"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

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.

Light the Paschal Candle and Wear White: Funerals, Resurrection, and the "Little Easter"

I have done a poor job, in the past, of explaining the use of liturgically seasonal appointments at various seasons of the Church.

Take, for instance, the use of white vestments at a funeral. My immediate answer, in the past, has been that funerals build on the symbolism of Easter -- which is not specific enough.

As many are quick to point out, every Sunday is a "little Easter," so why don't we wear white every Sunday?

So allow me to be more specific:

Every Sunday is in fact a little Easter, the day on which the Church gathers to celebrate Christ's victory over Death and the grave. For this reason, we break our Lenten fast on Sundays. But various Sundays carry different themes -- be it the fire of the Holy Spirit, the blood of the martyrs, penitence, or God's victorious reign. The color of the vestments aids in communicating these themes -- which is exactly why liturgy nerds have drawn-out debates over the use of purple or blue vestments and paraments during Advent.

In the Church, we use white and gold to express Christ's triumphant glory on major feast days -- at the Incarnation, the Baptism of Our Lord, the Transfiguration, and throughout the entire fifty days of Easter.

At funerals, we hope in the Resurrection -- the ultimate display of God's glory -- and so we use white vestments. Even during Lent, when the Church dawns a penitential purple, puts a hold on weddings and baptisms, and fasts for forty days, we still don white for funerals. The hope of the Resurrection bursts through the Lenten season.

It's the same reason that we light the Paschal Candle at funerals and during the Sacrament of Holy Baptism. And, much like the Paschal Candle, some may reply by asking, "Well, if the theme is Resurrection, why not wear white every Sunday? Isn't every Sunday a little Easter?" In response, I refer you to my summary of Bp. Alexander's discussion of this point (found in full here):

[W]hile every Sunday is a "little Easter" and that the theology of the Resurrection permeates every Divine Service throughout the year regardless of seasonal and thematic overtones, that we still mark Easter proper with special distinction -- pre-Paschal fasting during Lent, the Triduum, the Vigil, extra acclamations, and the like. These distinctives set Easter apart as a sacred time among sacred times. Some of these markers (in this case, the Paschal candle) carries further into the rest of the year.

Just so, wearing white and gold vestments is one of those special distinctions that grabs the attention. It sets apart holy seasons, and to be sure, as we bury departed saints, we call special attention to Our Lord's triumph over the grave. Our funeral services point to Easter even more so than a weekly Service during ordinary time.

Now, of course, all of this can be chocked up to adiaphora. God isn't going to refuse the faithful departed entry into paradise if the altar frontal is green. St. Peter isn't watching through a telescope to ensure that the presbyter is wearing a white and gold stole. But let's not forget that the words we use, the symbols we adopt, the colors we wear do actually communicate something. So while white vestments are in fact non-essential, that does not make them unimportant.

"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."

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.

Glory to God in the Highest: The Decline of the Gloria In Excelsis, and a Plan for Recovery

I said in one of my earlier posts that the Sanctus might be the single-most ignored piece of liturgy -- that is, the liturgical unit most likely to be altered or replaced with a more recent hymn. While the Sanctus finds its roots in the fourth century and is pulled directly from Scripture, Luther was willing to shift the hymn (placing it after the Verba [Words of Institution]) in the Formula Mass and rewrote the piece for his German Mass. Growing up in the United Methodist Church, we (almost) never sang the Sanctus. I've been to a service where the unending hymn was always omitted.

Despite all of this, I have to revise my earlier statement. The Sanctus may be frequently ignored, but the Gloria in Excelsis is just as neglected.

Like the Sanctus, the Gloria can be traced back to the fourth century. Its inclusion within the Divine Service is attributed to Gregory the Great. By the elventh century, it had become the norm for Sunday and festival services. And, much like the Sanctus, the Gloria unites East and West (though certain Western Rites used in Milan, Spain, and the British Isles, the Gloria was not the only canticle employed after the Kyrie).

In its place, the Lutheran Book of Worship permitted the use of a new hymn, "Worthy is Christ," which is more commonly known as "This is the Feast."

And here I find myself torn. I truly love "This is the Feast." It is a great hymn which highlights the eschatological implications of the Eucharist. But, Pfatteicher points out, it was never intended to replace the Gloria in Excelsis. He writes:

The notes on the Liturgy give clear preference to the greater Gloria as the Hymn of Praise...".The Lutheran Book of Worship also has provided an alternative hymn of praise, especially appropriate for the Sundays of Easter, Christ the King, and All Saints's Day. [Emphasis added.]

What are we to do? "This is the Feast" has become such a part of life in many ELCA parishes that it would be impractical to abandon it. For those of us who have come to the Lutheran tradition since 1978, either through birth or conversion, "This is the Feast" is a staple of Lutheran identity. And it should be. It's a truly wonderful hymn, and I dare not dream of abandoning it.

But we should also not abandon the Gloria. Through it, we join the Church and the choirs of angels in praising the Triune God.

For the past year or so, I've been toying around with the idea of relocating "This is the Feast" from the post-Kyrie position to the Offertory. In its current place, "This is the Feast" undercuts its central thrust. We sing, "This is the feast of victory for our God," and then wait through several readings, a sermon, the Creed, and prayers before getting to anything involving food. However, if we place it at the Offertory, as the Service transitions from Word to Table, it makes sense to stress the shift towards festal language. Doing so would also underscore that the Offertory is part of the Eucharist -- that the collection is not about filling the parish's budget gaps but our offering to God in thanksgiving that we might more fully be the Body of Christ in and for the world.

Having said several critical things about worship at Synod Assembly, let me now offer some affirmation: on the first day, we used "This is the Feast" as the Offertory Hymn. It worked wonderfully. And immediately afterwards, we made Eucharist and partook of the Feast.

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I am deeply indebted to Philip Pfatteicher's Commentary on the Lutheran Book of Worship for the research in this post.

The Church Is Not Glocal -- It's Catholic, Pt. III

Part Three of Three
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One of my mentors, a pastor whom I greatly respect and admire, once passed off a change in denominational polity as "mere semantics." With all due respect to my mentor, semantics are vital to understanding who we are. The difference between different words is a difference in how we think about ourselves. Having bishops instead of presidents may seem inconsequential, but it is a mark which separates the Church from the Lion's Club. Having a diocese or synod rather than a region distinguishes the Body of Christ from a nation or a business.

Let me be clear. Bishops and diocese are not what makes us the Church. We are the Church because we are an in-breaking of the coming Kingdom of God, called and united by the Holy Spirit, baptized into Christ's Death and Resurrection, and upheld as the Body of Christ through the Blessed Sacrament. If our steeples crumbled, our vestments rotted, and our lexicon vanished, we would still be the Church. A rose by any other name, as it were.

But our language should further differentiate us. We participate in God's creative act by giving names, by altering the fabric of our culture.

Language is a key part of culture. It distinguishes one people from another. People I interact with know I am from Georgia because I occasionally slip out a "y'all" or an "ain't." When I visited London, they knew I was an American because I was surprised when my meal came with "chips" and not a bag of Lay's. In Germany, they knew I was an anglophone because I paused before ordering a Bratwurst, searching for the words.

Language not only differentiates between cultures but also frames the way we think about certain subjects. For instance, Oxford historian Chris Wickham once remarked that the christological debates which so occupied the East, with Greek's multiple terms for varying modes of being, made less sense in Latin, and so the West largely ignored the subject. Or, more broadly, think of the debates which rage over vocabulary choice and even punctuation. We make sense of each other and the world through our language.

To quote Toliken, "[E]ach langauge represents a different vision of life."

Wall Street has a term for the intersection of the global and the local, the universal and the particular: "glocal." Wikipedia offers this history of the term:

The term first appeared in the late 1980s in articles by Japanese economists in the Harvard Business Review. According to the sociologist Roland Robertson, who is credited with popularizing the term, glocalization describes the new outcome of local conditions towards global pressures. At a 1997 conference on "Globalization and Indigenous Culture," Robertson said that glocalization "means the simultaneity -- the co-presence -- of both universalizing and particularizing tendencies."

How does a multinational corporation succeed in a new market foreign to the corporation's origin? By commodifying the local culture. And so, at Dunkin' Donuts in South Korea, you see bean paste donuts. Next door at the McDonald's, you see burgers with kimchi.

Let me say here that this process is not inherently bad. One of the best Italian dinners I've ever had was at a culinary school in Daegu, South Korea. Some of the best barbecue I've ever had was a Korean-fusion place (with kimchi cole slaw) in an Atlanta suburb. The process can be reversed in which local businesses utilize new, international tastes rather than multinational companies taking advantage of local idiosyncrasies.

So if "glocalization" is not inherently bad, why do I resist the term so vehemently?

When we talk about the Church, we have a language for describing and making sense of what it means to be within the Body of Christ. We have a way of thinking that differentiates us from the international companies and non-profits and which sets us apart as the ecclesia. And so, when we talk about our concern for the local and the universal, we have a term for it. We are catholic. We confess to believe in one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church -- not a glocal Church. We have our own way of thinking about what we do, and if we start borrowing from Wall Street, then we risk becoming a multinational non-governmental organization rather than the catholic Church.

Adopting business terminology to describe the nature of the Church means that we are letting business, rather than Scripture, the Tradition, or Jesus, frame the debate around what it means to be the Body of Christ and what it means to worship the Risen Lord.

The Church Is Not Glocal -- It's Catholic (Interlude: Reconstruction)

Part Two and a Half of Three
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How might the catholic liturgy emphasize the multicultural character of the entire Church?

As I've mentioned in my previous two posts, the liturgy does this inherently. In the Divine Service, we read from the same Scripture, pray the same prayers, sing the same hymns,* confess the same Creeds, share in the one Baptism, and partake of Christ's Body, the same we have since the apostles (with, granted, some development, especially in the fourth through sixth centuries). The liturgy of the Church catholic transcends temporality, ethnicity, and linguistics.

But suppose a parish wanted to underscore this multiculturalism? What would I recommend instead of the "glocal" service we used at Synod Assembly?

Two suggestions:

First, if a parish is already multicultural or multi-lingual, then using the native languages and rituals of its members should already be the norm. At Candler, where we had students from various parts of Europe and Africa as well as a large number of South Korean students, readings and hymns were often done in the languages of our student body. Every week, the worshiping body was encouraged to pray the Lord's Prayer in their native tongue. O how marvelous it was to hear Portuguese, Korean, German, and countless other languages all at once! One of our Systematic Theology professors, a German Lutheran, frequently presided at the Eucharist during our Friday service. He would offer the Aaronic Benediction auf Deutsch. We all knew exactly what he was saying and could fully share in the beauty of this ancient blessing in a modern language.

In the context of Synod Assembly, then, this would mean inviting members from around the Synod to lead the liturgy in Swahili, Spanish, Korean, German, and the numerous other languages we utilize in worship -- not just for the readings (which we did), but for the prayers, blessings, the Sanctus, and the various other parts of the liturgy.

Secondly, for parishes which are less diverse, incorporate multiple languages into major feast days, especially for Pentecost.

At Pentecost, we celebrate the Holy Spirit's work among us, uniting us into the Church. Everybody on that day heard the Gospel in their native tongue, and the destruction caused at Babel was undone. How appropriate, then, to incorporate multiple languages in worship during this feast?

Here is my humble proposal, along with a few guiding principles:

First, ensure that readers are as near to fluent as possible for their assigned readings. Native, fluent, or at least conversant, is preferable. Small mistakes in linguistics can be funny or they can be horribly offensive.

Second, if feasible, unite with another parish which worships in another language. O swap pastors for the Sunday. If your parish hosts a community which worships in a different language, hold a single service. If there are multiple small parishes worshiping in different languages, try a common service. In doing so, the service actually becomes multicultural rather than multi-linguistic.

Third, never do something in a foreign language that leaves most worshipers out in the cold. Provide a translation. If you're going to read a text or preach in Swedish, make sure that the Korean church you've invited can actually follow what you're saying. The point of this service is to unite the languages, as at Pentecost, not to confuse them, as at Babel. Remember what St. Paul said about speaking in tongues.

Fourth, add a note in the bulletin which identifies each language and explain why it's being used. Why Spanish? Why Korean? Why Urdu?

As to the liturgy itself:

• Invocation and Confession: Latin
• Assurance of Pardon: Native language of most worshipers -- It is fitting that this part of the liturgy, the Good News of forgiveness and reconciliation, be understood by all in attendance. If the pastor is capable, repeat it in the native tongue of all in worship. If conducting a bi- or tri-lingual service, repeat in both or all three tongues.
• Kyrie: If possible, in Greek or Latin. If not, petitions in the native language of most worshipers, response in Greek. Or, 
• Gloria: Latin
• Collect: Salutation in Latin (Dominus vobiscum and Oremus), prayer in native language of most worshipers
• First Lesson: Prominent language in the area, with a translation for those in worship. In Atlanta, for instance, this might mean reading a text in any number of foreign languages. Other places, this might mean Spanish.
• Psalm: Latin, Greek, or Hebrew, sung by the choir -or- a setting for the Psalm in a local prominent language
• Second Lesson: Prominent language in the area, and again with a translation.
• Gospel Lesson: Native language of most worshipers. If two or more parishes have come together for a multi-lingual service, then read the lesson in as many languages as are present.
• Homily: Native language of most worshipers. I know of a small bi-lingual parish in Germany that translates the homily from German into English and provides a physical copy to those who need it. If there is someone capable of providing an accurate translation, then by all means, do this.
• Nicene Creed: Invite each person to confess their faith in their native tongue.
• Prayers of Intercession: Native language of most worshipers, but either a) respond with the Greek Kyrie eleison or invite each worshiper to respond "Lord have mercy" in their native language.
• Offertory Hymn: An offertory hymn taken from another place, perhaps across the globe. Sung in its original language.
• Eucharist: In the native language of most worshipers, with the Sanctus taken from another culture. There are many beautiful settings written in Russian, for instance. It is fitting that parish give thanks to God through the Eucharist as they are able -- in their native language.
• Lord's Prayer: Invite each worshiper to pray in their native language.
• Agnus Dei: Another language, perhaps the same one used for the Sanctus
• Distribution: If possible, have those serving at table distribute the Bread and Chalice in their native tongue.
• Distribution Hymns: Appropriate hymns taken from other cultures and sung as they were written.
• Benediction: In its original language. If the Aaronic Blessing, then Hebrew. Others may be done in Greek or Latin. Or, a language significant to the parish and denomination. For instance, there are many Lutheran churches which were founded as Swedish, Norwegian, or German. A return to the parish's roots is more than appropriate.
• Dismissal: Spanish. An odd choice, but as it is a descendant of Latin, it demonstrates the continued development of languages from the time after Pentecost to the present day. It underscores the continued development of the liturgy from the languages of the Mediterranean to the global diversity of the Church today.

Now, Ite, missa est. Deo gratias.

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*I'm thinking of the Psalms, the Gospel Canticles, and the Sanctus and Agnus Dei. Other hymns, of course, demonstrate the great diversity of Christ's Church across history and varying cultures.