This is Andrew Russell’s second installment in his mini-series on Anglican Spiritual Formation for our “Ecclesia Anglicana” series. You can read his introductory post here.

The Christian life is fundamentally a life of worship. More than growth in holiness, proclamation of the gospel, or working toward social justice, the Christian Church exists to sing praises to God, offer her gifts to him at the table, be nourished by the Scriptures and sacraments, and commune with him in worship (though holiness, evangelism, and social justice are all natural outgrowths and consequences of that worship). This article is concerned with an Anglican view of spiritual formation and the central role worship plays in the formation of an Anglican Christian. However, Anglicans have often found help for explaining the importance of worship—and the world’s value for assisting human beings in their worship—in the writing of the great Orthodox liturgical theologian Alexander Schmemann:

All that exists is God’s gift to man, and it all exists to make God known to man, to make man’s life communion with God. It is divine love made food, made life for man. God blesses everything He creates, and, in biblical language, this means that He makes all creation the sign and means of His presence and wisdom, love and revelation. (For the Life of the World)

This means the entire world is a temple in which worship of the triune God is eternally being performed. Humanity’s decision to love the world more than God—to love the world for its own sake—caused the death of the world. But Jesus Christ, in his life, death, resurrection, and ascension, has “taken up all life, filled it with Himself, made it what it was meant to be: communion with God, sacrament of His presence and love” (Schmemann). The cosmos again worships God, as it was originally created to do.

It is the joyous responsibility of Christians to take part in this grand cosmic worship service. This is done, of course, by daily living, but also—and perhaps most meaningfully—in the liturgy of the Eucharist.

Liturgy is essential in worship. The Church inherited liturgical worship from the Jews. It is as old—and perhaps even older!—than the Scriptures themselves, and it follows a pattern because the God of Israel is a God of order. This, along with the conviction that liturgy creates an atmosphere of beauty and reverence, is summed up nicely in the catechism of the Anglican Church of North America: “Anglicans worship with a structured liturgy because it is a biblical pattern displayed in both Testaments, and because it fosters in us a reverent fear of God.” In the liturgical traditions, the command to “worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness” is taken seriously.

Though Anglicans differ amongst themselves on Eucharistic theology, it is universally accepted that the Eucharist strengthens believers and communicates the grace of God to them. More specifically, the Eucharist unites believers with Christ. It is the means through which we repeatedly receive the benefits of his atoning work and sacrificial death. In the Eucharist, we enter into the joy of the resurrection and sit at the festal table with the triune God in the Kingdom. The world to come is brought to this world, and we are able to see that all of creation is shot through with the presence of God. The world [again] becomes sacrament.

In the Anglican tradition, the Daily Office is also central to spiritual formation. The Daily Office is more than a time of prayer; it is a time of praise, confession, study of Scripture, intercession, and thanksgiving. Furthermore, the Daily Office claims the time of the day for God and recognizes that time itself benefits from the redemptive work of Jesus Christ. American society tells us to frame our days with rush and relaxation, but the Scriptures tell us to frame our days with worship and prayer: “From the rising of the sun to its setting the name of the Lord is to be praised.”

As far as what makes up Anglican worship, Anglicans are in keeping with the vast majority of the Christian tradition: Word and sacrament. The Word of God is the foundational witness to the saving work of God in the world. It is the source of our belief and practice, and because of this it is one of the most precious possessions entrusted to the Church. This is why, every day, Anglicans sing psalms and read passages from the Old and New Testaments, with the end result of reading the entire Bible once a year (or once every three years, depending on which lectionary you use). Not only does the Bible provide the raw materials for our worship and doctrine, it also recounts our history as the people of God. Gerald Sittser is worth quoting here:

The Bible tells a story of human resistance and God’s persistence. The story is full of flawed heroes and strange twists of plot, of the wretchedness of evil and the triumph of good, which was accomplished in a way that no one could have predicted, namely, through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is a wonderful story; it is also a true story that speaks to the depths of the human condition. This story provides us with the truths we need to make sense of our own stories. What God accomplished then he can accomplish now because he is the same God who works in the same way. Even more, we come to realize that our stories are given meaning not because they are our stories but because they are located within the story of salvation history. (Water from a Deep Well)

Sacraments are the other element of worship in which Anglicans undergo spiritual formation. We believe that the incarnation of God in the person of Jesus Christ signifies not only the union of God and humanity, but also the resanctification of matter itself.

As we discussed earlier, all of creation may in some sense be seen as sacramental. There is no location where God is not present, and there is no activity in which God is not working. Jesus Christ is the perfect demonstration of this as the quintessential sacrament. He is the place where heaven and earth meet. He is the foundation and proof that God works with human beings in ways they can most easily understand. Thus this world is not a necessary evil; it is, for humanity, a necessary good.

Anglicans believe that God forms human beings spiritually through material things, in keeping with the Great Tradition going back to the ancient Church. Through mundane things like bread and wine, human beings are united to God and transformed into who they were made to be. However, it is important to remember that the sacramental nature of reality is only made possible and sustained by the Word of God (both the personified Word, Jesus Christ, and the written Word). It is both together that form the basis of an Anglican view of worship and, consequently, spiritual formation.

Andrew Russell is an M.Div. candidate at Beeson Divinity School. He is an ordination candidate in the Anglican Diocese of the South and hopes to serve the Church as a parish priest. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Anna. Follow him on Twitter: @andrew_05.

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This post is part of “Ecclesia Anglicana,” a series devoted to all topics pertaining to Anglicanism. Stay tuned for more!

            I did not grow up in the Anglican church. My teenage years were split between a Messianic Jewish synagogue and a Grace Brethren congregation. So, at a distance, the sacrament of confirmation looked like a cool rite of passage for my Episcopalian friends. But on February 11th, 2018, I received the laying on of my Bishop’s hands with this blessing: 

“Defend, O Lord, this your servant, Hunter, with your heavenly grace, that he may continue yours for ever, and daily increase in your Holy Spirit more and more until he comes into the fullness of your everlasting kingdom.”

            This same confirmation prayer occurs in every iteration of the Book of Common Prayer, always emphasizing mature perseverance as an intended fruit. I received this sacrament as an adult who, at that point, had served as a youth minister for six years, yet I experienced a new vigor in receiving the Eucharist and participating in parish life. Perhaps my own confirmation experience makes me acutely aware of a common disparity between the theology of confirmation and the practice of confirming youth in the Anglican church. It seems to be the case that parish catechesis risks merely preparing youth confirmands for the rite of confirmation while the liturgy and theology of confirmation treats the sacrament as an initiation into life-long, Holy Spirit-filled perseverance. The result of this disparity is a generation of youth fully initiated into a Body they are unprepared to participate in long-term. Thus, the Church risks perpetuating another achievement for youth to attain without life-long practices and perspective. So, the question, “Are you initiated?” may not be as helpful for confirming youth as, “What are you initiated into?”

            Now, there is no ecumenical consensus on the timing of confirmation. Our Eastern Orthodox friends do not separate baptism and chrismation, while Anglicans, like our Roman Catholic friends, withhold confirmation until a child or adult may take reasonable, mature ownership of their faith. However, the question of what youth are initiated into remains for every Christian tradition. In what follows, I will explore the way a strong method and theology of confirmation moves youth beyond the words of a catechism and the works of piety into a persevering desire for the Triune God.

Words, Works, and Desire

            What prepares a young person for confirmation? The numerous catechisms written since the Protestant Reformation seem to answer: systematic content. The Apostles Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments, and the Sacraments become jumping off points into a didactic process whereby the catechumen ought to know what these teachings mean and why they occur in the Church’s liturgical life. Now, it may be unfair to diagnose this method as overly cognitive in its scope, yet youth confirmands experience that, in order to be confirmed, you must learn what these words mean. Under this view, catechism concerns the meaning behind the words and works of the Church. William Cavanaugh addresses a similar problematic method at work in the Eucharist. “The problem is that the Eucharist has been reduced to the message, to a piece of information for the mind to grasp. … The key is not what the Eucharist means, but what it makes. And it makes the Church.”[1] Surely the sacrament of confirmation also ought not be reduced to merely confirming what someone knows.

            Since a little ressourcement goes a long way, let us consider a catechetical method from the early church. In De Catechizandis rudibus, St. Augustine responded to Deogratias, a deacon in Carthage, regarding how to deliver a proper catechism. This deacon, celebrated in doctrinal knowledge and eloquence, struggled to deliver the scope of the Christian faith without boring his catechumens. What is Augustine’s advice?

The narration is complete when the candidate has received instruction from that first passage in Scripture, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth,” all the way up to the present age of the Church. But this does not mean that those of us who have memorized the whole Pentateuch, all the books of Jewish kingdoms and Ezra, the whole Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, should rehearse them verbatim. … Rather we should offer a brief and general summary, selecting particular passages that occasion wonder and pleasure in the hearer and also form the sinews of the story.[2]

Certainly, Augustine is not implying that parts of the Biblical narrative are unimportant. His narrative method is intentional, knowing that where one starts affects the whole and must fit together with all other pieces.[3] The goal of catechetical instruction is “love proceeding from a pure heart, good conscience, and unfeigned faith.”[4] Much like the hermeneutic instructions in De Doctrina Christiana, Augustine emphasizes the desire for and enjoyment of the Trinity as the ultimate end of all instruction.

            So, how does Augustine’s narrative method answer what catechumens are initiated into? A catechism beginning with a selective biblical narrative (1) shows that the catechumen/confirmand is part of and participates in the public story of God’s redeemed people and (2) assumes this story will inspire wonder and pleasure for a life-long pursuit of God. If I might expand Augustine’s illustration, the sinews of the biblical narrative are sufficient for the catechism because they prepare the confirmand to be a full part of the Body of Christ, rather than an individual initiated solely on their mature knowledge.

            Confirmation gives young people something to long for beyond the moment of initiation: a daily strengthening by the work of the Holy Spirit. The theology of confirmation points to this very reality. In baptism, the Church is united to Christ’s death and resurrection. In the Eucharist, the Body is united to Christ and one another through receiving His body and blood. In confirmation, each believer participates in Pentecost. A narrative catechism emphasizes a young person’s participation in a public story; initiation is participating and receiving that act of God which initiated and constituted the Church.

            Throughout De Catechizandis rudibus,Augustine exhorts the listener to consider what they really rest their hope upon. If you place it upon your personal character, you will not persevere. If you place it upon the character and piety of others, you will not persevere. Augustine’s interest in the chaff among the wheat takes a pastoral turn towards perseverance and the purpose of Christian practice.

This is fulfilled by no one save the man who has received the other gift, the Holy Spirit, who is indeed equal with the Father and the Son, for this same Trinity is God; on this God every hope ought to be placed. On man our hope ought not to be placed, of whatsoever character he may be. For He, by whom we are justified, is one thing; and they, together with whom we are justified, are another.[5]

Here lies the mysterious hope in the sacrament of confirmation: that, by grace, we will persevere in our desire for the God on whom, alone, our hope truly rests. Christian practices form persons who daily put their hope in God, awaiting the fullness of His everlasting kingdom.

A Practitioner’s Perspective

            Discipling teenagers is not an easy task. I studied youth ministry at a Christian college, served in youth ministry a non-denominational church for six years, and now I am a student ministry director at an Anglican parish. I write as a practitioner seeking clarity and conviction for my own students, more like Deogratias than Augustine! Yet I find that the Anglican tradition offers a uniquely helpful perspective and practice for forming youth.

            First, Anglican youth ministry is free to learn from any Christian tradition and practice. Youth ministry, at least in the United States, began from a larger sociological shift when the institution of public education functionally created a distinct people group: teenagers.[6] The Anglican Church can learn from every kind of response to this phenomenon, from movements emphasizing family-driven faith to methods presupposing teenagers are largely unchurched. I have every reason to study the Bible, the Book of Common Prayer, Orange’s “It’s Just A Phase” curriculum, Hillsong Worship, St. Augustine’s understanding of the Imago Dei, and missiologist Leslie Newbigin in order to catechize and disciple students well.

            Second, the Anglican tradition can be locally adapted for a variety of post-Christian contexts. I serve a diverse, urban parish in the heart of a city nicknamed the Holy City for all the church steeples on the skyline. Yet my students attend schools, have jobs, and form friendships in spaces that relegate religious beliefs to private preferences. Thus, the methods of reaching teenagers and equipping parents will look different in a diverse, urban setting compared to a suburban, like-goes-with-like context. The Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Table will form parishioners in a Kingdom reality, but parish catechesis must adapt to the spaces where parishioners will go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

            Third, the Daily Office is an ideal rhythm for worship and discipleship. It is relatively easy for young persons to read Scripture with the multitude of Bible apps and reading plans one download away. Yet the Anglican tradition gives youth ministry a true gem: a pattern for how to hear, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest Scripture as a Body. Our parish now requires all confirmands, youth and adults alike, to learn and practice the Daily Office as a rule of life.

            Finally, Anglican youth ministry benefits from strong sacramental theology and practice. On one morning of a youth service weekend at a nondenominational church, I struggled to teach Christ’s words, “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”[7] I realized I could not teach this passage without treating the Eucharist as a true sacrament and not just a memorial ordinance. Christ’s words surely go beyond daily devotions and into the constitutive reality of a Church united to Him in the sacraments. Youth ministry, at least in the United States, risks merely moralizing Christian practices without a historic sacramental theology, a risk still present even in Anglican parishes. The challenge of parish catechesis will always be to pierce beyond the meanings of a catechism into the mysterious initiation into a Body united to Christ, “from whom the whole body, nourished and knit together through its joints and ligaments, grows with a growth that is from God.”[8] May our youth always persevere in their desire for God and participation in the Body.


Hunter Myers is a Student Ministry Director at the Cathedral Church of St. Luke & St. Paul in Charleston, South Carolina. He earned his BA in Youth Ministry & Philosophy at Columbia International University. He is from a small town called Golden, Colorado. 

[1] Cavanaugh, William. “Eucharistic Bodies in an Excarnated World.” Lecture, The Intersection Conference, Atlanta, May 17, 2019.

[2] Personal unpublished translation by Dr. Andrew Alwine, Associate Professor of Classics, College of Charleston.

[3] See Dr. Sarah Coakley’s understanding of systematic theology. Coakley, God, Sexuality, and the Self, 41.

[4] De Catechizandis rudibus, Chapter 2.6.

[5] Augustine, De Catechizandis rudibus, Chapter 27.55

[6] John Berard, Rick Bartlett, James Penner, Consuming Youth: Leading Teens Through Consumer Culture.

[7] John 15:5, ESV.

[8] Colossians 2:19, ESV.

This contribution is part of the new series, “Everyday Ecumenism.” This collaborative project will be a compilation of contributions from women and men seeking to engage theology from an ecumenical perspective for the benefit of the Church.

“Poems, parables, and paradoxes! That’s all the Bible is!” At least that’s how one cynic described it. His crass reductionism aside, he did bump up against something that is worth exploring: there are a lot of poems, parables, and paradoxes in the Bible. There are also many precepts, principles, and promises in there too, but we will leave them for a more convenient season.

God gifted us with poems and pleasant prose so that we might be able to fully express ourselves. He spoke to us by way of parable and paradox because we learned to express ourselves all too well. Parables are God’s way of stupefying those who reject plain speech. Paradoxes are God’s way of mystifying those who are stupefied by plain speech. Poems require eyes to see world around us; parables and paradoxes both require ears to hear the Word before us.

This is never more true than when Jesus speaks to us concerning his kingdom. Either we don’t understand his rather obvious statements, or we just don’t like their implications.

To one group of Jewish followers he makes it plain that the Kingdom is much broader than they think. He takes crumbs from the table of Israel to feed a feeble, Syrophoenician pup. The Kingdom has gone to the dogs! He astonishes yet another group of Hebrew hearers by clearly stating that the Kingdom is much narrower than they think. (Admittedly, even his plain dealing is somewhat paradoxical.) He openly chides those who think that they can identify their spiritual lineage by pointing to their birth certificates. A faithful heathen gains admittance and faithless Hebrews are shut out. Such is the Kingdom of God.

Jesus was saying that the Kingdom was, at once, both inclusive and exclusive; it was to be marked by unity and purity. It’s little wonder that such plain speech was too hard for them to hear. We still haven’t warmed to the idea.

So he opened his mouth in parable and paradox. “The Kingdom of Heaven is like wheat and weeds. The Kingdom of Heaven is like an arboretum, and a woman baking bread, and gold in a garden, and a sailor searching for pearls, and a pile of dead fish.” Perhaps the only thing that is clear from the words of Jesus is that the Kingdom is clearly not what we have thought it was.

If we could be permitted to speak the way that the Bible speaks, we might say that the Church is, at once, a river and a redwood. These seeming opposites are in no way opposed.

A river begins all over the place. A small spring up in the hills; a distant lake, itself fed by streams; a glacier that has seen one too many summers—all of them and hundreds more contribute to the babble and rush of water, the smooth flow here and the swirling rapids there. Gradually other streams, even other whole rivers, pour forth and make their contributions. Out of many there emerges the one.

On the other hand, a tree begins with a solitary seed. An acorn into the soil: tiny, vulnerable, alone. Through the administration of water and light, it sprouts and puts its roots down into the dark earth. Simultaneously it raises a shoot upwards into the sunshine and air. The roots quickly sprawl out and probe all over the place, looking for nourishment and water. The small shoot becomes a large trunk, again a single standing stalk, but this, too, quickly diverges. It will spread far and wide in all directions. Whereas the river flows from many into one; the tree grows from one into many. Such is the Kingdom of God.

The Church is like a rolling river. In the Apocalypse, John the visionary sees a huge throng of people from every nation, kindred, tribe, and tongue coming together in a great chorus of praise. Like a river, they all started in different places, but they have now brought their different streams into a single flow. The image of the river forcibly reminds us that, though the Church consists by definition of people from the widest possible variety of backgrounds, part of the point of it all is that they belong to one another, and are meant to be part of the same powerful flow, going now in the same single direction. Diversity gives way to unity.

But at the same time the Church is like a sprawling redwood. The one seed, Jesus himself, has been sown in the dark earth and has sprang forth in resurrection power. Easter branches have set off in all directions, some pointing almost directly upward, some reaching down to the earth, some heading out over neighboring walls. Looking at the eager, outstretched branches, you’d hardly know they were all from the same stem. But they are. Unity generates diversity.

The plain teaching of the Scriptures is that the Church of the Living God bears the image of the One who formed her: unity and diversity. She must never be forced to choose between the two. Likewise, there is no disparity between unity and purity, or between exclusivity and inclusivity.

C.S. Lewis, following Richard Baxter, admonished the people of God to rally under the banner of “Mere Christianity.” That is, we should prioritize what we are instinctively as Christians who affirm the same creeds above what we may be distinctively as Christians affirming different confessions. To this I add my hearty, “Amen!” But common orthodoxy should lead to a common orthopraxy. Eventually it has to put on boots and do something or this “Mere Christianity” just becomes mere talk, or what the apostle Paul once called, “vain jangling.”

“Mere Christianity” should lead quite naturally to “Mere Catholicity.” This answers the problems of postmodern multiculturalism as well as the lingering racism of modernism. In the Church, fragmented humanity is put back together. So, we must be about the business of putting the Church back together. If Christianity embraces “one Lord, one faith, and one baptism,” then we must learn to embrace one another. And must should happen without jettisoning purity and unity. It can be done. Those wise sages, Loggins and Messina, once mused that “Momma don’t dance and Daddy don’t rock and roll.” Yet, here we are. They were able to cohabitate in spite of such glaring liturgical diversity.

Since there is only one, holy catholic Church we have to act like it. Or else those two words proclaimed at the beginning of our creeds just add up to one big fat lie. How’s that for plain speech?

The present fragmented state of the Bride of Christ would put to a shame even a certain Levite who once shipped bits of his late wife in the mail. At least they were able to come together as one man. Enough of our “holy huddles” and “Me-and-my-son-John-us-four-and-no-more” ecclesiological insanity. The one Church is both holy and catholic—that includes both holiness and wholeness.

Genuine catholicity may require telling some brethren that the Kingdom is broader than they think. If God has welcomed people to His table what right have we to bar them? It may also require that we tell some brethren on the other side of the Tiber that the Kingdom is narrower than they think. What is certain is that we will never tell them if we don’t talk to them. But be careful if you do…you might just learn something.

It isn’t altogether clear how we are to get from scattered and fragmented bodies to a single army, marching lock-step with one another. Lord, Thou knowest. But the least that we can do is prophesy to the wind and speak to the divided and strewn bones. God has breathed on such things before.

We should probably start with the bones in our own backyard. Stop looking at your brethren with sidelong glances. Be more eager to offer the tender hand of fellowship than the tightened fist of controversy. Pray for their ministries…by name…on Sundays. Stop thinking of “them” and start thinking of “us.” After doing such things, I have a sneaking suspicion that soon we would hear the sound of joyful singing coming from the cemetery. “Hip bone connected to the thigh bone, thigh bone connected to the knee bone, knee bone connected to the shin bone. Now hear the Word of the Lord!”

Then we might be ready for poetry once again…

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’

J. Brandon Meeks is an Arkansas native laboring as an aspiring poet, studio musician, and Christian scholar. He received his PhD. from the University of Aberdeen, Scotland. He is also a fan of Alabama football, the blues, and cheese. He is a regular contributor for The North American Anglican and he also blogs regularly at The High Church Puritan.

This post is part of “Ecclesia Anglicana,” a series devoted to all topics pertaining to Anglicanism. Stay tuned for more!

Modern Protestants have always had a troublesome relationship with the Virgin Mary. Seeking not to stumble into the pitfalls of their separated Catholic brothers and sisters, Protestants have put a sort of ‘de-emphasis’ on Mary as to not be associated with anything which could be confused as ‘Catholic.’ However, the Anglican tradition consciously avoids the pitfalls of the nuanced hyperdulia of Catholicism and also the modern de-emphasis on Mary. Rather than seeing Mary as a theological ‘bump in the road’ to the Gospel narrative, Anglicanism emphasizes Mary’s role as the Theotokos: the God-bearer who carries the fullness of God’s grace in her womb and delivers him into the world. Anglicanism also pulls from the rich and beautiful Marian dogma of the Catholic Church, but centers Jesus, rather than Mary, in the place of sole honor.

Anglicanism remains as that branch of the Protestant tradition which holds fast to the rich traditions of the church and can be, both historically and liturgically, tied to the Roman Catholic Church.[1] While other Protestant traditions emulate these characteristics, none do so like the Anglican tradition. That being said, one can see the rich Mariology of Catholicism present within Anglican liturgy. This is where Anglicanism receives its popular slogan: “too Protestant to be Catholic and too Catholic to be Protestant.” Although a blanket statement which may be misleading at times, pertaining to Mariology it does fit well. Truly, Anglican Mariology is far too Catholic for most Protestants to be comfortable with it, but also far too Protestant for Catholics to agree.[2] 

The first reason that Anglicanism holds a high view of the Blessed Virgin, namely her role as the Theotokos, is because throughout the history of the Church, Mary has always been held in high regard. The ecumenical councils of the Church and the creeds which came from them are foundational to the Anglican tradition.[3] These councils and creeds are filled with deep and rich Mariology which supports an orthodox Christology. For example, the Nestorian controversy of the Council of Ephesus led to one of the greatest formations of early Marian dogma. According to Nestorius, Mary did not carry in her womb the Son of God, the second member of the Holy Trinity. Rather, she carried a mere human child; one who would be united to the divinity of God – something apart from the humanness of Jesus. Nestorius argued that the Godhead joined with the human in the same way a man enters a tent or puts on clothes. In short, Nestorius believed he could “hold the natures apart, but unite the worship.”[4] In response to this, Cyril of Alexandria, one of the most fierce, ruthless, and respected Fathers of the Early Church, sought to resolve this heresy. In the crucible of this theological fight for orthodoxy the language of Mary as the Theotokos was affirmed.

Secondly, in the past century there has been an even greater emphasis placed on Mary within the Catholic tradition, and a reactionary de-emphasis from the majority of the Protestant tradition(s). However, Anglicanism continues to look back to the tradition of the Reformation which did not react in opposition to Catholicism, but rather took what was good and beneficial and reformed it through a Protestant lens. 

An example of this is found in Martin Luther’s writings on Mary. Luther brings to light themes of justification and high-Christology without sacrificing genuine belief in Mary as the Theotokos and without losing a high sense of respect and veneration towards Mary, the Mother of God. In his reinterpretation of Gabriel’s declaration in Luke 1, “Hail Mary, full of Grace,” he ‘reforms’ the Catholic interpretation that this is a declaration of Mary’s achievement of this status. In Luther’s understanding of the righteousness of God, he interprets Gabriel’s proclamation to be a gospel proclamation. “Blessed are you Mary, because you are full of the grace of God, which is Jesus Christ! He is within you, and he is coming!”[5] 

A more recent example of this may be found in Protestant versus Catholic interpretations of Mary’s “Yes” to Gabriel’s proclamation.  While the Catholic tradition understands the narrative of Luke 1 to affirm the purity of Mary insomuch as she is then able to bear Christ into the world, Anglicanism follows Luther’s interpretation and emphasizes her declaration of servanthood alongside her unworthiness. In this we model after Mary – we are unworthy to be used by God, yet we daily surrender to him and in our unity with Christ we are given the power to be used by God.[6]

Furthermore, beyond various interpretations of Scripture, Anglicanism also continues this spirit of reforming Catholic dogma spoken ex-cathedra.[7] For example, Catholics believe in the bodily assumption of Mary (declared by Pope Pius XII, 1950).[8] According to Catholic theology, this singular participation in her Son’s resurrection anticipates the resurrection of other Christians. In Anglicanism, the emphasis is placed on Mary only insomuch as she goes before us as all other saints, sharing in the divine glory of the eternal kingdom.[9] 

Another example may be found in the nuanced Catholic doctrine Hyperdulia. Doulia is a Greek term which theologically describes honor paid to Christian saints. Latria, also a Greek term, designates supreme honor and is used to connotate worship given to God, the Trinity. Between this general honor (doulia) and the exclusive worship given to God (latria) is hyperdoulia, which is veneration and honor given distinctly to the Blessed Virgin Mary because of her unique role in the mystery of redemption, her exceptional gifts of grace from God, and her pre-eminence among the saints. While this may remain within the boundaries of orthodoxy, Anglicanism remains true to the Protestant tradition in avoiding such nuanced terminology which often is lost at a local level. Instead, the Anglican tradition understands Mary as the model of humanity redeemed by Christ, and the principal type of the Church (this also is tied deeply into Catholic Mariology). Any adoration or contemplation of Mary and the Saints is beneficial insomuch as it is an expression of the unity of the whole family of God in Heaven and on earth, a unity rooted ultimately in the believer’s unity with Christ.[10]

In short, Anglican Mariology is rooted in a continued ressourcement and reforming of Catholic doctrine. Further, it is an embrace of the unique position the Anglican tradition holds within Protestantism. It continually seeks to avoid the pitfalls of Catholic dogma and of modern Protestantism in order to stand as a bridge between these traditions. Deeply rooted in the traditions and history of the early church, Anglicanism calls believers to look back and remember the saints before, to stand in our moment now and continue to redeem and reform that which is around us, and lastly to look forward to the return of Christ in the fullness of his glory. 

Amar Peterman is Associate Director of Neighborly Faith and currently studies at Princeton Theological Seminary. He completed his BA in Theology at Moody Bible Institute where he was also President of the Student Theological Society and Teaching Assistant to Dr. Ashish Varma. 


[1]  Mark Chapman, Anglicanism: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

[2]  For more on the boundaries of communion for the Anglican Church, see The Chicago Lambeth Quadrilateral

[3] Editor’s Note: hence the name of this very series, “Ecclesia Anglicana.” The Church of England was born from the church in England.

[4] For an expanded narrative, see Bryan Litfin, Getting to Know the Church Fathers: An Evangelical Introduction (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2007).

[5] Bridget Heal, The Cult of the Virgin Mary in Early Modern Germany: Protestant and Catholic Piety, 1500–1648 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).

[6] See the Feast of Saint Mary the Virgin in the Book of Common Prayer (August 15)

[7] Literally translated to: “from the chair.” This is in reference to the chair of Saint Peter which, according to the Catholic Tradition, represents the line of apostolic succession which the Pope is a part of. That which is spoken “from the chair” is a declaration made by the Pope through his apostolic authority.

[8]  For the full declaration, see http://w2.vatican.va/content/pius-xii/en/apost_constitutions/documents/hf_p-xii_apc_19501101_munificentissimus-deus.html

[9]  See The Book of Common Prayer, p. 192, 391.

[10] The Anglican Service Book, http://justus.anglican.org/resources/bcp/Anglican_Service_Book/addl_devotions2.html#angelus

This post represents the inaugural contribution to the new series, “Ecclesia Anglicana.” This series will focus specifically on any category or topic related to Anglicanism. Here you might find posts about liturgy, worship, vestments, theology, ethics, spirituality, Bible, architecture, history, polity, and much more.

Perhaps one of the most overlooked aspects of the contemporary Church’s mission is the development of sound doctrine and practice in the realm of spiritual formation. While there has been renewed interest in Christianity “on the ground” among the general population, this interest has come at a cost. Many ecclesial leaders, in focusing solely on the lived experience of their parishioners, have given up theological reflection as the main source of spiritual formation, with the implicit claim that doctrine has no import for the life of the Christian. We see this in our bookstores, with titles emphasizing self-discovery, self-help, and self-sufficiency, and more people than ever are choosing to leave the Church in favor of pursuing their own visions of religious life.[1]

We face this crisis in the contemporary Church because, to put it somewhat reductively, many have separated Christianity into the spheres of “theological” and “practical.” This false dichotomy harms people, not only because its result is an insufficient understanding of the nature and character of God, but also because it fractures the human person by relegating religious experience to the emotional realm. It divorces the head from the heart. We have forgotten that orthodoxy does not really mean “right thought,” but “right glory.” It is a word concerned primarily with seeing God for who he is and worshiping him in accordance with that vision. Orthopraxy is actually an unnecessary word because, without it, you cannot have orthodoxy.


Anglicanism is a tradition that, at its best, successfully bridges the divides between “thought, word, and deed.” Martin Thornton, a twentieth-century Anglican priest and spiritual director, claimed that the great strength of our tradition is its holistic approach to spiritual formation, an approach that engages our minds, our hearts, our need for community, and our inherent inclination toward worship. In his classic English Spirituality, he presents a concise and profound definition of the Anglican approach to spiritual formation: “Christian doctrine interpreted and applied by a teacher of prayer together with the mental and physical disciplines which nurture and support it.”[2]

So spiritual formation is not only a product of the spiritual disciplines; in fact, the benefits of the spiritual disciplines lie in the fact that they are embodied expressions of Christian theology—that they enable us to live as if what we believe were true. The Anglican approach to spiritual formation may then be summed up as the speculative-affective synthesis. Christian formation happens at that place where doctrine (speculative or theological knowledge) and prayer (affective or devotional knowledge) meet. And for Anglicans, a vital part of this formation has traditionally taken place in the context of spiritual direction, one-to-one relationships in which parishioners are lovingly guided by a person with more theological training and life experience than they possess at that time.

The concept of spiritual direction isn’t completely foreign to Protestant or evangelical circles, where it is more commonly called “mentorship.” However, there is a key difference in the Anglican approach: the spiritual director-directee relationship must be held in tandem with participation in the communal and liturgical life of the Church. The Christian life is not an individual endeavor. Those who are in Christ are members of a covenant community, a family of believers who worship the triune God as one body and work together to advance his kingdom on earth. We are not only formed spiritually by our own practice of the spiritual disciplines or by private Bible reading; rather, the corporate gathering of the Church for the reception of the Word and the sacraments is the primary locus of spiritual formation.

For Anglicans, then, there is much more to spiritual formation than “quiet times” and the occasional fast. Over the next few weeks, we will discuss three principles that are fundamental to the Anglican vision of spiritual formation: (1) spiritual formation is grounded in worship; (2) spiritual formation is communal; and (3) spiritual formation is trinitarian. Doctrine and prayer, minds and bodies, individual meditation and corporate worship, theology and discipline: all of these are necessary and beneficial for the Anglican Christian. All of these are good gifts from God. Thus, spiritual formation is the place where doctrine meets prayer, both in the individual’s participation in the life of the Church and in the spiritual director-directee relationship.

Andrew Russell is an M.Div. candidate at Beeson Divinity School. He is an ordination candidate in the Anglican Diocese of the South and hopes to serve the Church as a parish priest. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Anna. Follow him on Twitter: @andrew_05.

[1]  One look at the Twitter hashtag “#exvangelical” gives all the evidence one needs to confirm this.

[2]  Martin Thornton, English Spirituality: An Outline of Ascetical Theology According to the English Pastoral Tradition (Cambridge: Cowley Publications, 1986), 24.

I wrote this blog post for our parish blog (Church of the Apostles, Kansas City). You can find it here; you should also read the fabulous contributions from far more talented writers in your community, too.

The Feast of the Transfiguration (celebrated August 6) is one of my favorite feasts in the entire church calendar. While other holy days merely commemorate a person or an event, this one is powerful because it is very easy to imagine the palpable glory and majesty which the disciples saw displayed atop Mount Tabor. The Feast of the Transfiguration is a high and holy day (pardon the liturgical pun) because we are invited to ascend the mountain with Jesus and the disciples and there “behold the King in His beauty.”

As with any passage of Scripture, we are invited to dig a little bit deeper and remember other mountain-top and glory-filled encounters. Our minds ought to wander to two scenes in Exodus: first, when YHWH descended upon Mt. Sinai with cloud and smoke before consecrating His people and giving them the law; second, when Moses ascended Sinai and met with YHWH and beheld His glory so much that Moses himself radiated it and had to veil his face from Israel. Moses’ appearance was transfigured because he had been in the presence of the Holy and yet journeyed back down to the people each and every time in order to live out his calling. The awe-some power of God inspired both “the fear of the LORD” and a sense of reverence and worship.

We might also think of Elijah atop Mount Carmel battling the prophets of Baal in the name of YHWH and calling down fire from heaven. Elijah had feared for his life, running from Jezebel, yet ended up proclaiming YHWH’s victory and power against 800 prophets. Elijah did not stay at the summit once he was done, though. He moved on and poured himself into his disciple, Elisha, before being caught up to heaven in a chariot of fire. He encountered God both in the silence and the terrifying display of fire, and his life was devoted to calling Israel back to her God. One does not find God and keep the experience private…

Moses and Elijah: prophets and leaders; mountaintop experiences with power and glory; YHWH victorious over all things, reigning over all people. Do you see why our minds wander here? Jesus takes His closest disciples – Peter, James, and John – up to the top of a mountain, and there He appears transfigured, radiant in white, between Moses and Elijah. These holy three discussed Jesus’ impending death and the voice from heaven affirms and validates Jesus’ identity, charging the witnesses to listen and obey. Jesus then sets His face like flint toward Jerusalem and begins His intentional trek toward the cross.

As we read the assigned lesson from Peter’s second epistle, the document he wrote decades after this experience, you can almost feel the emotion pouring forth from Peter’s memory; you can almost see the scene he is recalling. The Transfiguration shaped and transformed Peter in a mighty way. Peter may have descended the mountain with Jesus only to betray Him three times before the crucifixion, but Jesus reinstated Peter and his ministry was faithful unto death. You cannot remain unchanged, unphased, unaffected when you encounter the glory and majesty of the Living God.

The invitation before you today as we celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration is an invitation to behold the King in His beauty, to taste and see the Lord’s majesty and glory, and to move forward from that holy place into a more faithful expression of obedience. When we focus exclusively on the glorious majesty of God, we are freed from the disquieting distractions of this world; when we look to Christ, we are no longer consumed with external pressures, influences, and burdens which tell us that we need to accomplish/achieve more. I pray that we can all find God in the silence and the awe-some vision of Jesus’ transfiguration and let that encounter spur us on from one degree of glory to the next.

This is the first contribution to the new series, “Everyday Ecumenism.” This collaborative project will be a compilation of contributions from women and men seeking to engage theology from an ecumenical perspective for the benefit of the Church.

The topic of disability has recently opened itself in Biblical scholarship and theological studies. The conversation stems from a larger societal movement concerning both the personhood of the disabled and their role in society. Since the topic is fairly new, however, the reach of scholarship has just begun to bring the discussion into the ethical dialogues. In the world at large, ethical treatment and consideration of the disabled is lacking. The United States suffers from underfunded and understaffed care facilities, largely run on unethical and questionable models of caregiving. In the United Kingdom parliamentary debates rage in regard to Down’s Syndrome, which has almost been “eradicated.”[1] Thus, the caregiving quality and personal value of those with disabilities is a needed dialogue.

            The alternative to maltreatment and devaluing of the disabled is primarily the Church. In particular, such societal protections and values of the disabled necessary for an alternative stem from the Old Testament’s specific stipulations of the priesthood (Leviticus 21:16-24). The Levitical priestly considerations not only provide a contrasting value for the disabled from that of surrounding societies in the ANE, but also provide a framework for how the modern church can integrate and care for the disabled today. By exploring these priesthood laws of disability, new perspectives on religious treatment of the disabled and integration should become clear.

ANALYSIS OF DISABILITY IN LEVITICUS 21

            One of the more difficult and perplexing passages of the Old Testament in the conversation of disability is Leviticus 21:16-24. The entire chapter is dedicated to the regulations of priestly duty and holiness. Derek Tidball clarifies the priestly role and holiness by explaining, “one of the major responsibilities of the priests was to distinguish between these categories [holy, clean, etc.].”[2] Holiness indicated the consecration of an object or person, while cleanliness seems primarily concerned with the state of things.[3] The exclusions found in the text include regulations about where priests can go (v.12), who they can marry (v.7), and general hygiene rules (v.5). Verses 16-24 contain the only exclusion of a people group, those with disabilities such as blindness, lameness, deformities of limbs, and other defects, from preforming offerings and entering the holiest place. For the modern reader these regulations seem discriminatory.

            Some scholars consign these seemingly discriminatory regulations to the idea of holiness: that the disabilities were simply seen as unholy. Tidball argues that “like the sacrificial victim itself, only perfection could be brought so close to the presence of a perfect God.”[4] However, there seem to be fundamental flaws in Tidball’s placing the lack of holiness on the person with disability. First, Tidball’s reading of the text seems to be limited to a presuppositional ideal image. As Kerry H. Wynn argues, this “normate reading” of ancient Yahwist texts assigns categories and meanings with modern social norms.[5] Tidball makes an error in assuming that the text’s regulations concerning the profaning of the sanctuary indicate a lack of holiness altogether in those with disabilities, and this reasoning ignores the text’s indication otherwise. The beginning of the discourse on disability regulations prevents the disabled from offering the bread of God (v.17), but it does not disqualify the disabled from the priesthood as a whole. As Sarah J. Melcher notes, physical standards are fundamentally different than holiness since “the writers of the Priestly Torah never refer to a person as holy unless that person has been consecrated to priestly service.”[6] Thus, the exclusion from certain acts within the priestly role does not equate to a lack holiness on the part of the disabled individual.

            From what are the disabled being excluded? Melcher argues that “the primary intention of Lev. 21:16-24 is to prohibit a priest from officiating in the sacrificial cult…”[7] Melcher rightly acknowledges that the disabled person is not disqualified from the priesthood, and that the only major prohibition is the officiating of offerings. The regulation is not primarily concerned with God’s presence as a whole, but rather the action of offering itself. Neither does this exclusion mean that the disabled individual is ritually impure, as v.22 explains that the priest is able to eat of the priestly bread. Amos Yong further clarifies that “contemporary disability readings would obviously want to note that this text doesn’t exclude people with disabilities as a whole from their priestly vocation.”[8]

            Yong, however, continues by noting that the main issue becomes the idea of profaning the sanctuary (v.23). Melcher acknowledges that the profaning is “a very serious violation,” because this act puts both the disabled individual and the sacrifice at risk.[9] Tidball argues that these regulations indicate that the body signifies “the totality of the person.”[10] In this interpretation, the disability becomes a symbolic model for the modern reader to understand spiritual impurities and defects. This approach to the regulatory texts once again fails to provide an adequate answer for the disabled reader concerning the exclusive nature of the regulations, perpetuating a stigmatizing view of the disablement and failing to give proper room to the disabled reactions to the text.

            Two major interpretative options thus present themselves to the modern reader.[11] The first, presented by Yong, is a Christological reading. This interpretation first presents the idea of Christ being the perfect High Priest, alleviating the restrictions placed on the disabled individuals and indicting “neither disabilities nor people who have them.”[12] In order to prevent further stigmatization in this interpretation, Yong argues that Christ’s crucifixion fulfills the priestly function with a disabled and wounded body, thus alleviating the disabled reader from alienation.[13]

            A second interpretive approach is to allow for the tension of the text and a deconstruction of the stigmatization in the regulative codes. This approach does not “de-sacralize” the text but rather interprets the regulations through the larger paradigm of Leviticus 19:14: “You shall not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind, but you shall fear your God, I am the Lord.”[14] Using this passage paradigmatically, one can begin to read the text within the larger ethical context of Leviticus. A paradigmatic cultural comparison of the Levitical ethics to that of Mesopotamian treatments of disablement allows for an expanded attempt to draw ethical conclusions in the modern context.

MESOPOTAMIAN VERSUS LEVITICAL TREATMENTS OF DISABLEMENT

            Mesopotamian ethics were rooted in mythological understandings of creation narratives. According to Neal H. Walls, the Mesopotamian creation myth included the idea that humanity’s purpose was primarily labor and alleviation of labor from the gods.[15] In said mythologies, sometimes the gods created disabilities in order to prevent the overpopulation of humanity. In Mesopotamian social contexts, families bore most of the responsibility of caring for those with certain disabilities and were excluded from most temple service.[16] Thus, the value of the disabled was consigned mostly to productivity. The first distinction between the Yahwistic regulations and the Mesopotamian practices lies in the idea of productivity. The Levitical laws seem to centralize care within the temple context, as indicated in the role of disabled priests.

            It is worth noting how Mesopotamian societies remedied disabilities. Walls argues that infanticide and euthanasia were rare, but still occurred. He provides the first example, from the diagnostic handbook (sakikku) which discusses a certain ailment (considered to be Werdnig-Hoffman Disease) resulting in the family throwing the child alive into a river.[17] Similar texts point to the practice of live burial of infants with similar syndromes. The second clear distinction between the Yahwistic regulations on disability and some of the Mesopotamian ethics is the practice (however rare) of infanticide. No such practices are known to have been allowed in the Yahwistic stipulations, thus the value of the disabled individual is not consigned to their productivity.

            Hector Avalos, in his analysis of healing liturgies in the ANE, explains that the framework for disability was largely influenced by the contrast between polytheistic and monolatrous drives. The Mesopotamian treatment of disability was largely centered in the home (which valued productivity) in contrast to the temple centrality of the Yahwistic practice. Here, Avalos fails to draw from the inclusion seen in Lev.21. Rightly, he argues that the temple centrality prevented direct treatment for some of the disabled, but this ignores the larger provision of temple inclusion.[18] The disabled individual is provided with food (holy food at that), sacred duties in the temple, and societal protection. Edgar Kellenberger notes that “the temples had the greatest economic power” (behind the royal palace of the ANE), a dynamic certainly necessary to acknowledge in order to see the importance of disabled inclusion in these contexts.[19] Though Mesopotamian treatment of the disabled is varied, the Yahwistic inclusion of the disabled into the very priesthood of the temple displays an integrative model ahead of its time.

DISABLED PRIESTHOOD AND MODERN ETHICS

            The modern conversation surrounding the place of the disabled in the larger society is not new to the human experience. The Yahwistic provision for those who are disabled, regardless of productive level is in direct contrast to the Mesopotamian ethic. Driven by the Genesis narrative of creation and the paradigm of Leviticus 19, cultic practices and regulations not only value the disabled with provision (shelter, food, etc.) but secure them socially by enabling disabled Levites to be consecrated priests. Among these many social provisions is the eating of the showbread and the direct route to sanctification (v.15), as well as a restored dignity and level of autonomy seemingly absent from the Mesopotamian ethic.

            Dominant within the modern conversation surrounding disability seems to be an exaggerated version of the Mesopotamian ethos, regulating stigma and social position of the disabled to a larger myth of productivity and economic stability. As previously noted, current so-called “eradication” efforts of Down’s Syndrome in Europe are contingent on the idea that abortion will not only ease the suffering of the child but lift the potential economic suffering of the family. Due to the larger bifurcation of the disabled individual between emotional capacity and rational, social provision and participation of the disabled seems low (especially if death is seen as a better option). It seems that a challenging, yet holistic approach is the alternative of the church. In parallel with the Levitical model of disabled priesthood, the church not only could integrate the disabled into the church but potentially ordain or allow clerical participation. Though a case-by-case model, the idea of “sacred disability” upholds the dignity of the disabled but also provides a “liberating power” from the world’s conscriptions of value to wealth and productivity, a power found in the friendship of the church.[20] Using the model of close friendship, churches not only can help carry the burdens (financial, physical, spiritual) of those with disabilities but also further integrate them within the very tapestry woven in the Body. What would it look like if the Eucharist was administered by those with disabilities? In similar fashion to the Levitical priesthood, what does it tell us about God? In the United States, where many churches have separate services for those with disabilities, what would it communicate to the country as a whole to have fully integrative services? The provision, societal protection, and sacred participation found in the Israelite temple can be mirrored by the modern church, in which participation in the liturgies and practices provides the window of provision and dignity. Said participation also provides representation not only within the congregation but even in the clergy. The hardships faced by those who are disabled are hardships that the church should take up as its own, working and living alongside the afflicted in both provisional and participatory ways.

Cody Bivins holds a B.A. in Biblical Studies & Biblical Languages from Evangel University and is currently pursuing an M.A. in Historical Theology from Wheaton Graduate College. His areas of interest include philosophical theology, theological ethics, political theology, and theology of disability. Cody’s work is driven by a desire for the Church to live Incarnationally and to see others love their neighbors as themselves. 



[1]Alison, Gee.  https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-37500189

[2] Derek Tiball, The Message of Leviticus (Downer’s Grove: Intervarsity Press, 2005), 27.

[3] Ibid, 27.

[4] Ibid, 265.

[5] Kerry H. Wynn, ““The Normate Hermeneutic and Interpretations of Disability Within the Yahwistic Narratives”  in This Abled Body, ed. Hector Avalos, Sarah J. Melcher, and Jeremy Schipper (Atlanta: SBL, 2007), 92.

[6] Sarah J. Melcher, “Visualizing the Perfect Cult: The Priestly Rationale for Exclusion” in Human Disability and the Service of God, ed. Nancy L. Eisland and Don E. Saliers (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1998), 57.

[7] Ibid, 65

[8] Amos Yong, The Bible, Disability, and The Church: A New Vision of the People of God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 19.

[9] Melcher, ”Visualizing the Perfect Cult,”  66.

[10] Tidball, The Message of Leviticus, 265,

[11] It should be noted that neither option totally alleviates the tension in the text by eliminating it completely.

[12] Yong, The Bible, Disability, and The Church, 26.

[13] Yong, The Bible, Disability, and The Church, 29.

[14] Melcher, “Visualizing the Perfect Cult,” 69.

[15] Neal H. Walls, “The Origins of the Disabled Body: Disability in Ancient Mesopotamia” in This Abled Body: Rethinking Disabilities in Biblical Studies, ed. Hector Avalos, Sarah J. Melcher, and Jeremy Schipper (Atlanta: SBL, 2007), 16.

[16] Walls, “The Origins of the Disabled Body,” 16.

[17] Ibid, 21.

[18] Avalos, “Disability and Liturgy”, 41.

[19] Edgar Kellenberger, “Children and Adults with intellectual Disability in Antiquity and Modernity: Toward a Biblical and Sociological Model,” Cross Currents 63 no. 4 (2013), 460.

[20] John Swinton, Resurrecting the Person: Friendship and the Care of People with Mental Health Problems (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2000), 139.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Originally published by Resonance: A Theological Journal in Vol 4.3 on “The Trinity.”

Trinitarian worship has often been described as “to the Father, through the Son, and by/in the Spirit.”[1] While this is true, very little has been articulated as to how this reality is envisioned and enacted liturgically. This essay will seek to examine the liturgy, from synaxis to dismissal, in order to demonstrate the Trinitarian nature of our worship, the participation/inclusion of each member of the Trinity in the liturgy, and what the liturgy implies about the Trinity.

This article focuses on the Eucharistic liturgy from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer because it has been the standard for Anglicans over the last 350 years. In addition, this project is more in line with approaches by Alexander Schmemann[2] and Leonel Mitchell[3] (chronological assessment) than Nicholas Wolterstorff’s most recent book[4] (more plucking bits and pieces from liturgy). Wolterstorff and J. Todd Billings[5] have both written about the implicit and functional theologies found within our liturgies, and while these are both very necessary and real, this article will focus instead on the explicit and stated theologies of the 1662 Eucharistic liturgy. It is my contention that the liturgy is profoundly Trinitarian and that attention to the language of the liturgy will reveal a plurality of moments and movements through which the Triune God is active in very specific ways.

A brief word: the 1662 Book of Common Prayer (BCP) was not the first Anglican prayer book in England, nor was it the last. Cranmer worked tirelessly on his editions of 1549 and 1552 and other books/services (1559 most notably) were introduced in the intermittent period between 1552 and 1662. However, the 1662 has long been the standard of Anglican liturgiology for it represents the most fundamental and agreed upon common ground for liturgical efforts. Modern liturgies and liturgists use the 1662 as their starting point and/or sounding board as they seek to embody the liturgy in more meaningful, relevant, or theologically accurate settings. While North American Anglicans (Episcopalians very much included here) utilize the 1928, 1979, or more recent liturgies, the choice to focus on the 1662 for this present project was obvious: very few, if any, Anglicans will disagree on the ongoing strengths and vitality of the 1662.

Following in the footsteps of Alexander Schmemann and Leonel Mitchell, our examination of the Eucharistic liturgy of the 1662 BCP does not begin with the anaphora of the Eucharist. We do a great injustice to the Eucharist when we separate it from the rest of the liturgy as if there are two separate entities: Word and Table. The Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Table make up one complete whole: Eucharist. For this project, then, the beginning is found at the opening of worship and the ending at the dismissal for we miss the robust beauty of Trinitarian worship if we focus solely or exclusively on one portion or moment of a whole event.

1662 Liturgy [6]

The Lord’s Prayer serves as the opening of “The Administration of the Lord’s Supper, or Holy Communion” for the 1662 BCP.[7] Immediately, worshippers are pointed to the fact that there is a Father who is in heaven and whose name is holy. Simple though it may seem, this prayer makes explicit that the Father exists and that he is engaged in specific work: provision, forgiveness, and protection. The language of prayer demonstrates that those praying are asking the Father actively to do these things.

The Collect for Purity immediately follows the Lord’s Prayer. This was once a prayer privately said by the priest prior to processing into the nave and to the chancel, but now it is a prayer to be said amidst the whole worshipping people. Each member of the Trinity is referenced in this prayer: “Almighty God” references the Father; “holy Spirit,” and “Christ our Lord” references the third and second persons of the Trinity. Here we find the Father as the recipient and knower of all our thoughts and prayers and as the one who shall cleanse our hearts by his Spirit. This is all done that we might “perfectly love” and “worthily magnify” God’s name through Jesus.[8]

Next is a recounting of the Ten Commandments and a series of responses by the people all addressed to the Father. Recounting YHWH’s mighty deeds on behalf of Israel, the church then prays that God would “have mercy on us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.”[9] The prayers suggest that God is capable of such mercy and action in the innermost chambers of the human heart (read affections/kardia here). Although no specification is given as to how such work is achieved (e.g. by the Spirit, through the Son), the Father is invoked here as an active agent who has such power and affect.

One of two prayers is then prayed for the Sovereign.[10] The prayer follows the traditional form of a collect and is therefore addressed to the Father, through the Son, and in keeping with the traditional form, the second collect acknowledges that both Father and Son live and reign with the Holy Spirit. Both collects focus on the reign of Charles, that his leadership and life may be strengthened by the Father. Implicit here is the belief that God has power over the hearts and affections of humans.

Following the Collect for the Sovereign, the people move more completely into the Liturgy of the Word and encounter the Collect of the Day, the Epistle, and the Gospel. The Collect follows the same form of to the Father, through the Son, and by/with the Holy Spirit thereby enjoining the Trinity in whatever action or activity is earnestly prayed for. Prior to the sermon, the Apostles Creed is proclaimed aloud by the people and a paragraph is devoted here to each member of the Trinity, stating specific beliefs about Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The sequence from sermon to the Lord’s Table begins with prayers for “Christ’s Church militant here in earth.”[11]The prayer is addressed to the Father and he is implored to “receive these our prayers,” “save and defend all Christian kings…”, “Give grace…to all bishops and curates,” “to comfort and succor” all who are in need.[12] This is all done for “Jesus Christ’s sake our Mediator and Advocate.” There is a lot of activity jammed into this one page of liturgy. We learn from the liturgy that Jesus is mediator and advocate—this is why our prayers are through him, because we believe he stands before the Father interceding on our behalf. The Father is revealed as healer, defender, protector, giver of grace, and the one who receives our prayers. The Father is not a passive spectator of this prayer, he is the one to whom it is directed and of whom action is expectantly implored.

The priest then has the charge of preparing the congregation for Communion, either for the current day or for a Sunday in the future. He entreats the people to examine their hearts because it is “right to render most humble and hearty thanks to the Father.” Why? Because “he hath given us his Son our Savior, Jesus Christ.”[13] The liturgical preparation for Communion is a lengthy recounting of God’s actions in Christ and reminder to “trust in God’s mercy.” The language suggests that what has been done once and for all can still be of benefit to the gathered faithful many centuries later; the story is both the foundation and hope of our belief. God has revealed himself as faithful through Jesus and is therefore worthy of our praise and thanksgiving.

Finally, the priest exhorts the people one last time in a bit of liturgical language that is teeming with rich imagery and action. We are instructed that to eat the body and drink the blood of Jesus is to “dwell with in Christ, and Christ in us.”[14] Through the lens of his passion, we are exhorted to repent and amend our lives. We are told to “remember the exceeding love of our Master” as he died for us and procured for us the way to salvation. All of this is Trinitarian, though, for the prayer closes, “To Him therefore with the Father, and the holy Ghost, let us give (as we are most bounden) continual thanks, submitting ourselves wholly to his holy will and pleasure, and studying to serve him in true holiness and righteousness.”[15] While humans may be the subject of the exhortation and the ones spurred on to action, the previous activity of the Father is in view here and is dragged into the present as though it has current meaning for the church.

Having recounted the mighty acts of God, it seems most natural to proceed to the table through confession. Father is seen as “Almighty God,” “Make of all things,” and “Judge of all men.” The Father is beseeched to “have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us;” “Forgive us all that is past,” and “Grant that we may ever hereafter serve and please thee.”[16] Why? Again, for Jesus’ sake. The Father is asked to have mercy, forgive, and grant the ability to live holy lives in the Kingdom.

The Comfortable Words are a touchstone of classical Anglicanism and while they are constituted by verses from the Gospels of Matthew and John, they are introduced by the priest as words Jesus speaks to the faithful here, now, in the present. Somehow, in this liturgical action, Christ is present. The priest says, “Hear the Comfortable Words Jesus saith unto those who truly turn to him.”[17]  In this moment, it is believed, Jesus is speaking. The second person of the Trinity is speaking to his people gathered in worship; Jesus comforts his people with promise of rest, restoration, and wholeness.

The Comfortable Words flow seamlessly into the Anaphora in the 1662 liturgy. This transition between Confession and Eucharist through the words of Jesus makes a great deal of sense theologically. The Eucharistic Prayer references the previous and ongoing work of the Trinity while only calling the Triune God into action. Here we see the response of the gathered church to the work of God in thanksgiving. God’s many and mighty deeds are recounted, and God’s people give thanks and praise, but the focus here is not what God is doing presently, liturgically, but what he has already done and the hopeful anticipation of what he will do.

We “Lift our hearts to the Lord” because it is “meet, right, and our bounden duty.”[18] This is the response of gratitude. We join our voices with the whole company of heaven rendering praise and thanks in the “Holy, holy, holy” for what God has done for us. The inclusion of the Prayer of Humble Access early in the Eucharistic Prayer is important because it locates both our humility and our request for God’s action and help within the context of the Eucharist proper. We come to the table trusting not in ourselves but in God and we pray that he may “grant us” the ability to partake of Jesus’ body and blood and be cleansed in the process.

The Eucharist moves into the anamnesis-memorial in which we “beseech” God to allow us to be partakers not only of the bread and wine but of the body and blood of Jesus as well.[19] Jesus’ words of institution here are remembered and re-presented as being efficacious unto us as we celebrate his meal some 2000 years later. This paragraph locates our celebration within the context of Jesus’ own passion, thereby infusing meaning and significance within salvation history and not simply/solely the context of the local gathering.

The Eucharist comes full circle in 1662 with the inclusion of the Lord’s Prayer once more. There is something significant that the liturgists and reformers are trying to show us by having the Lord’s Prayer prayed twice: something about the Eucharist is the embodiment of Kingdom life and living. Again, we pray for provision, forgiveness, and protection but done within the context of the Eucharist proper, we have a more tangible understanding that the meal itself will be our nourishment, a sign of our forgiveness, and effect a sense of spiritual protection.

The Eucharistic Prayer thus concludes with one of two collects, thereby entreating the Trinity by name/person to be present and active. The whole of the liturgy is prayed to, by, through, and with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for they all live and reign together, both now and forever. The Collects and the Lord’s Prayer highlight this kingdom reality and the entirety of our liturgical action can be seen as human participation in Kingdom life.

Liturgical Verbs: Trinity in Action

There is a difference between referencing the previous work of the Trinity (Collects, anamnesis-memorial) and imploring and invoking members of the Triune God to be present and active in the moment. This section will focus on the latter before working toward a conclusion.

The first triplet of verbs is found in the opening Lord’s Prayer where the Father is asked to “give, forgive, and lead.”[20] These verbs will make appearances elsewhere throughout the liturgy and they demonstrate in the first offering that the gathered church intends far more than to simply retell God’s story. The Father, who is in heaven and who is holy, is asked to give nourishment to his people, forgive their iniquities, and to lead them away from temptation and deliver them from evil. Implicit here is the belief that the Father has the ability to do this, that he is able to give and forgive, lead and deliver.

The Collect for Purity is perhaps the best example of Spirit action in this liturgy.

The Father is then asked to “cleanse” us by the inspiration of his Holy Spirit.[21] We are somehow impure—having already arrived at the need for forgiveness in the Lord’s Prayer—and the Father is able to purify us through his Spirit. The Spirit will inspire the people which will have the effect of cleansing the heart and mind. We know from elsewhere in the liturgy that the Spirit lives and reigns with the Father and Son, but in this collect we see the Spirit as actively working amongst the people; the Collect for Purity provides a fantastic glimpse into idea of prayer “by” the Spirit.

The Father is next asked to “have mercy,” to “so rule” the heart of the King or to “govern” his heart.[22] Later, worshippers ask the Father to “receive” their prayers, to “inspire” the universal church, to “save and defend” all Christian rulers, to “give grace,” to “comfort and succor.”[23] Three times in this very prayer does the community ask God for his grace.

The Confession is a great example of the Father’s liturgical action. We implore the Father to “have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us” and the priest proclaims this truth on God’s behalf in the Absolution: “Have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and bring you to everlasting life.” This pronouncement is a speech-act of God’s work in, through, for, and over us.

The Son is referenced throughout the liturgy primarily in what is done for his sake or what is done through him. This should not be dismissed as in-activity. Any time we encounter the phrase “through Christ” it means that our prayers are presented to the Father by the Son. As we are praying on earth we believe that the eternal High Priest is mediating our prayers before the Father, interceding on our behalf. One of the prayers even references Jesus as our “mediator and advocate.” He is active in the liturgy in this way. Additionally, the Comfortable Words, as mentioned above, are read with this opening clause, “Hear what comfortable words our Savior Christ says unto all that truly turn to him.” Jesus is saying those words in the present.

Conclusion

The primary focus on Jesus in Eucharistic praying is our enjoining and participating with Christ in his passion. This is somehow made possible through the remembering of his Passion, and while the 1662 liturgy does a poor job of explaining this liturgically, other liturgies make clear that such dangerous memory and re-presentation takes place only by the power of the Holy Spirit. However, the Spirit is not completely absent from this liturgy despite the fact that most references of the Spirit take the form of a Collect demonstrating that the Spirit lives and reigns with both the Father and the Son. Missing from the 1662 is any formal epiclesis or invocation of the Holy Spirit whereby the priest prays that the Spirit descend upon the gifts and the people and sanctify them; the Epiclesis is perhaps the clearest form of the Holy Spirit’s involvement in the liturgy and many Anglican liturgies have included a formal Epiclesis for this purpose.

The 1662 Eucharist begins with the Lord’s Prayer and ends with the blessing of God being proclaimed in the name of “the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Just as the Triune God is living and active in the world he loves and created, so too should our liturgy reflect that reality. While other liturgies make their Trinitarian claims more explicit, the 1662 should be seen as a wonderful proclamation of the majesty of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.


Endnotes

[1] James Torrance, Didsbury Lectures, vol. 1994, Worship, Community and the Triune God of Grace (Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity Press, 1996).

[2] Alexander Schmemann, Introduction to Liturgical Theology, 3rd ed., trans. Asheleigh E. Moorhouse (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1986, 1966).

[3] Leonel L. Mitchell, Praying Shapes Believing: a Theological Commentary On the Book of Common Prayer (Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse Pub., 1991, 1985).

[4] Nicholas Wolterstorff, The God We Worship: an Exploration of Liturgical Theology, Kantzer Lectures in Revealed Theology (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2015).

[5] J. Todd Billings, Remembrance, Communion, and Hope: Rediscovering the Gospel at the Lord’s Table (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2018).

[6] All references to the 1662 liturgy throughout this article will be from The Book of Common Prayer: the Texts of 1549, 1559, and 1662, Oxford World’s Classics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

[7] Ibid, 389.

[8] Ibid, 390.

[9] Ibid, 390-391.

[10] Ibid, 391-392.

[11] Ibid, 394.

[12] Ibid, 395-397.

[13] Ibid, 396.

[14] Ibid, 398.

[15] Ibid, 398-399.

[16] Ibid, 399.

[17] Ibid, 399.

[18] Ibid, 400.

[19] Ibid, 402.

[20] Ibid, 389.

[21] Ibid, 390.

[22] Ibid, 391.

[23] Ibid, 395.

Photo by Emre Can on Pexels.com

Originally published in Resonance: A Theological Journal for their issue on the Trinity.

“Alleluia, Alleluia. Let us go forth into the world rejoicing in the power of the Spirt. Thanks be to God. Alleluia, Alleluia.”[1] These words, or something very similar, are exclaimed on Sunday mornings throughout the world as the gathered faithful are dismissed from the liturgy of the Eucharist and ushered, nay catapulted, back into the world from the nave. Too often, though, this dismissal is nothing more than an ending to the liturgy rather than an invitation into deeper, more robust gospel living. The disconnect between Sunday worship and daily life often feels as though it is getting wider rather than narrower; the (false) dichotomy between sacred and secular or holy and profane is growing rather than diminishing. All too often we hear comments about public spheres and private life as though the two are somehow mutually exclusive. As Christians, we struggle to effectively be both in the world but not of the world, and to answer the question: what does this [liturgy/worship] mean for my “ordinary” life?

Liturgy can all too quickly be relegated to that which we do on a Sunday morning or a text to be read during the week for study and examination. This misses the mark entirely and we have no one to blame but ourselves. At some point along the way, and it does not matter from whom or whence this came, liturgy ceased being the experience of heaven and earth meeting at the altar and instead became a structured form used for right praise and thanksgiving. Liturgy as a noun will always be understood this way, but what if liturgy was understood and experienced as an action, as a verb, as a mission? This essay will explore liturgy as an action event, one which contains language about the missio dei, because ultimately the liturgy we celebrate on Sunday is tied explicitly to the leitourgia of Jesus.

One result of the Reformation has been the (almost) universal translation among Protestants of liturgy as “the work of the people.” The culmination of this interpretation can be seen through the documents of the Second Vatican Council, specifically Sacrosanctum Concilium (SC).  While SC was produced and is used authoritatively by the Roman Catholic Church, many Protestants have seen it as the validation for their earlier shift in liturgical understanding. SC highlights the participatory role of the laity in the liturgy, giving further (if only unintentional) credence to the Reformation claim.[2] Unfortunately, though, this translation is not the most accurate understanding of leitourgia. The ergon of the people in leitourgia is robbed of great meaning if it is resigned solely to referring to the laity. In Jesus we find a different understanding.

Leitourgia was used during the centuries before and after the time of Jesus, particularly in Greece, to mean a “public work of an individual/people on behalf of the whole.”[3] Often this would take the form of a wealthy benefactor paying for a road to be used by a community, city, province, or something similar. The addition of “on behalf” to “of” locates the focus of the work as being two-fold rather than singularly absorbed. The question for us becomes two-fold: who is performing the work and for whom?

Sunday liturgy is first and foremost about the worship of the triune God. If our liturgical worship is not doxological in telos then it is not Christian and should not be enacted. In addition to being a focused form of doxology, liturgy is performed by the Church on behalf of the world. Not only does the liturgy give us clues as to essence and meaning of the missio dei, it is also a microcosm of the missio dei enacted and embodied. Liturgy reflects the heart, activity, and mission of God because it flows directly from Christ’s own leitourgia on behalf of the world. The structural elements of liturgical worship, the very nature of worship itself, points to this reality: what we do in worship as doxology is meant to flow into everyday living as praxis. Who we are meant to be, who we are in Christ, is formed, shaped, and expressed presently and eschatologically in eucharistic celebration.

The Lord’s Day liturgy begins even before the faithful gather in the nave on Sunday morning.[4] The liturgy actually begins with the prompting invitation of the Holy Spirit and the response of men, women and children to come and engage in the worship of Almighty God together. If God’s mission is to redeem and restore all of creation, then the gathering up of his people from the ends of the earth (read city, county, etc.) is part of that mission. Even before the opening acclamation, God and humanity have been engaging in the dialogue of call and response, and just as God’s word does not return empty (Isaiah 55), so too should we see that those who are part of the throng on Sunday morning have in some way responded to God by grace and in faith.

Beginning with the standard, “Blessed be God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And blessed be his Kingdom, now and for ever. Amen,”[5] we can see that the telos of liturgical worship is the Kingdom of the triune God. That is, worship is ever moving toward something, God is ever inviting and drawing creation toward a specific end. When the Kingdom of God is the goal or destination of worship, our prayers and praises, laments and confessions, thanksgivings and silences are all part of the journey to and from the Kingdom as we are shaped and transformed by God into agents of the mission dei.[6]

The whole liturgy is a dually-climactic pilgrimage as we move “further up and further in.”[7] In constant motion forward, in consistent movement toward the goal, we first reach one climax in the sermon. The people of God who are on mission with God cannot be separated from the Word of God. Through the public reading of God’s Word and the further proclamation of the Gospel through the Sermon, the Church is instructed, illuminated, challenged, convicted, encouraged, exhorted, and so much more. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, Jesus is present as the Word in the word, and the readings and sermon provide the hermeneutical foundation for Kingdom work. Simply put, upon further reflection of letters from Paul, proclamations from the prophets and kings, the wisdom of the Psalms, and the Gospel accounts themselves, the sermon turns from exposition toward explication, beckoning the listener toward discipleship, relationship with Jesus, and mission in the world.

However, the journey does not end with the sermon. Contrary to perception of many evangelical worship services, the point of the sermon is not to fill our heads with religious ideology before walking out of church, stepping over the beggar on the doorstep, and moving on with our public lives until we gather again next week for another information download. The sermon is always or should always be pointing toward the Table. Again, not to belabor the point here, Eucharist is not Table against or over Word but is instead the union of the Liturgy of Word and Table. Each interprets the other, each acts upon and grounds the other that our thoughts and actions, our words and embodiment, might all praise God.

The transition from Word to Table is important and not to be missed. A standard progression from one liturgy to the next includes the Nicene Creed, the Prayers of the People, the Confession of Sin, and the Exchange of the Peace. These elements are far more than liturgical time killers or clerical vamping; in fact, these elements speak directly to the mission God is carrying out in creation and into which we are invited.

The proclamation of the Nicene Creed during the Eucharist is not only a statement of doctrinal certainty and clarity, it (re)tells the soteriological story and mission of God from creation through fall and redemption and on toward the hopeful anticipation of consummation in the Kingdom. The Creed alerts those who are affirming their faith to the fact that in and through Jesus of Nazareth, the one who is both fully God and fully man, the world is being put to rights. “For us and for our salvation…and his kingdom will have no end…”[8] These are the words we say publicly, corporately, and expectantly every Sunday and they carry with them the imbibed hope and meaning of a people already redeemed joining in the work of redemption and reconciliation.

The Prayers of the People provide the first explicit opportunity for our worship to extend beyond the gathered faithful and to encompass the whole of the cosmos. While worship is the gathering up of creation’s praise and directing it back to the Creator, these prayers allow the worshippers to bring before Almighty God every relationship, every person, place, thing, job, city, etc. and to lay them upon the altar of grace and mercy. The prayers are offered—offered as part of the Eucharistic/anaphoric journey—for the Church, nation, the just use of creation, civil leaders, specific prayer requests and thanksgivings, and for the departed. There is not a single area or layer of life which is not represented in these prayers and that is the point: the mission of God encompasses the totality of life so that there is no false dichotomy between public and private or sacred and profane, and the Prayers of the People reflect this truth, too.

God’s mission in the world, as seen most clearly and prominently through the Passion, includes reconciling all things unto himself. The liturgy joins in this ministry of reconciliation through the use of public confession of sin and absolution by the priest. Note, it is important to bear in mind here that the priest is not forgiving sins based on her own merit or righteousness but is rather announcing and assuring those present of a forgiveness already graciously bestowed upon them by God. In other words, the priest is extending the forgiveness of sins found upon the cross (“Father, forgive them for they know not what they are doing”) and invites the people to approach the Table as a people of forgiveness. Both being forgiven and extending forgiveness are marks of the Kingdom of God, are integral to the mission of God, and are central to Eucharistic living.

The seal on the confession and absolution of sin can be seen through the lens of the Exchange of the Peace. This is often viewed as a time for greeting one another, making plans for brunch after the completion of the service, or an opportunity to stretch one’s legs after a long sermon. However, the origins of this practice depict a much different scene: we exchange the peace with one another because we have been once again reminded of our reconciliation to God in Christ through the Spirit. If I am reconciled and my brother or sister has also been reconciled unto God, then the natural and theologically appropriate next step is to reconcile one unto another. For how can we heed Paul’s exhortation in his epistle to the church at Corinth, or even approach the Table, if/when we still harbor anger or malice in our heart toward another? At the heart of the Christian life and the mission of God is the understanding that in and through Christ all things are being made new and being drawn toward the Father. The Peace is therefore the final opportunity for individuals to extend or receive forgiveness from a brother or sister before proceeding to the Table and eating and drinking judgment. Ultimately, it is “the peace of God” which we are extending to one another.

The Liturgy of the Word has been pointing toward the Liturgy of the Table from the opening acclamation and the Table seals and interprets the Word as we partake of the bread and wine, body and blood. Jesus’ Passion is recounted here and it is this anamnetic and anaphoric narrative which explicitly details the night that Jesus “was handed over to death” and the end toward which his Passion was pointed. The Church offers herself, her tithes, and her thanksgiving upon the altar as she “remember[s] his death, proclaims his resurrection, and awaits his coming in glory.”[9] The language used in the Eucharistic prayer evokes scenes of willing obedience and submission to the Father, arms stretched out upon the cross for the benefit and salvation of humanity and creation, and the sanctification of both gift and recipient that each may be transformed by the Spirit for holy purpose and use.

It is here, in the middle of recounting Christ’s Passion during the Eucharist, that we see the missio dei explained most fully. This is the point where Schmemann focused his attention for his classic For the Life of the Worldbecause it was through the willing submission to the Father’s will, through the arrest and betrayal and mocking and trial without complaint or resistance, through the cross and resurrection that we see Jesus’ actions were always for the life of the world. While Rome and the religious leaders may have thought they were silencing a troublemaker, and while many may view the crucifixion as nothing more than an execution, the Passion of Jesus is the ultimate affirmation, validation, and vindication of God’s creation. Christ died that all of creation, the whole of the cosmos, might be reconciled unto God; that all might be put back into right relationship with him. This is the Passion and the Passion is the central and defining element of Eucharistic worship.

Just as the bread is taken, blessed, broken, and given unto the disciples and those gathered around the table, so too are we a people to be dispersed and distributed among and amidst the world that others might see Christ. The elements are sanctified by the Spirit just as Christ was glorified upon the Cross and then the priest turns her prayer outward toward the congregation an she prays for the Spirit’s sanctifying work upon them as well. To what end? That they might become the body of Christ and be empowered for mission and ministry, of course.

The final act(s) after partaking of the Holy Meal include the final blessing by the priest which is nothing more or less than the acknowledgment of God’s blessing which he has already and always continues to pour out over his people. Finally, they are dismissed with a charge to go into the world, their mission field, as a people sent out.

If we can agree that the liturgy on Sunday is fashioned and formed after the leitourgia of Jesus, then it would follow that everything we do in liturgy is tied directly to the missio dei. In fact, the internal logic of the liturgy—the liturgical coefficient as it was dubbed by Schmemann[10]—shows a consistent and cohesive flow from entrance to dismissal, a flow which reveals to us the nature of our calling and sends us back out into the mission field. Jesus’ leitourgia was a (very) public work performed on behalf of the whole (cosmos) and the call for the church at liturgy is to join in this work: offering her own praise and prayer, thanksgiving and lament, joy and confession, in short her worship on behalf of the world that the world might see Christ and know him fully.


Endnotes

[1] Book of Common Prayer, 366.

[2] SC 14, In the restoration and promotion of the sacred liturgy, this full and active participation by all the people is the aim to be considered before all else.

[3] “The liturgy was an institution of compulsory public service in the classical Greek world, best known from Athens, in which the wealthiest citizens (and, for certain liturgies, metics) were compelled to shoulder the financial burden of some project or activity of benefit to the polis (MacDowell, 1978, p. 161). When used in Athens in the Early Classical period, the term referred to a set of specific duties designated by law. In the fourth century, however, it began to be used more generally, to designate a service or obligation performed for any beneficiary; our modern comes from its use to refer to religious obligations in the Septuagint (Lewis, 1960, p. 181).” Sterling Garnett, “Liturgy, Greece and Rome” in The Encyclopedia of Ancient History edited by Roger Bagnall et. al. (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012).

[4] Sunday morning is used here as the normative time for Christian worship, but it is acknowledged that churches around the world also meet on Saturday or Sunday evenings as time, space, or circumstances dictate. This essay uses the Eucharistic liturgy of the 1979 Book of Common Prayer throughout.

[5] Book of Common Prayer, 355.

[6] “It means that we acknowledge and confess it [the Kingdom] to be our highest and ultimate value, the object of our desire, our love, and our hope. It means that we proclaim it to be the goal of the sacrament—of pilgrimage, ascension, entrance.” Schmemann, The Eucharist, 47.

[7] C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle.

[8] Book of Common Prayer, 358.

[9] Book of Common Prayer, 368.

[10] Schmemann, Introduction to Liturgical Theology, 19.

I wrote this post for our parish blog (Church of the Apostles, KC). You can read it here…and all is the other fabulous posts and sermons!

One of my favorite words to describe my theological work with the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer is “juxtaposition.” Perhaps it is the influence of Alexander Schmemann and Gordon Lathrop—both liturgical theologians and both of whom highly value this concept—but the concept for juxtaposition is very simple: what happens when you put x next to y? An example or two might be helpful here. For liturgy, what does it mean when the Confession is prayed within the Prayers of the People as opposed to the opening liturgy during penitential seasons? Or, for Bible reading, why did the lectionary writers include that Gospel passage alongside this story from the Old Testament? The individual items have their own meaning, but their significance is altered and enhanced when placed nearer something else.

This week is no exception as we have not one, but two, feast days to celebrate: Monday was the Feast of Mary Magdalene and today (Thursday) is the Feast of St. James. Rather than trying to write two separate posts within the same blog entry, I think it is beneficial to look at both feast days simultaneously, in juxtaposed harmony, you might say. So, allow me to ask the question which we will seek to answer below: “What happens when you put James next to Mary?”

In Context

In Mary and James, we have two apostles with intimate firsthand experiential knowledge of Jesus’ ministry, crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension. According to John 20, Mary Magdalene was the first witness of the resurrection. In a time and place where the account of a woman was always inferior to the testimony of a man, Jesus appeared first to Mary in the Garden. She had trekked to the tomb only to find it empty and while understandably upset, she is comforted by two angels before turning to see Jesus…only she thinks he is the gardener!  

Side note: We could get off on a serious tangent here, but how amazing is it that the resurrection took place in a garden and that Jesus, the new/second Adam, was first mistaken as a gardener…because He is! He is the Divine Gardener, the one with whom we are invited to walk in the cool of the day while He tends creation and invites us to participate with Him…but that is another post for another time.

Upon recognizing Jesus and embracing Him joyfully, Mary runs to the disciples to announce the resurrection. The first proclamation of resurrection, the first encounter with the risen Lord, is from Mary, an apostle.

Similarly, James, the brother of John, was with Jesus during some of the most pivotal moments of His earthly ministry. Apart from being “one of the twelve,” James was also part of the smaller trio with Peter and John. Too often, it feels, James is the forgotten member of the three, even the lesser “son of thunder” because Peter is such a huge presence in the gospels and John was the beloved disciple. We almost skip over the fact that James was the first disciple martyred for his faith.

James was there, atop Mount Tabor, as Jesus was transfigured and appeared alongside Moses and Elijah. He heard Jesus talking about His impending death; he heard Peter suggest that they build tents atop the mountain and stay there; he heard Jesus respond and tell them that they must go back down…and then he watched as Jesus set His face like flint toward Jerusalem and began the arduous journey toward the cross. James was a witness to all of these things, including the arrival of Mary with the proclamation of the resurrection, and he gave his life in defense of Jesus.

Mary and James Juxtaposed

So, what happens when we read Mary and James next to each other? At first glance it may seem like there is no connection: One was a disciple, and the other was a woman; one was part of the intimate inner circle of three while the other was at one point possessed by demons; one gave his life for Jesus while the other encountered new life bursting forth into the world in the Garden.

However, if we are really diligent and honest, the similarities between the two are overwhelmingly obvious. Mary Magdalene and James are tied together by one common thread: apostolic witness. Both James and Mary were transformed by Jesus, both of them were changed forever by their interactions with Him both before and after His death and rising. James encountered the overwhelming and awesome glory of Christ while atop Mount Tabor, and Mary experienced the same glory when she found out that she was talking to Jesus and not the gardener.

They were both sent out from those high, holy places as apostles and witnesses. We might celebrate Mary’s restoration of body and mind on her feast day, remembering how she was once afflicted and is no more, but her feast day is really a moment to cherish and remember her as the one who ran forth to declare the good news of resurrection. She did not stay in the Garden with Jesus…she went, and she announced, and she lived a life transformed based on this gospel joy.

The Feast of St James may be a time to commemorate his martyrdom, but it is the events which led to His death upon which we ought to reflect. James was not killed in a vacuum; we have to move backward from Herod’s decision to kill James in Acts 11 all the way until we get to a seaside scene when Jesus calls out to two brothers while fishing, and they drop their nets to come and follow Him. James followed Jesus from that seaside, through the Transfiguration, unto Jesus’ death and resurrection, and ultimately his own.

Mary and James provide for us two tangible, living pictures as to what it means to be disciples of Jesus and citizens of the Kingdom. Neither stayed put when they had the chance; both opted to go forth and proclaim the Good News; and both devoted their lives (and deaths) to the proclamation of the Risen Lord.