Sermon or Homily?

I recently acquired volume 17 of The Fathers of the Church. The volume is entitled "Saint Peter Chrysologus: Selected Sermons and Saint Valerian: Homilies." The title already suggests a distinction which has plagued laymen, seminarists, and preachers for some time; namely, what is the difference between a sermon and a homily?

George E. Ganss, the translator (who presumably writes the introduction), offers this explanation:

In the Western Church, the sermon (sermo) and homily (homilia) were often interchangable. They seem to be so used in the titles of the printed collections which have come down to us: "Sermons of St. Peter Chrysologus" and "Homilies of St. Valerian."

However, since the time of Origen (186-254 or 255), a distinction has been current between loÃgoß (sermo, discourse, sermon) and oJmiÃlia (homilia, homily). The term sermon is generally used to designate an artisitic production, and homily to denote an informal discourse. A sermon generally develops some definite theme; a homily explains or comments on a passage of Scripture. The sermon usually deals with a doctrinal or moral subject, and is more likely to contain a structural form of introduction, body and conclusion such as textbooks of rhetoric advocate. The homily is more likely to lack structural form, and move or even digress wherever the text leads the preacher. Generally, its purpose is to explain the literal meaning of the Scriptural passage, point out moral or ascetical applications, and perhaps develop accommodated or allegorical meanings.

If we should follow this terminology, we could well reverse the titles which appear on our current Latin editions. Most of St. Peter's discourses are homilies giving a running commentary on a passage (lectio) of Scripture. St. Valerian's discourses usually take their departure from one verse of such a passage, but their nature is far more that of sermons treating a definite theme.

Closed Communion: The Unspoken Truth

As is my usual custom, I celebrated Holy Mass this morning. It is the Feast of St Anne and, not unexpectedly, few were in attendance. The few there I know very well--in fact, it was my family.

With small and intimate participants, it is easy to believe that this is all one is in communion with at that particular time. That belief can simultaneously generate despair ("Where are the others") and hope ("There is no doubt about these"). However, the belief is false.

The faith is that, regardless of the number, whenever Holy Eucharist is offered, the angels, archangels and all the company of heaven is also present. Unseen, but truly present. This few deny.

The truth that is often overlooked or even denied is that, regardless of the number, whenever Holy Mass is celebrated, fellowship is announced and consumated with that assembly and all those of that particular communion. This truth obtains despite all objections--vociferous, academic or otherwise. That is the unspoken truth of those who (rightly) practice "closed communion."

Admittedly, this unspoken truth doesn't sit well among those who, holding to the false primacy of the invisible church, wish to practice (or, in fact, do practice) some form of "selective fellowship" (whether the selection exceeds or restricts the agreed upon boundaries.) Such a bane this beast is to catholic ecclesiology! It effectively constitutes every pastor as a bishop by his own design, and every congregation its own synod.

The unspoken truth of "closed communion" also does not sit well with those who are convinced that, at every Divine Liturgy, they declare communion with heretics and heterodox. At some point, they must admit that they violate their conscience every time they celebrate (or even receive) Holy Communion.

For such, however, the last oration in today's Mass must be their fervent prayer:

We beseech Thee, O Lord our God, that by the intercession of blessed Anne, whom Thou didst choose to bring forth the Mother of Thy Son: we, whom Thou hast quickened with these heavenly sacraments, may be found worthy to attain to everlasting salvation, through the same Jesus Christ, Thy Son Our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with Thee, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, ever one God, world without end.

The Plan of Salvation

The plan was for [Christ] to mingle, without change on his part, with human nature by true hypostatic union[;] to unite human nature to himself while remaining immutable, so that he might become a man, as he alone knew how, and so that he might deify humanity in union with himself. (Ad Thalassium 21)

[So] by his gracious condescension God became man and is called man for the sake of man and[,] by exchanging his condition for ours[,] revealed the power that evelates man to God through his love for God, and brings God down to man because of his love for man. By this blessed inversion, man is made God by divinization and God is made man by hominization. For the Word of God and God will always and in all things to accomplish the mystery of his embodiment. (Ambiguum 7)


St Maximos the Confessor in On the Cosmic Mystery of Jesus Christ.

Another Melancholy Lament

What storm at sea was ever so savage as this tempest of the Churches? It has moved every boundary established by the Fathers; every foundation, every established bulwark of doctrine has been shaken. Everything still remaining afloat is shaken by unsound teaching and thrown back into the abyss.

We attack one another; we are overthrown by one another. If the enemy does not strike us first we are wounded by our comrade; if he is wounded and falls, he is trampled by his fellow soldier. Although we are united in our hatred of common foes, no sooner do they retreat, and we find enemies in each other. Who could even list all the casualties? Some have fallen in battle with the enemy; some have been treacherously betrayed by their allies; others are the victims of their leaders' incompetence. Entire churches are dashed and shattered on the sunken reefs of subtle heresy, while other enemies of the Spirit of salvation have seized the helm and made shipwreck of the faith. ...

A darkness full of gloom and misery has descended on the Churches: the lights of the world, established by God to enlighten the souls of the people, have been exiled. The terror of universal destruction already hangs over us, yet they continue enjoying their rivalries, ignoring any sense of danger. Private enemies are more important to these men [than] the struggle of an entire people; they prefer the glory of subduing their opponents to securing the common welfare, and they love the immediate delights of worldly honor more than the rewards awaiting us in the age to come.

So all men alike, depending on how much power each one has, rush upon each other with murderous hands. They fight against each other with harsh words; they nearly fill the Church with the meaningless cries and unintelligible shouts of their incessant clamor. They continually pervert the teachings of true religion, sometimes by adding to them, and other times by reducing them. ... Inspired scripture is meaningless to mediate between [them], nor can apostolic tradition offer them terms of reconciliation.

One honest word and your friendship with them is finished; one disagreement with their opinions is sufficient pretext for a quarrel. No oath is so effective for holding a conspiracy together as common fellowship in error.

Every man is a theologian; it does not matter that his soul is covered with more blemishes than can be counted. The result is that these innovators find an abundance of men to join their factions. So ambitious, self-elected men divide the government of the Churches among themselves, and reject the authority of the Holy Spirit. The ordinances of the Gospel have been thrown into confusion everywhere for lack of discipline... The result of this lust for power is that wild anarchy prevails among the people...since every man in his arrogant delusion thinks that it is more his business to give orders to others than to obey anyone himself.

Since no human voice is powerful enough to be heard in such an uproar, I reckon that silence is more profitable than words. If the words of the Preacher are true: "The words of the wise are heard in quiet," then with the present state of affairs, any discussion of them at all is scarcely appropriate. ...

The love of many has grown cold; concord among brothers is no more; the very name of unity is ignored; Christian compassion or sympathetic tears cannot be found anywhere. Thre is no one to welcome someone weak in faith, but mutual hatred blazes so fiercely among brothers that a neighbors' fall brings them more joy than their own household's success. ...

Those who judge the erring are merciless and bitter, while those judging the upright are unfair and hostile. This evil is so firmly rooted in us that we have become more brutish than the beasts: At least they herd together with their own kindred, but we reserve our most savage warfare for the members of our own household.

These are the reasons I should have kept quiet, but love pulled me in the opposite direction, the love that is not self-seeking, but desires to conquer every obstacle put in her way by time and circumstance. I learned from the example of the children in Babylon that when there is no one to support the cause of true religion, we must accomplish our duties alone. They sang a hymn to God from the midst of the flames, not thinking of the multitudes who rejected the truth, but content to have each other, though there were only three of them.

Therefore the cloud of our enemies does not dismay us, but we place our trust in the Spirit's help, and boldly proclaim the truth.


These are the closing words of St Basil's De Spiritu Sancto as translated by David Anderson. For me, they ring as true today as they did more than 1600 years ago.

St Maximos: The Dual Aspect in Christ's Human Nature

How is it that Christ became sin, yet without sinning? For St Maximos the Confessor the answer is quite easy: Christ, the New Adam, exercised his free choice by not giving into His passions. Adam, on the other hand, exercised his free choice by giving into his passion and so "spurned this deifying, divine, and immaterial birth when he preferred what was delectable and obvious to his senses."

Yet this raises another question. How did Christ not inevitably follow Adam? The Sunday school answer is, "He is God." True enough. But He is also fully human--yet without sin. And there's the catch. He became sin, yet without sin. Theologically (and philosophically) quite a bit of nuancing is necessary (and not just of the word "sin") in order to unpack this statement.

St Maximos begins by distinguishing between creaturely origin (geÃnesiß) on account of creation, and human birth (geÃnnhsiß) on account of Adam’s transgression. For St Maximos, the former corresponds to creation in the image of God (kat= eijkoÃna qeou`; Gen 1.27) while the latter corresponds to coming in the likeness of men (ejn oJmoiwÃmati ajnqrwÃpwn; Phil 2.7). According to His geÃnesiß, Christ took on human nature “in terms of the ‘vital inbreathing’ of man” (cf Gen 2.7) and therefore was a creature in the divine image. According to His geÃnnhsiß, Christ “voluntarily assumed the likeness of corruptible humanity” and therefore “willingly allowed himself to be made subject virtually to the same natural passions as us yet without sin.”

According to the axiom of St Gregory the Theologian (“what is not assumed is not healed, and what is united to God is saved”), the use of the word “virtually” is quite problematic. However, St Maximos does not mean that Christ nearly, or only in appearance, assumed human passions but that Christ assumed the “liability to passions” without assuming sinfulness. Using a careful juxtaposition, the Confessor explains what seems to be his understanding of the dual aspect in Christ's human nature.

[H]e is doubly identified by the two parts [in the human nature] of which he is constituted: he has perfectly become the New Adam, while bearing in himself the first Adam, and he is both of these at once, without diminution. For, in being formed as a human being, he condescended to what was by law the creaturely origin [geÃnesiß] of Adam prior to his fall, and so assumed in his human nature impeccability through the divine “inbreathing,” but not incorruptibility. On the other hand, when, in his voluntary abasement, he underwent the human birth [geÃnnhsiß] punitively instituted after the fall, he assumed the natural liability to passions but not sinfulness. He became the New Adam by assuming a sinless creaturely origin [geÃnesiß] and yet submitting to a passible birth [geÃnnhsiß]. Perfectly combining the two parts in himself in a reciprocal relation, he effectively rectified the deficiency of the one with the extreme of the other, and vice versa, by causing his birth amid dishonor to save and renew his honorable creaturely origin and, conversely, by making his creaturely origin sustain and preserve his birth.

What Am I Afraid Of?

Truthfully, many things. The death of my wife, the loss of my eye sight, the denial of the Faith by any one of my children (biological and spiritual), and any other number of things.

However, the question was recently raised as a comment on another blog, and the referent was my disallowance of comments on this blog. It is presumed that I don't allow them out of fear. Perhaps.

But my conscious intention was not to allow comments because I don't have the time to give them the attention they deserve. If someone takes the time to read what I write, and then write a comment, I feel I should give that comment the courtesy of a response. (I admit--I am awful at this even for the few who take the extra effort to email me directly.) So I have turned off the comment feature because, due to any number of factors, I simply have not had the time.

I also turned off the comment feature because, in a few cases, the interest was not to discuss or debate meaningfully the ideas presented, but to post a diatribe sometimes coupled with insinuation of evil motive. These I don't fear. But I simply will not take the time for these sorts of comments. Moreover, I also think it is spiritually unhealthy (for me and those so tempted) to permit the opportunity.

The result is that I write when I wish; and I opine about those liturgical and theological topics that interest me; and I do so not expecting anyone to read, but pleased when they do and flattered when it leads to a conversation elsewhere.

Commenting on My Melancholy Reflection

At Beggers All, Jon Ledetroit has lent a sympathetic ear to my previous post. With only a few diversions, his post has allowed me to explain some of my thinking via the comments. The conversation may interest you.

Reflections on an Anniversary

On this day in 1995 I was installed as the Fifth Pastor of Zion Church. So it's an anniversary of sorts.

I must admit that, personally, it is a rather bittersweet anniversary. What is sweet is way Zion has embraced me--and I them. It is better than I could have imagined when (with no little trepidation) I moved my family to Detroit eleven years ago. Zion's kindness, love, affection, longsuffering, and generosity seemingly knows no limits.

Our relationship is as it should be--familial. Since the beginning, they have honored me by calling me "Father," and never once have they been taken aback when I have addressed them as "my beloved" or "my little children." Even in the midst of the few squabbles (which, truly, have been few and far between), that mutual love has never dissipated. I have tried hard to show them the same respect they have consistently shown me, and fear that I have failed to live up to the standard they have set.

This is the sweet, and for it they will ever be the parish I will always love.

But in this life, with the sweet often comes the bitter. What has been most bitter has nothing whatsoever to do with Zion or the people of Zion. Rather, it has to do with where Zion lives and swims.

From our vantage point, we have seen the continued disintegration of both the city we call home and the synod we call our own. Both have disintegrated in ways I could not have envisioned or even imagined 11 years ago. For, when I moved here, it seemed that Detroit was in a renaissance and the LCMS was returning to faithfulness.

Regrettably, Detroit is no longer in a renaissance. Despite much talk and some good efforts, while the downtown looks better, the neigbhorhoods have gotten much worse. The biggest decline is in basic city services--the most basic being police protection. The reasons for decline are too numerous and too complex to list, but surely it is not helped by selling the city's future and soul to casinos coupled with a mentality of impoverishment and a governmental structure that, by its very nature, resists neighborhood improvement.

More devastating than the decline of city is the ruination of the LCMS. Like modern day Detroit, the LCMS has always been structurally unstable. It began as a coalition between two disparate groups in the attempt to revive confessional Lutheranism. On the one side were the Saxons, led by C. F. W. Walther, which attempted a repristination of the era known as "Lutheran Orthodoxy." On the other side were the Bavarians, sent by J. K. Wilhelm Löhe, which attempted a return to a liturgical confessionalism. In the intervening years, both groups have been overrun by what their leaders feared--American evangelical pragmatism. In the LCMS, this has resulted in a Lutheranism that has deserted any pretense to its catholic heritage, is essentially antinomian, and liturigically adheres quite ferociously to adiaphronism. Most devastating of all, however, is the abandonment of any meaningful ecclesiology.

Through the years, under the influence of her Pastors, Zion has manfully attempted to be a paragon of what a Lutheran congregation should be. In the process, it has attracted a small gaggle of admirers and an even smaller collection of imitators. Zion has also fended off any number of detractors and critics ("confessionals" or otherwise) who have been all too willing to attack or disparage its efforts. And so Zion has become little more than a symbol of what could be and, realistically, has devolved into an "experiment."

All of that was managable while the LCMS retained some semblance of liturgical integrity (or, at least, what passes for "liturgical integrity" in post-reformation "confessional" Lutheranism). However, the LCMS long since lost any such semblance and, predictably, the result has been an increasingly downward spiral into least-common-denominator protestantism. For Zion this means that, while it remains faithful as a parish and (one hopes) has grown in its catholic understanding, it has effectively become more and more isolated while remaining in fellowship with those who either wish its demise or tolerate its "eccentricities." The practical result is that very few members of Zion ever go elsewhere within the LCMS (either when they move or when they vacation), and if they do so out of loyalty, they feel deprived if not cheated.

These observations could be passed off as nothing more than the disappointments of a parish priest who struggles with bearing the cross were it not for the fact that he and his parish remain in communion with those who have, at the least, abandoned their heritage or, at the most, slidden into heresy. For unlike Detroit, the problems in the LCMS have declined beyond matters of discipline and basic services. At least, that's how it looks as this priest ruminates on this day--which makes the anniversary ever so bittersweet.

Defining a Church Father

To some, a "church father" is a commentator (ancient or otherwise) whose commentaries they prefer. To others, the appellation "church father" defines those (orthodox or not) who lived within a certain era. To still others, a "church father" is one who reflects, to a greater degree, the church's "tradition" (depending, subsequently, on one's understanding of "tradition").

In Ambigua 7, St Maximos the Confessor offers what I find to be one of the better definitions of "church father." He designates them as "our fathers who are wise from hearing the Scriptures read in the divine mysteries."

This definition does not suffer from the limtations of "favorites" (favorite era, favorite comments, favorite theology). Rather, it places our definition squarely within the locus of tradition; namely, the Divine Liturgy or Holy Mass, where dogma is lived in prayer. St Maximos' definition also has the advantage of reminding us that piety by attention to the Divine Liturgy is the distinguishing mark of a saint--which a "church father" should be.

The Pope & Liturgical Reform?

A reader of this blog recently pointed me to this blog. It is "dedicated to promoting the New Liturgical Movement called for by Cardinal Ratzinger/Benedict XVI in all the sacred arts and in the unity of legitimate liturgical diversity." New Liturgical Movement, as you can gather, actually refers to the restoration of the older liturgical movement as indicated by the title of the book (Reform of the Reform?) by a Fr. Thomas Kocik, one of the blog contributors.

I've not yet had the opporunity to read through many of its posts, but I shall. What I found most intriguing, thus far, is this contribution from Thursday. It seems to dovetail with this news item from another reader of this blog.

My hopes for the current are bouyed by such things.