The Saint John's Messenger: 2004

Fr Martin writes an article each week for the St John's Messenger

February 1, 2004

In the wake of the recent controversies that have shaken both the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion, there has been a host of responses which might be termed "big." Archbishops and Bishops have issued pronouncements. Organized cells like the A.A.C., Forward in Faith, and the Prayer Book Society have called the faithful to action.

Large numbers of laymen have signed petitions and attended rallies and meetings to register their collective response to what has come to pass in the larger church. "Big" either in the qualitative sense of influential or "big" with reference to quantitatively large numbers seems to be the word that comes to mind to describe reaction to recent developments.

But "big" in either sense seems to be a rather dangerous way of characterizing any useful response to post-modern problems, be they of a secular or of a sacred nature. Americans tend to like "big" as a consequence of our democratic origins. Evidently there were "big" rallies in the beginning when American colonists rallied against the oppressive rule of good old King George.

Favourite politicians wend their way into public office through "big" or large majorities. Or when some otherwise unqualified and dim-witted "big" star or public figure issues a pronouncement on anything we call it "big" news. To this day Americans demand "big" portions at restaurants, only to find themselves having to make a very "big" commitment to Candy -- the fitness trainer from hell. We all put a lot of weight on what we consider to be "big."

Yet it might be suggested that "big" is not always qualitatively or quantitatively better. The best things usually start in "small" places, with tiny or "small" groups of people. The great Plato took baby steps towards founding his famous Academy of Athens with a "small" band of inquisitive followers. Furthermore, his influence was certainly not "big" but "small" in that his teaching took years to establish itself in the hearts and minds of a "small" but dedicated center.

Jesus Christ himself began with a "small" band -- a community made up of twelve Apostles, his Blessed Mother, and some devoted Jewish ladies. His influence -- though spreading shortly after his Resurrection -- could hardly have been perceived as "big" by the time that St. Paul began to track the hostile grounds of the Emperor's lands. "Big" in influence and adherence would be words used to describe the lives of Plato and Jesus only much later, long after the "small" but solid centers of truth had grown and cultivated in the minds of men.

I say all of this to recall us back to the vocation of a spirituality that is "small" but strong. We find ourselves set about by so many unpredictable winds of change and chance in our own Anglican Communion. The "big" picture of the Anglican world is hardly encouraging or heartening. But this is no reason to jump ship or to mutiny. Rather the "big" picture of our fragmented and sickly Communion of Churches ought to reveal to us that the "small" center -- the sold core of Christ's seed -- once again needs cultivation and fertilization.

In this "small" place, you and I are called to be like the "small" groups of faithful followers who heard both Plato and Jesus. This means that our attention must not be distracted by the "big" movements in our church, but by the steadfast determination to cleave to our center, come what may.

By adhering to our strong core in "small" and seemingly insignificant places, our faith and our collective body will grow. Then we shall be made "big" -- not by earthly and mundane standards -- but by power and wisdom of God that is given to us in Jesus Christ. And only then will the "big" and large heart of God be known and seen as "better." †

July 18, 2004

From Liturgy and Worship, F.H. Brabant writes in his contribution, Worship in General: "Demand for a worship which shall be the 'natural' expression of what we feel, just like the demand for a devotional life always in the sunshine, without method or effort, is at bottom a confusion between the natural and the easy.

We do not go to church to say, do and think 'just what we like'; if we all arrived there feeling and thinking as we liked, no doubt our services would be simply the expression in speech and action of the inner state of our souls with all the spontaneous direction of children. But we do not, (I hope) arrive like that. We come stained and weary from a life that is largely unnatural, longing for something to lift us up into an atmosphere of spiritual peace.

We ought, indeed, to 'feel at home' in church, but we come to it as wanderers returned, not like tired City men calling for our slippers and our comfortable chairs. This is why we need all the help we can get from without, the steadfastness of discipline, the beauty of holiness, the unswerving faith of the Church, upon which to lean our poor half-heartedness.

That is why the Liturgy expresses not only what we feel; it also teaches us what we ought to feel. The genuflection or bow, even if it is done with little conscious devotion, stands for an ideal of adoration, and often the very act itself awakens our sluggish attention. The stately language of prayer and collect reminds us that, however far we lag behind, this is how the Church goes to the altar of God and creates in us the longing to follow as far as we can."

These words were written in 1932. The book containing this article is a collection of essays designed to teach believers about how liturgy and worship communicate doctrine and its effects into the hearts and souls of faithful believers. At its base, worship in liturgy is given to believers in order that they might come to the throne of God in order to know themselves, and grasping that, to desire the needful Grace of God for transformation.

The first stage of the believer's desire for God comes through knowledge of alienation from Him and powerlessness to return to Him. We come to Church in order to know God and to welcome his purifying power into our lives. †

We have been examining the nature of worship in liturgy. Of particular interest is the meaning or nature of the Holy Eucharist. For in the Holy Eucharist -- or as it is sometimes called "Mass" or the "Lord's Supper" -- you and I are made very members of or participants in Christ's spiritual nature. When we take the sacrilized elements of bread and wine into our bodies, we are given the opportunity to become spiritually animated or revivified by Christ's body and blood. Our old sinful natures are given a chance to be made whole, clean and healthy by Christ's entry into our beings.

Sacraments like the Lord's Body and Blood do not automatically affect us or magically change us. As our Holy Communion Service's General Confession's absolving words read, "Almighty God, our Heavenly Father, who of his great mercy hath promised forgiveness of sins to all those who with hearty repentance and true faith turn unto him; Have mercy upon you …"

The presence of Christ in the soul and body as healer, transformer and redeemer depends upon our willingness to repent and welcome his needful healing power. We recite and pray the words of the Confession in order to prepare our souls and bodies that the power of the Holy Eucharist might take control of our lives, "that He might dwell in us and we in Him."

Our worship at the Sacrament of the Eucharist reveals a two-fold movement. There is the "lifting up of our hearts unto the Lord." And there is the descent of the Son and the Holy Ghost upon the elements in a petitionary process whereby they are asked to "bless and sanctify ... these ... gifts and creatures of bread and wine." We are lifted up, and Christ comes down through the Holy Spirit.

As F.H. Brabant writes, "The Sacrament of the Eucharist lifts us up to heaven; joining in the worship of the angels and archangels, we ascend in spirit to that sphere where God is fully present, and which we call Heaven." If our desire is present, we are elevated into the realm of God's holiness and are joined to the ceaseless worship of the cherubim and seraphim.

But this is not the only direction of energy found in the liturgy. Brabant continues: "... the earthly signs and veils are not lost; the heavenly glory shines down upon them and illumines our darkness, as far as it can penetrate." The light, love and wisdom of God descend from heaven to cleanse us, heal us, and resituate us into the domicile of God's Fatherhood.

We are called to be silent before the two-fold movement of God's operations. He comes down, and he lifts us up. In both case his power and might are what alone surround us and remake us. When we think of the presence of God in Christ through the Holy Spirit, we ought to take time to pause and remain awestruck. Brabant continues: "Our words quiver into silence; our thoughts lose themselves in infinity; our feelings tremble before the formless; our righteousness becomes uncleanness. Before the greatness of God we are nothing." †

At the beginning of our Holy Communion service, the celebrant invokes the power of Almighty God "unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known and from whom no secrets are hid, [to] cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of [His] Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love [Him] and worthily magnify [His] holy Name, through Christ our Lord." The worshipping community's journey into the saving and redeeming presence of Jesus Christ must begin with purification.

Our first admission in the Communion service is that God sees and knows all things. He knows the "secrets of our hearts." In this acknowledgement, the worshipping fellowship opens its collective consciousness -- with all of its problems, struggles and even omissions -- up to God's all seeing eye.

God is invited into the souls of the faithful. Nothing is hid from the purview of the Lord. And we are better off admitting that before we lay claim to the church's desire, which is to be purified and made holy by the descending presence of the Lord.

So at the commencement of our liturgy, we offer and present the whole of our collective (and individual) personality to God. At this point the "fire descends upon our offering." As T.S. Eliot says in his poem the "Four Quartets," "The dove descending breaks the air/ With flame of incandescent terror/ Of which the tongues declare/ The one discharge from sin and error."

The descending dove or the Holy Spirit comes down upon and enters into his church in order to commence the purification process. The burden upon those who are in the church is to choose between truth and error, or light and darkness. The offer is made by God, the church declares her intention, and each individual must decide whether the unity of the two can be embraced in his soul.

As F.H. Brabant writes, "True Christian worship … is neither a formless ecstasy nor a dry 'parade service,' but a consecration of all our faculties to [God's] glory." True worship is made possible by God's descending presence and Grace. But it demands that the worshipper should reject the notion that God is a magician who will work miracles without our cooperation. We are meant to make our response to God, and it should be made in humility and meekness. It must not be mere formality or an empty verbal exercise.

God's Grace descends to demand honesty and candor about ourselves and our relation to him. We are called upon to admit and name our sins and then to offer them over to the Lord who alone can see them and destroy them. We are aided in this endeavor immediately following the "Collect for Purity" when the priest recites the Ten Commandments or the Summary of the Law. †

© 2004 by William J. Martin