance. Ours is one in which Death itself is defeated.

The Church has better rituals than the racists. Ours are Good, True, and Beautiful. Our rituals are means of grace, by which God is present in our midst. The Holy Spirit hovers over the water in our baptismal font. Our Risen Lord meets us on the Altar Table.

When the Church celebrates the Divine Service of the Holy Eucharist, we re-tell the grand narrative that God created the world and has redeemed humanity from our own demonic actions. We re-live our forgiveness and reconciliation, we greet each other as equals with a sign of God's peace, and we are re-membered into the one everlasting Body of Christ. And then we are sent forth in peace to serve the Lord.

But when the Church ignores that story -- when it opts instead to offer a "message" on the role of emotional vulnerability in building up healthy communities rather than preaching Christ crucified and risen -- when it opts to ignore the world-building narrative arc of the catholic liturgy in favor of a rock concert -- when it chooses to chase the world's view of success rather than the assured victory of Christ's Resurrection -- when the Church fails to be the Church, it forsakes what is Good, True, and Beautiful.

Consider the failures of theological liberalism during both World Wars -- blessing tanks for Kaiser Wilhelm in 1914 and letting Nazism run rampant in the 1930s. Consider the failure of fundamentalism in the Jim Crow era, shunning the long march towards freedom and reconciliation.

When the Church shuns its grand narrative, when it shuns true Christian identity as the Body of Christ for the world, it yields room to other, far more sinister stories to creep in.

Praise be to God for the faithful remnant in every age that has called the Church to repentance and continued to proclaim the Gospel of our Risen Lord.

The Church survived under the thumb of Rome. It endured Nazi Germany. It led the way forward through the Civil Rights movement. Too many fell away during these times; too many failed. But even while so many of us failed, the Church kept doing the work that God has called us for. Now, in this age, we face a similar choice: we can fail or we keep re-telling and re-living the same story that has ushered us through the ages.

White nationalism and racism can be well-dressed, either in Hugo Boss or a three-piece suit. It can co-opt beauty for use as propaganda. It's amazing what depravity can be hidden beneath a thin veneer.

But by the grace of God, the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church will prevail. Our liturgies will prevail because God is present in them. The Body of Christ will be resplendent in our baptismal garb. And at the fullness of time, at the end of the age, Christ's story will win the day.

Now, kindred, let us go out and tell the world the Good News as we live into the story that God has been telling from the foundation of the world.