Where Shall We Buy Bread?

Today we hear that the Lord God again leads a crowd into the wilderness. Like the first time, it is near the time of the Passover. Like the first time, the Lord has done signs and wonders which draw them to trust Him. And so a great multitude follows Him, because they see His signs which He performs on those who are diseased. And like the first time, the Lord gives bread in the wilderness not because a crowd follows Him, not because the disciples clamor for it, but because He has compassion on them. It is mercy, and solely His mercy, that prompts Him to act.

Yet His intention is also to test the disciples. For He Himself knew what He would do. So our merciful Jesus says to Philip, Where shall we buy bread, that these may eat? Do you truly think I will send these people away hungry? Do you honestly believe that I will forsake anyone who follows Me, anyone who longs to hear My word, anyone who looks to Me for any help? Have I been with you so long, Philip, and still you do not know Me? To whom else are they looking? Upon whom else do they rely? The eyes of all wait upon Me, O Philip! And I give them their food in due season. I open My hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing. For I am the Bread which comes down from heaven. I am the Bread of Life. And I am the Living Bread. If anyone eats this bread, he will live forever; and the bread that I shall give is My flesh, which I shall give for the life of the world. So, Philip, Where, O where, shall we buy bread, that these may eat?”

With words like these, Our Lord urges Philip and the others—and even you and me—to believe that every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights. And Our Lord also urges us to believe that it lies in our hands not to make our own way, but to trust and obey, to receive and submit to Our Lord precisely because He is compassionate, faithful, and merciful. The more we see that, the more we understand that we are at a loss to give anything—except to give thanks; and to do anything—except to do whatever Our Lord commands.

The following is an excerpt from today's sermon.

Truly Full of Grace Was She

Having come in, and having come for her, the angel spoke not a promise, not a hope, but a sure and certain proclamation. “The Lord is with you,” he declared; which means, “The Lord is within you. You now bear Him who will bear the sin of the world. So rejoice and be glad. For Grace Himself has filled you, and you are Grace’s mother. And for this reason, blessed are you among women.”

As unheard of as this greeting was in human custom, so fitting was it to the dignity of blessed Mary. And indeed, truly full of grace was she, upon whom it was conferred by divine favor that, first among women, she should offer God the most glorious gift of her virginity. Hence she who strove to imitate the life of an angel was rightfully worthy to enjoy the experience of seeing and speaking with an angel. Truly full of grace was she to whom it was granted to give birth to Jesus Christ, the very one through whom grace and truth came. And so the Lord was truly with her whom He first raised up from earthly to heavenly desires, in an unheard of love of chastity, and afterwards sanctified, by means of His human nature, with all the fullness of His divinity. Truly blessed among women was she who without precedent in the womanly state rejoiced in having the honor of [mother]hood along with the beauty of virginity, inasmuch as it was fitting that a virgin mother bring forth God the Son. (St Bede the Venerable)

Yet for all her faith and faithfulness, for all her piety and strength, even this most holy and blessed and glorious woman trembled at the angelic message and pondered fearfully the meaning of his words. But do not suppose that she trembled because she was unwilling; or because she hesitated. Suppose, instead, that this most blessed virgin trembled because of her humility; because she did not consider herself deserving of such high honor; because she never supposed herself to be worthy of being—and being called—the Mother of God. So she trembles not for lack of faith, but in true faith. She trembles not because she doubts, but because she truly believes what the angel has said. And so she trembles not because she hesitates, but because she has consented.

Yet Grace, who has been poured into her by the Holy Spirit, now pours forth once again from the angelic mouth. “Do not be afraid,” says the Father in the voice of the angel. “Do not be afraid. And do not fear that you are unworthy, or have not the strength, or will falter. Do not be afraid, O blessed Mother of God. For Grace Himself has sought you out, and has deigned to be born of you and so to issue forth from you the redemption, salvation, sanctification and righteousness that He comes to give. So do not be afraid, and do not tremble. For of all creation, of all women ever born of men, you have been found worthy and deserving. You have found favor with God. And for this reason, the Son of the Father shall be born of you. For behold, you will conceive in your womb and bring forth a Son, and shall call His name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Highest; and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David. And He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of His kingdom there will be no end.”

From today's sermon at Zion Evangelical-Lutheran Church of Detroit

LOL

This is just too good to resist:

The practice of planting a new ... parish is not like the practice of planting a new ethnic parish. For example, planting a German Lutheran parish in a town that has 1,000 Germans of Lutheran persuasion is just a matter of herding them into a gymnasium and serving good German beer and announcing the new parish and parochial school.

A Fine Summary

Fr Chad, who visits here from time to time, has posted a very fine summary by Chris Jones (also a sometime visitor) of the 1580 Book of Concord position on several key issues; namely, "Real Presence," apostolic succession, the Canon (eucharistic prayer), the consensus of the fathers, etc.

There is much to be commended in Chris' summary. One regrets, however, that his summary is barely recognized among the vast majority of Lutherans in the world, and even by those who style themselves as "confessional." Nevertheless, it is a helpful summary, and I commend it to you.

Adiaphora, Melanchthon & Tradition

I am in the Doctor of Ministry degree program at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. Last summer, one class was taught by Dr Andrew Purves, a Presbyterian from Scotland who is quite the scholar in Patoral Theology and, with Thomas Oden, one of the few in that discipline defending the "classic tradition."

Dr Purves was surprised (as was the Episcopalian priest in our class) when I and another man reacted vociferously to this statement in Purves' magnum opus: "Philipp Melanchthon, the German reformer, called these secondary doctrines adiaphora..." (Purves, Reconstructing, p. 17) Our claim was that the term adiaphora had nothing to do with a division within doctrine, but rather addressed issues related to church/state relations and liturgical ceremony.

Clearly, other protestants have learned a different definition than we Lutherans. If we should slide into the scholasticism of "primary" and "secondary" doctrines, or "eseential" and "non-essential" doctrines, we would never think of using a term that means "things indifferent" to describe those so-called "secondary" or "non-essential" doctrines. Yet it shows how a word can be picked up, redefined, and then put back into service in a way that is (a) contrary to its original use and (b) unrecognizable to those who first used it (in this case, Melachthon and the other Lutheran confessors).

I was reminded of this friendly academic exchange when I read, in one of the comments on my blog, a statement by a gentleman who quoted this statement from the Tractate: "No one should... burden the church with traditions, nor let anybody's authority count for more than the Word of God."

The context makes it quite clear that Melanchthon's use of ecclesiam traditionibus (ecclesiastical or churchly traditions) refers to regional customs rather than to the Tradition and, in fact, to innovative traditions; and furthermore, that Melanchthon is not opposing Tradition to the Scriptures but rather these innovative regional customs to the faith once delivered. It's Melanchthon's student, Martin Chemnitz, who helps us see these distinctions.

My point then is simply this: Just like this summer with the word adiaphora, so the word "traditions" has been picked up, redefined, and then put back into service by this gentlemen in a way that is (a) contrary to its original use and (b) unrecognizable to those who first used it (once again, Melachthon).

Diagnosing the Ailment

This post, on the blog of a former WELS layman, offers a diagnosis of several things that ail Protestantism generally, Lutheranism specifically, and the LCMS most specifically. It's not an especially academic diagnosis--nor was it intended to be. But it does give one pause...

Selfish Forgiveness; Selfish Outing

In today's Gospel at Holy Mass, Our Lord instructed us in forgiveness. The foundation for what He said was quite clear: the Lord God is merciful to you, and so readily forgives you your sins against Him. Also understood was this: to sin against your fellow man (particularly your brother in the faith) is to sin against God. That also Our Lord mercifully deigns to forgive. For He is "merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in mercy" (Ps 103.8)

Building on this foundation, St Augustine (in the portion of his homily appointed by the breviary) brought to our minds what often fuels our forgiveness; namely, not charity and love for the brother, but rather love for ourselves. In today's parlance that would be the desire to "move on" and "put it behind me" and "be done with it."

In the same way, for selfish ends (i.e., to prove ourselves right and to win the argument), we eagerly approach others to point out their faults and flaws and sins. Regrettably, with blogging, we've honed this selfish skill all the more. We are very quick to point out another's flaws not to his face, but in cyberspace; not for his benefit, but to "out" him; and not with the intent to gain him, but anonymously so that he knows not how to reply or to whom he should apologize.

The sainted bishop of Hippo suggests rather pointedly that this selfish notion of finger-pointing rather than loving correction cheapens forgiveness. Here is what I found most striking from the blessed saint's words (cast in a modern idiom), and upon which I will endeavor to meditate today.

Why should you tell your brother his fault? Is it because he pained you by trespassing against you? God forbid! For if, out of love for yourself, you tell your brother his fault, you have not done a worthy thing. But if you tell him his fault because you love him, then you have done exceedingly well.

Listen carefully to the words of the Gospel and learn whether you ought to tell your brother his fault because you love yourself or because you love him. The Lord says, "If he shall hear you, you have gained your brother." Therefore, demand of yourself that you tell your brother his fault for his benefit, so that you may gain him. If you do this, perhaps you may attain this great reward--gaining him. But if you do otherwise, perhaps he may perish.

Fear the Loss of Awe

Faithfulness, piety, moral resolve, doctrinal clarity, discernment of persons and situations, indifference to criticism, compassion (especially to the downtrodden)—these are just a few of the qualities denoting a good pastor. And to be resisted, among other things, are pride and ambition, temptations of the flesh, apathy and despondency, and anxiety about personal cares. But more than all these snares is one that subtlety yet perniciously erodes even the most resolute man; namely, the loss of awe.

Akin to, yet quite unlike apathy or accidie (from acedia), loss of awe urges a priest to forget that he is not performing a common ritual when he celebrates Divine Liturgy, administers the sacraments, gives a blessing, proclaims the Word, or even says the prayers. Rather, he stands at the juncture of heaven and earth and, as one of God’s ministers, handles those sacred materials and words that cause angels to sing, devils to quake, saints to become ecstatic, and mortals to mutely prostrate.

And it is not just celebrants who are in danger of becoming inured to holy mysteries that give and sustain our life in God. Priests must also be on guard to watch for the same temptation in their parishioners, especially the most faithful. For they too come near—not as near as we, but near enough and often enough that they may lose sight of the heavenly realities that make for their peace.

Loss of awe is most insidious because we priests (most especially) can quickly be blinded to the reality that occurs when the holy mysteries are celebrated; and we can be so easily tempted to see the common as ordinary, and to become unmoved by the familiar.

St. John Chrysostom hints at the problem of the loss of awe when he tells the story of the venerable old man accustomed to see visions. While the priest ministered at the altar, this man saw angels encircling, bowing their heads. Yet saintly vision-prone men need not be the only evidence. Priests see it in eyes of the dying who contentedly smile when the pastor speaks and gives the familiar mysteries. They hear it from the mouths of infants or those with dementia who call us “Jesus” or “God.” They see it in the shoulders of the penitents or grieved as the Gospel is proclaimed so that the weight is visibly lifted. And they hear it in the respectful tones used even by the most hard-hearted when they approach or are grateful for godly compassion.

Like the jeweler who deals daily in priceless gems, like the bank teller who unthinkingly thumbs through thousands upon thousands of dollars each week, precisely because they stand at the altar nearest the Holy Trinity as He doles out His greatest gifts, celebrants can easily suffer the loss of awe. And when that happens, it is only a short step until ministering becomes another helping profession, and the accent lands on “care” rather than “pastoral.” And then comes pride, greed, lust, ambition and the other soul-destroying temptations; and then faithfulness, piety, resolve, and compassion become rote rather than prayer-filled.

What I am suggesting, then, are three things. First, that the loss of awe is the gate to the temptations that beset and afflict priests of God more fiercely than other men. Second, that the positive qualities that every priest must have, in the end, do him no good if he cannot see the fullness and the heavenly reality of all that he ministers in the Lord’s name. And thirdly, I am suggesting that what informs the work of a pastor is not merely a seriousness or deep-seated respect for the Lord’s work, but a holy and fearsome awe in mediating the Lord’s life-giving mysteries to the faithful.

This awe, I suggest, is what caused St John Chrysostom—and many others before and after him—to proclaim his unworthiness; and what make St Gregory the Theologian run time and again to the hills; and what weighed heavily on St. Gregory the Great; and what caused numerous faithful clergy to risk their lives—even their health—in preparation for and in carrying out their office.

Yet it was also this holy awe—and the desire to stand everlastingly within it—that also gives bishops and priests the fearless calm resolve to come out of their hiding places, not to waver in both truth-speaking and truth-giving, and to leave us such inspirational examples in the texts which their lives write.

A personal reflection based on reading St John Chrysostom's "Six Books on the Priesthood," St Gregory of Nazianzen's "Flight to Pontus," St Gregory the Great's "Pastoral Rule," and the summary of these three by Andrew Purves in "Pastoral Theology in the Classical Tradition."

Mercy as Sacrifice

The Church's Lenten Fast has three inter-twined aspects: self-denial, prayer and almsgiving. All three are given so that the Christian might learn to live of life of self-sacrificial love--for God and neighbor.

Today's Gospel reading speaks primarily to the third aspect (almsgiving). It is the "parable" of Lazarus and the rich man. And it is fittingly heard during Lent so that we might remember that sacrifice without mercy is no true sacrifice. The beginning of St Cyril of Alexandria's commentary on this parable is particularly poignant.

It is necessary, I think, in the first place to mention, what was the occasion that led to [Our Lord] speaking of these things; or what Christ intended to illustrate in so excellently sketching and describing the parable set before us. The Savior, therefore, was perfecting us in the art of well-doing, and commanding us to walk uprightly in every good work, and to be in earnest in adorning ourselves with the glories which arise from virtuous conduct. For He would have us to be lovers one of another, and ready to communicate; prompt to give, and merciful, and careful of showing love to the poor, and manfully persisting in the diligent discharge of this duty. And He especially admonished the rich in this world to be careful in so doing; and to guide them into the way which altogether becometh the saints, He said: "Sell your possessions, and give alms; make you purses that grow not old; a treasure that faileth not for ever in heaven." [Lk 12.33]

Now the commandment indeed is beautiful, and good, and salutary; but it did not escape His knowledge, that it is impossible for the majority to practice it. For the mind of man has ever been, so to speak, infirm in the discharge of those duties which are arduous and difficult; and to abandon wealth and possessions and the enjoyment which they give, is not a thing very acceptable to any, inasmuch as the mind is early clothed and entangled, as it were, in indissoluble cords, which bind it to the desire of pleasure.

Being good and loving unto men, therefore, He has provided for them a special kind of help, lest eternal and never ending poverty should follow upon wealth here, and everlasting torment succeed to the pleasures of the present time. "For make for yourselves friends," He says, "of the unrighteous mammon: that when it has failed, they may receive you into eternal tabernacles." This then is the advice of One providing them with something which they can do. For it, He says, ye cannot be persuaded to give up this pleasure-loving wealth, and to sell your possessions, and make distribution to those who are in need, at least be diligent in the practice of inferior virtues.

"Make for yourselves friends of the unrighteous mammon;" that is, do not consider your riches as belonging to yourselves alone; open wide your hand to those who are in need; assist those in poverty and pain; comfort those who have fallen into extreme distress; console with those who are in sorrow, or oppressed with bodily maladies, and the want of necessaries; and comfort also the saints who embrae a voluntary poverty that they may serve God without distraction. Nor shall your so doing be unrewarded. For when your earthly wealth abandons you, as ye reach the end of your life, then shall they make you partakers of their hope, and of the consolation given them by God. For being good and kind to man, He will lovingly and bontifully refresh those who have labored in this world; and more especially such as have wisely and humbly and soberly borne the heavy burden of poverty.

Similar advice the wise Paul also gives to those who live in wealth and abundance respecting those in misery: "Your abundance shall be to supply their falling short: in order htat also their abundance may supply your falling short." [2 Cor 8.14] But this is the advice of one who enjoins that simply which Christ spake, "Make to yourselves friends of the unrighteous mammon;" so that the commandment is well worthy of our admiration. (St Cyril of Alexandria, "Homily 111," Commentary on the Gospel of Saint Luke, 451-452)

A Fast Without Laws

I live next door to one of the highest concentrations of peoples from the Middle East—Palestinians, Chalcedonians, Iraqis, and various Arabic peoples. Over the past few decades, for whatever reason, they have gathered and formed their own ethnic ghetto on the eastern side of Dearborn. What Chicago is to Poland, East Dearborn is to the Middle East.

Such a gathering of peoples not only brings delicious cuisine, but also the need to explain unfamiliar customs and religious traditions. The Detroit newspapers do this faithfully, especially when the Muslim holy days approach. (Curiously, we rarely hear of the religious traditions of the numerous Christian Arabs that also inhabit this area.)

Like clockwork, there appear appropriately timed stories about the month of Ramadan--the holiest of times for Muslims. The articles, essays, columns and news accounts invariably describe and depict the observant tradition of prayer and fasting during this time. (To be fair, the same media will also announce the beginning of Lent among Christians and publish human interest stories about "giving up something for Lent.")

What intrigues me, though, is not simply the fascination but more so the admiration of the Muslim fast. In our corner of the world, no small number follow the strict fast of abstaining from all food and drink (except water) during daylight hours. A breakfast may be served before dawn, and a sizeable dinner usually comes after sundown. But in addition to this rigorous regimen, what captivates the conversation of the media and my parishioners is the devotion, the adherence to the traditions of their faith, and the communal participation. More than once I've heard, "Pastor, those people must really believe!"

What captivates me is the fact that the Ramadan fast is more than a religious exercise. It has woven itself into the fabric of ethnic identity and the rhythm of life. If this were not so, only the devout would partake. But during the day, parents and children, employees and employers, the devout and the nominal—nearly anyone who identifies with Islam—refrains from eating.

There used to be a corresponding Christian fast—a fast that was as much a given as Christmass decorations, Valentine cards, and Easter bunnies. This Lenten fast was practiced by all without compulsion because it was part of the annual rhythm. Without any civil laws, it affected not only the cuisine, but also the economy—as Ramadan does in my backyard.

But now the Lenten fast has been trivialized down to, at best, a way to rekindle New Year's resolutions. Penitence has given way to self-improvement. Reflection on Our Lord's suffering has been turned into a gentle self-administered form of behavior modification.

Hardly any notion is given to the religious significance of the fast. (If this were not so, the fast of choice would not be cutting down on desserts or candies.) And, except among the devout, no connection is made between this fast and Christian charity or increased prayer and devotion. Yet even with those devout, it is considered oppressive or tyrannical to encourage certain fasting days or a certain fasting diet.

One may chalk up the disdain for the Lenten fast to living in a country and an era where the last acceptable form of bigotry is anti-Catholicism. However, I think it goes much deeper—into the very fabric of our being. I propose that the disdain for fasting mirrors a much deeper and more profound disdain for repentance. Not repentance as the world gives—a well timed "I'm sorry (you're sorry)" that both gains sympathy and becomes a powerful political weapon. That worldly repentance we hardly disdain and, in fact, admire. But the Christian repentance that consists of true contrition or sorrow coupled with confidence in a mercy in the face of deserved discipline—that's what we disdain. A repentance that affirms and embraces both true fear and true love of God; that humbles itself before God and all men, relying on nothing but the hope that Kyrie eleison will be answered affirmatively.

I will not say that the Moslem fast demonstrates an awareness of Christian repentance. But I am confident that the common non-avoidance of the traditional Lenten fast bespeaks not the spirit of the Ninevites—which is one exhibit of Christian repentance. For after the Ninevites heard the fearful and heart-rending preaching of Jonah, in the midst of their honest contrition, while they confessed not simply with their mouths but holistically in sackcloth with fasting, the people of Nineveh pinned their hopes on the "perhaps" of God's mercy (see Jonah 3.9).

Could a people who consistently vote for God, and who boast of their faith and their keeping the faith, and who identify themselves (at least culturally) as Christians—could they ever entertain such true repentance?

First published at "On Being Liturgical" (1999). Revised 2006.