Like Living Stones

by Daniel S. Trout

 

Often it is very hard in the Christian life to recognize that, as hopelessly individual souls, we are part of something much larger than our own spiritual journey.  Perhaps much of this is due to popular sentiment that espouses an almost completely individualistic approach to religious practice—if any “formal” belief and practice is even necessary for a “fulfilling” spirituality.  Perhaps also we are guilty here in the Western church of a long-maintained (yet often unrecognized) tendency to form a private niche within the corporate life of the Church that best fits our taste or disposition.  Consider, for example, the vast array of Religious Orders in Roman and Anglican circles compared with that of a fairly uniform monastic structure in the Eastern Orthodox Church!  Such variety has, of course, yielded a wonderful diversity of ascetic practice and personal devotion that has, in many respects, blessed the West with deeper and richer expressions of personal prayer and discipline, yet our clergy cannot help but see where our tendencies have taken us.  For example, the majority of practicing Roman Catholics born since 1980 no longer believe that attending Mass is essential to be “a good Catholic;” presumably, in their minds, the grace that is received in the Eucharist can be found alone, and the community of clergy and fellow laity provide little or nothing to help me.  This is a real tragedy that must be amended.

 

The question for us as Anglicans is whether we, too, are already suffering from this same disease.  If the current state of our provenance in the Episcopal Church is a good indicator, then we probably need to face the fact that such attitudes—laxity about attending Mass (or arriving late and leaving early!), disregard of hours of corporate prayer and Bible studies, and disinterest in the communal life of the Body—are endemic to our circles, as well.  Some of these problems may just be laziness, but underlying most expressions of indolence is an attitude that makes action hard to muster.  Mark well, that no new motivational book or spiritual campaign is going to revitalize, at least, with lasting effect.  The Second Vatican Council also believed that revision would stimulate the faithful and recover the lapsed among Romans, but it has instead had the opposite effect.  As good orthodox Anglicans, our best source for correction and renewal is (as always):  (1) a serious return to our life in the Holy Spirit and how He has manifested Himself in the Tradition of the Church; (2) a hearing of the Holy Scriptures in conjunction with the same Spirit to illuminate and inspire us.  Only in the word-of-the-Word and the Spirit which He sent can we best understand our life and destiny.

 

St. Peter describes the life and trajectory of the Christian as “living stones…built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.”  This we do by being built on Christ, who St. Peter describes as “the cornerstone, chosen and precious” to create the beautiful temple of Zion, the real temple of an elect people that no invading army—even Satan’s minions—can ever destroy.  St. Peter reminds us here in chapter two of his first epistle that, by ourselves, we will only ever “do Christianity” for ourselves.  A stone in the middle of a field does nothing—be it even the most beautifully sculpted and polished piece of marble—it will only bring glory to itself.  But as the Church, we cannot offer ourselves to God and accomplish His purposes unless we do it as one.   The Father’s point in giving Christ to us was not make us enlightened heathens, but to unite us in His Son.  “Once you were no people but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.”

Tending the Garden

by Daniel S. Trout

“But let us cultivate our garden,” admonishes the title character Candide in the final line of the French historian/philosopher Voltaire’s famous satire of (in his mind, at least) post-Christian Europe entering a new era of Enlightenment naturalism.  Voltaire frequently derided the Church and scriptural truth—in fact all institutions and persons that he deemed brimming over with objectivism and delusions of grandeur—and yet, ironically, in his biting criticism we find here in Candide a biblical reality that Voltaire mistakenly believed to have arrived at through his own reason: man’s raison-d’etre lies not in the optimism of self-contrived glory and success, but discovering joy and purpose in the execution of a simple duty—like tending a garden.  Pity Voltaire!  As Christians, we are already mindful of life’s intent because we always have a sense of our “createdness”; we are placed by God in His universe to bring Him glory through faithful image-bearing—in other words, we learn of and show what God is like in our work.  Is this not the fulfillment of our duty—to “fear God and keep His commandments” (Eccl. 12:13)?  In this case, interestingly, we realize that keeping His commandments means representing God—implementing His intentions and doing our work with character that reflects His holiness, rendering the results truly praiseworthy. 

Thus, of all the ways God presents himself in Scripture, perhaps the most striking depiction we find at the beginning of Scripture—and at its end (the new beginning!)—is that of God—the Great Artisan.  Recall the words of Genesis 2: “And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east.”  The garden, as we read on, was filled with “every good tree that was pleasant to the sight and good for food.”  Now, although man fell and evil entered the world to spoil its perfection, the fact remains that the vestiges of the primeval beauty that this Artisan designed remain.  Creation itself remains “good,” and as the redeemed community, we above all people should master the art of cultivating what God made.  Were the earth doomed to annihilation, perhaps one could brush aside what I am writing as nostalgia for a lost utopia, but consider the last picture of the future in Revelation 22: In the new earth we see a river of water, as bright as crystal; and we again see a beautiful tree planted at the heart of Jerusalem for the life of the nations.  We do not know how much of this language is just symbolic, but it is clear that God still values the wonder of nature enough to use it to illustrate eternal bliss.  In any event, Eden endures as that idyllic country where God and man reign in perfect peace, book-ending the Bible with all the truth, goodness, and beauty that only could flourish in a garden. 

As Anglicans, we are heirs of an English tradition that has not only respected, but celebrated the art of gardening.  Perhaps it is because—emphasizing the Incarnation of Jesus Christ as we do—we intuitively grasp the wondrous potential of a seed, and the miracle that springs from the dirt after we plant it.  Christ is the ultimate seed: He came among us to be planted in the ground that He might grow forth in Resurrected life to share it with all who would take His life with them when they die.  If for no other reason than that, let us look to the garden around us and till it.  Yes, some of us will have green thumbs and others so black as to instill fear, but let none of us forget the earth that we tread in this life—the same earth that will give us rest as we look to the future when we will all spring forth again.  As Christians, we do not need “Earth Day” to appreciate what God has made; in spite of our mistakes, as Gerard Manley Hopkins famously wrote, “And for all this, nature is never spent; there lives the dearest freshness deep down things.”

Beholding the Mystery

by Daniel S. Trout

One of the great abilities God has given human beings is the power of recollection.  Recollection (or remembrance) not only gives our lives continuity, but instills in us a wish to preserve—through various tokens—memories of events, things and people that gave significance to the past.  All of our homes contain pictures and various objects to commemorate what or who has been, bringing either joy or sorrow—perhaps both concurrently.  What we often forget is that, as Christians in worship, we do something quite similar, although probably less consciously and (sadly) more neglectfully.  As the Church, we, too, have a memory—the Holy Spirit who dwells within us all, working in and through us to sustain the reality of the risen Christ in ours minds, and to thereby foster in our hearts the desire to worship Him.  Thus illuminated, we Anglicans rejoice that we pray, not just as Anglicans have always prayed, but as the Church since ancient times has done the liturgy to proclaim our Lord and be united with Him and all the host of heaven through the Word, the sacraments, and the many symbols and hymns of our Faith.  Having observed this, we face an important question—Do we continue the great Tradition because, as with the pictures and souvenirs in homes, we want to memorialize the past and/or tell a story about ourselves, or are we presenting something that goes beyond time and space itself?

As traditional Anglicans, this point is so salient because the modern critics of our Faith would judge us by history with questionings into a hazy past.  Was there a Jesus crucified at Golgotha?  Did He rise again and ascend into heaven?  Are the Scriptures a reliable witness?  Especially as Easter approaches—when the television specials abound—the Church’s best response is no prepared defense or argument, but an intentional and faithful representation of Jesus Christ that speaks for itself.  Our work as Christians is more than to keep alive a memory of what we believe historically was, but to manifest before our eyes what supernaturally is for all eternity.  Yes, we are part of a story grounded in history, but it would only be a good story were it not for the reality of the glorified Christ manifesting Himself from heaven into our temporal sphere.  Jesus does not depend on any assembled case we can muster, but benevolently offers Himself ever-new, just as He did through the initial incarnate action in Mary’s womb.  Doubts about historicity should not concern the Church because, through our worship, our eyes are continually opened to see by faith the Truth that science and critical methodologies cannot broach. 

This is why, after all, the crucifix and other symbols in the church building are unveiled in Holy Week: to reveal the majesty of God’s grace hidden for millennia and still (at best) an ambiguity to our contemporary world.  In addition to the wonder of the Blessed Sacrament, God gives us these visuals—often called sacramentals—because we are witnessing the mystery of Jesus Christ in our midst.  With crosses, icons, candles, vestments, and more we simultaneously see and show the substance of God’s gracious splendor that reminds, and yet infinitely transcends mere memory.  God is always unveiled to us because, as Paul writes, “We all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory” (2 Corinthians 3:18).  Therefore, to be Christians means (as the Church always has) to invest ourselves in this active remembrance: for within a realm of sacred space God’s Energies take form to disclose His saving Truth, and by it, shape us into a worshiping people transfixed by the glorious revelation which angels desire to look into.

On Being a People of Virtue

by Daniel S. Trout 

For quite some time now, American Christians have been exhibiting the unsettling reality that they are hastening a disconnect between their belief and their behavior.  If I may borrow the slogan for the Las Vegas advertising campaign, Christians have unwittingly adopted the mentality that “what happens in church, stays in church.”  Not that Christianity is a secret too juicy to tell, but for too many Christians, it’s a banal Sunday duty (speedily performed please!) occasionally accented during the week with an interposed meeting or potluck.  Like everything else in our culture, we are relegating religion to suit our own convenience, transmuting it into some kind of badge that announces that we are still in fact “spiritual,” despite our demanding schedule.  What I am afraid few recognize is that our Faith, practically-speaking, has such little influence over our behavior, relations, and decisions that most Christians can no longer be identified as such.  On Sunday, the liturgy just “happens” but doesn’t transform, prayers said with even a little intention are quickly forgotten, and Christ’s presence so quickly drifts by that the discipleship we need never grows.  What other consequence should we expect afterwards but the gradual adoption of whatever social morals are in vogue?  Meanwhile, Christian conduct becomes extinct.

For us Anglicans, our rich heritage compels us to resist this slide, which I will suggest, is nothing less than an identity crisis.  In the Book of Common Prayer, the General Thanksgiving pleads at one point: “…and that we show forth thy praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives, by giving up ourselves to thy service, and by walking before thee in holiness and righteousness all our days.”  This simple prayer of the Church confirms what the Scriptures and the lives of Christ and the Saints teach us—that God’s praise must unceasingly be sought through His people’s life and labor.  Only we will see the Eucharist offered on Sunday; the Eucharist to the world must be the witness of every Christian walking in integrity—the life of virtue transformed into the image of Christ.  The world’s ethics, now dominated by secularism’s compromising and permissive nature, exists merely for the sake of social order with minimal accountability; godly virtue that the Church exemplifies reveals God’s character and His will, besides ordering human affairs.

However, the world wants to make it easy for us—and on itself—to our forgetfulness and its own unchallenged wickedness.  On the other hand, a commitment to virtuous living is very hard.  In our private lives, our relations, and our jobs, demonstrating the so-called cardinal virtues of discernment, courage, justice and self-control requires the risk of being different from those around us and accepting the sacrifice of being rejected by people that hate the guilt they feel in the presence of a righteous man or woman.  But this is how we are called to manifest Jesus to our society: we are the light to those whose hearts are soft to receive it, and the judgment to those that are hardened.  Undoubtedly, this sounds like an uncomfortable mission, but as Christians, we also uniquely have been given the “theological” virtues of faith, hope and love: the faith to place ourselves in God’s hands, the hope to look for Christ’s appearing and eternity with Him, and the love to unselfishly bear the cross of our calling and share the good news of Jesus with others.  As the family of the Church, we can do this!  If we believe that we are inheriting a Kingdom better than the world’s enticements, we will conduct ourselves as citizens worthy to receive it.  Sunday isn’t the end-all, but Christ’s personal promise that a virtuous life of radical dedication to things unseen will one day be rewarded as only He can.

Never Looking Back

by Daniel S. Trout 

And so the New Year approaches, surely (for many people) accompanied by resolutions, expectations, and perhaps even anxiety over what might transpire in the months to come.  2007 may have been—on a variety of levels—a difficult and disappointing year troubled by loss and perhaps even decisions that caused personal regret.  Whatever the story or situation, an overflow of advice and consolation is usually offered at this juncture on the calendar, and people take what they can to pull themselves together and begin again.  However, as Christians, we need to remember—perhaps right now more than ever—that it is not the power of a new message, a new mindset or a new strategy, but Jesus’ old and yet ever-constant call of “Follow me” that gives life and purpose to all seekers. 

The difference, which I believe the Bible illuminates, lies in two contradictory evaluations of our humanity.  In our American culture particularly, we appraise strength and success on an individual basis, constantly judging ourselves as we receive judgment from society; desperately, we compare our achievement with others to decide how we measure.  Eventually we discover that we have become slaves to our own perceptions and sense of self-worth; even our “New Years resolutions” reflect the cheap grace of self-determination: hope and progress always lie within, placing ourselves at our own mercy.  What a different impression we find in the Gospels!  Absent is the selfish, privatized humanity of our own day for a life of continual self-surrender to Christ’s Gospel mission and the elect people with whom we are called.  Of all Jesus’ discipleship caveats in the New Testament, the last is perhaps the most penetrating: “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:62).  Our Lord cautions us that being his follower requires everything of us; we have to surrender ourselves completely, renouncing the world’s fallen individualism that would turn Christianity into a convenient “spirituality.”  As hard as it is for our will to accept, being a disciple of Jesus costs us our very lives because with His blood He has purchased us for Himself.  Now, as His Church, we find our hopes and horizons together in the mutual sacrifice to which we all submit.  Yes, it is a demanding life, but the more we lose ourselves, the closer we come to within reach of life that is true and eternal. 

Therefore, if Christians are to make any resolution, it is to more perfectly echo Paul’s words “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me” (Gal. 2:20).  The New Year should not rally us to self-betterment or personal possibility; instead, it should summon us to refocus on the work in the fields and to refuse to look back, wondering what we might be missing—when we’ve already lost it, anyway, through our baptism out of this world’s system and into the kingdom of God.  Thus, with every trip to the altar we fundamentally acknowledge that Jesus’ incarnate life received is worth more than anything we can fabricate through our own creativity.   To the world, our decision is absurd, but the reality is that a life without this sacrifice is inevitably unhealed, incomplete and forever lost.  What remains for most elusive, the Church knows in her Eucharistic solidarity, manifesting before our eyes that all that is left behind pales in light of the unity and glory rewarded to those that unceasingly labor.  As it was Christ’s life to do the will of the Father, may we find in the New Year cause for rejoicing in God’s will, looking to the harvest prepared for those dedicated enough to serve.

On Being a Eucharistic People

by Daniel S. Trout

It is the apex of Christian worship and our taste of heaven’s glorious future, yet no matter how many times we “do it,” the Church depends on constant reminder of the altar’s significance to keep her memory fresh.  I think this is so because it is those most precious things in life: a marriage, a friendship, a life’s-pursuit—all such concerns that particularly depend upon fervent love and dedication—must be nurtured with thought and action to preserve a living memory, viz. a perpetual now that unites what has been and what is into a single stream of intention.  This is how the most vital relationships thrive: through a constant abiding that refuses to allow our notions of time and familiarity to succumb to forgetfulness or thoughtless repetition; in true love, all things shared are fresh, engrossing and deliberate.  The Church’s Eucharistic love with Christ should be no different, but rather the epitome of a vibrant communion for all other relationships to imitate.  The congregation that excels in this love will not only find favor with the Lord, but yield much fruit through solidarity and hard work.  Let’s consider this in detail.

First, the Eucharistic direction toward God depends on and fosters our union with Christ.  We pray in every Mass that our sacrifice would be acceptable to the praise and glory of God, but now what about the benefit of which we also speak?  The benefit is nothing less than our reception of the living Jesus by which he takes us into union with his own divine life, cleansing our bodies and washing our souls to reflect his perfection.  Admittedly, it is often hard to concentrate on this supernatural wonder when we become dulled by frequency or distracted by other thoughts, but we must never allow this communion to become old or commonplace: being a Eucharistic people means that we delight in this holy mystery as our constant essential.  Jesus’ words in John 15:4 merit some reflection here: “Abide in me, and I in you.  As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.”  Each participation in the Eucharist more thoroughly grafts us into Christ and transmits the grace of his person to us.  From God’s perspective, this makes us indistinguishable from Christ himself—our old nature passes away and we are reconciled into the glory of his new creation.  All of this depends, however, on our determination to live in this communion.  If we do not respond to Christ’s gift with equal self-surrender and let him transform us after his image, then we will not bear fruit and the grace will be lost.

Our resolve to abide or no is most ostensibly seen in our Eucharistic formation as a community.  As I John 4:12 reads, “If we love one another, God dwells in us, and his love is perfected in us.”  Our communion with Christ is not just our soul with his, but the whole Body as one sharing a single partnership and purpose.  With no one else in this life will we share a greater bond than in the company of fellow communicants because each joins in the same offering, to be returned to God as a living sacrifice in mutual love.  Like our intention toward Christ, our love for one another depends on constant abiding—patience, care and a unified raison d’etre that recognizes the Eucharistic now as eternity in our midst.  Whether or not we are cognizant of it, each one of us affirms in the Eucharist that he is surrounded by brethren that he desires immortality with, flawed as we all appear now.  When this truly becomes our collective awareness, then we will have the mind of Christ to love and grow together into the Eucharistic people.

On Being Formed By The Word

by Daniel S. Trout

(Originally published in the Sword and the Shield of St. Alban’s Cathedral)

If the Christian life may indeed be characterized by the sacrifice of self for union with God and his glory, then I think most Christians have yet to practically understand—in devotion especially—how the Scriptures might best contribute towards our soul’s heavenward ascent. Particularly since the decline of the Bible’s perceived authority in the mainline churches over the last century, the irrelevance (or at least marginalization) of the Bible has become an increasingly evident weakness amongst many Christians, leading to a counter-reaction from others that tend to define themselves by a premium placed on preaching and biblical literacy. Now, while the struggle to overcome ignorance is certainly laudable, I must opine that the deeper problem—while certainly related to ignorance—is the virtual absence (in all Christian spheres) of engaging Scripture as an ascetic exercise. By an ascetic exercise I mean that one not just read Scripture, but above all contemplate the text as an offering of worship. Studying to increase one’s biblical intelligence certainly has its place, but making this one’s preoccupation reduces the Bible to a repository of truths, an endless database open to perpetual scrutiny. Furthermore, this method tends to become man-centered, making personal knowledge THE Christian imperative. On the other hand, as an act of worship, employing Scripture through ascetic discipline alters one’s intention God-ward, returning his own Word to him as an offering; this action not only praises him, but deifies (makes holy) the worshiper through his union with God in the Word.

We in the Anglican spiritual tradition should be mindful of such ascetic exercise because we recognize that Scripture is a sacramental; it is not merely a didactic instrument, but a channel of grace that God uses to reveal himself to his people. Additionally, because it is a medium, Christians do not commune with a book, but with the Holy Spirit who speaks through the Word, illuminates our minds to receive supernatural mysteries and then draws us into deeper mystical fellowship. This manner of spiritual exercise is possible because, although the Bible is not Christ per se, it is the inspired record of him who is the eternal Word of the Father. Put another way, the Word we read and hear (either corporately or privately) and look into with spiritual intent manifests the Word-made-flesh for us to behold; it brings us near him, preserving him on our lips and in our heart in order that we might thereby imbibe him. This is why we can appreciate and should regularly use the Word as an ascetic exercise. By routinely reading and contemplating it, two things happen: first, we form a habit of constantly walking in the presence of God because our minds are oriented towards the kingdom of heaven and, consequently, reality as God sees it; second, we become increasingly more receptive to God’s will and the Spirit’s transforming power that enables him to accomplish his will in us. Admittedly, this is probably an uncomfortable feeling, but it is a necessary discipline to relinquish the grip on ourselves and put on the kind of unselfish Christ-likeness discovered in meditation. Jesus appears no longer as a mere object of study, but as the Incarnate Christ in whose life we participate through deep contemplation. As we learn to become receptive to grace supplied via the Word, such discipline ceases to be a chore, but a habitual formation, nurturing our new creation in Christ to be conformed to his image.

Being Formed By Prayer

by Daniel S. Trout

(Note: this was originally published in the Sword and the Shield of St. Alban’s Anglican Cathedral)

The Church is saved by prayer and the greatest of saints are those that immerse themselves in its transforming power. I don’t suppose that such a statement is entirely original, and yet I hope that it is not, nor would ever be viewed as such. For nearly two millennia, Christians in all times and places have been illuminated by the reality of prayer’s redemptive energy. Scripture frequently likens its nature to incense, a purifying grace that ascends from the flame of our Spirit-anointed inner man and lifts us beyond time and space into the mystery of heaven’s glories. There are, of course, many forms of prayer and the art and language of prayer have been carefully refined since the Church’s Pentecostal inception, but any offering we make, no matter how rudimentary, participates in the great tapestry of prayer that transcends any individual effort. Prayer is our life. It is the sustenance that carries us on this pilgrimage through the wilderness of the world.

Thus, we must never abandon this necessity or write ourselves off because we think our paltry attempts inadequate. Any endeavor on the human level will always be insufficient: we are all finite, fallible and too distracted and selfish to ever submit anything to God as perfectly as we wish. Nevertheless, it is prayer that God desires because it is prayer that brings us into his fellowship; without this communion, we will never really know him and remain forever outside of Eden. With this perspective, it almost seems silly to ask, “Why pray when God knows already?” Contrary to our media-soaked modern age, prayer is not principally a communication of information. Of course, God wants us to tell him things, be it a petition, an intercession or a simple praise, but prayer is so much more than disclosure. Christians with the most mature prayer lives would confess that prayer is not about the one praying, anyway. Instead, prayer is the union between the Spirit within us and God’s own eternal presence on the other side of the sensory realm. This may seem disturbingly mystical to our contemporary ears, but Scripture itself testifies: “for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered” (Rom. 8:26b). Prayer is not dependent on our abilities or our worthiness at all, but on the initiative of God’s grace inside that accomplishes more than we possibly can on our own efforts. It is simply our duty to cooperate with it, to make ourselves fitting channels—temples, as St. Peter envisions—for God to unite us to himself that he might be “all in all.”

But how does one reach this state of spiritual compliance? Again, it is not of our doing, but God’s transfiguring work on us as we submit to his service. For the Church, this service finds its heart in the liturgy; particularly in the Eucharist wherein we are grafted ever-more intimately into Christ and offered with and through him. All our prayer should be an outgrowth of our prayers in the Mass, extending beyond the parish walls into every day and every place until our lives are saturated by prayer. The Daily Offices are the best place to begin, and from there moving on to even deeper levels of intimacy. The only way to grow is to listen and follow, for he will surely bring near the salvation of those that offer truly, and he will bless those churches most committed to being formed by prayer in his Holy Spirit.

Being the “People of the Book” w/o Being Only of the Book

by Daniel S. Trout

Christians, indebted as they are to the ancient Jews of their spiritual ancestry, have rightly been called the “people of the Book,” an observance both internally and externally prompted by their historic reliance on the authority of the Bible. Not only does this description accurately reflect Christianity’s traditional logo-centrism, but it also signifies the inherent dangers of abandoning this God-given foundation, which modern Christianity has tragically demonstrated for the world to see in the gradual self-destruction of liberalism. The Church must rely on the Scriptures for its dogma, worship and spiritual formation, but the question must be asked–given the diverse opinion on this matter within “conservative” Christianity:”Are we bound to Scripture alone?” Do we have to be centered on the Scriptures in order to be the “people of the book?”

Protestantism–reacting initially to the misuse, under-use and abuse of Scripture by the Roman church in the high Medieval era–still turns on the axis of sola Scriptura, insisting that, not only was the Bible uniquely the foundation of the apostolic era, but its inspired status makes it the only reliable source for the faith. Catholicism, on the other hand, has traditionally countered that the Bible cannot be considered our only authoritative source since the Church is perpetually illuminated and formed by the Holy Spirit and therefore possesses a dogmatic and didactic power in its own historical life and structure–what Catholics call “Holy Tradition.” Granted, Rome differs with Anglicanism and Orthodoxy on the nature of the relationship between Scripture and Tradition, but that explanation would make this post too long; so, we will simply put forth the view of the blogger (Anglican) and leave the other argument for another time.

Without being unnecessarily unfair to the pleasure of suspense, one must at least begin by noting that, historically, the Church has not represented the Protestant side of the argument, nor have those that have insisted upon its essentiality remained within the bounds of orthodoxy any longer than those who haven’t. In fact, Protestants have always, and continue to struggle with heresy and apostasy to a much greater degree than those professing Catholicity; the contemporary wreck of the mainline churches alone is a testament to this, although the problem truly finds its roots in Europe. That being said, Catholics have problems of their own that often stem from a misuse of Scripture, but what keeps them from going overboard is a consciousness that their ethos is ultimately defined by their vibrancy within a historical organism. Catholics, no matter what their specific affiliation may be, always have a sense of their “situatedness” in the Church. In other words, they cannot imagine (in this situation, e.g.) fidelity to Scripture disconnected from fidelity to what Christians everywhere have believed through the ages. Put plainly, Catholicism refuses to read and rank Scripture in isolation, and thereby make the Protestant mistake of putting the Church and Scripture indefinitely at odds. I don’t mean to say that Protestants pay no attention to how Christians from the past have interpreted and utilized the Bible, but I do mean to say that Protestants assume a priori that, due to the fallibility of man, the magisterial teaching power is unreliable and Scripture must therefore be treated as an unending archaeological excavation.

The problem with anything like a sola Scriptura position is that it reduces Christianity to a cult of book-adoration. Admittedly, I must give credit to my seminary professor John Frame for warning about the dangers of “bibliolatry,” but the problem is that a philosophy that insists upon the exclusivity of Scripture cannot help but become trapped in a kind of textual Baalism. Scripture becomes of such an absolute priority that everything else becomes either accidental or unnecessary to the faith system. Such, however, was not the character of the ancient Church, nor is it of Catholicism today. The reason is that ancient Christianity (which Catholicism can and does preserve) gave precedence to the spiritual life of the Church in the Holy Spirit, as it was sacramentally overseen and imparted by the collective power of the bishops. Even a cursory read of the earliest Fathers starting with Clement and Ignatius and continuing through the theologians of the great Councils reveals a faith distinguished by its life of worship and prayer. Its adherers could find nothing more vital than their new existence within the community of the Holy Trinity as it was revealed in the mysteries of the Church. Scripture was not central because it couldn’t be: the NT canon was not certain until the mid 4th century and the Church never understood what fragments it had as the sole deposit of apostolic teaching. What mattered was the illuminating power of the Spirit discovered in the life of the Body itself. Since these earliest centuries, Catholicism has always maintained that it is the directed soul and mind of the Church that distinguishes the right worship and dogma. Scripture, while essential to determining orthodoxy, is but part of the harmony that constitutes the living channel of revelation that is one, holy, catholic and apostolic.

It is unfortunate that the Western church had to take such a dramatic departure at the Reformation to restore the significance of Scripture to the life of the Church, but the reality remains that true Catholic Christianity has never died, but lives on in any parish that commits itself to the continuation of traditional Christian living and teaching in its fullness, including faithful preaching and instruction from the Word. East and West have developed different practices and emphases, but nevertheless, a Catholic core is recognizable in both from their devotion to the heritage passed on by the spiritual fathers and mothers of the Body. Christians, we shall say, are principally the “people of the Church,” viz., those faithful dedicated to working out their salvation in the sacramental existence of the pneumatic community. Catholics cannot be of the Book alone since such a view ultimately confuses a life in God with a life in abstract study. Put another way, the Church possesses Scripture, but it is not possessed by it. Christians cannot live without the witness of the Bible, but neither can they limit the extent of its witness through an intentional forgetfulness of the reciprocity that God has guided between it and its hearers since Pentecost. To those in tune with the burning life of this Memory, Scripture is best cherished as a divinely-prescribed tool–an instrument of worship for our edification and to the glory of God which remains, as it has always been, our bounden duty and service.

Covenant Promise I: Evaluating Israel’s Inheritance

by Daniel S. Trout

The history of redemption might well be described as God’s progressive fulfillment of his promises made first in Gen. 3; and, given the intricate architectonics of His plan, every passing generation has had to patiently endure (by faith) the tension of attainment and expectation through the succession of what might by called the covenantal reditus of humanity’s communion with her Creator. In fact, in no other epoch such this interadvental period have God’s people had to steadfastly persevere in their belief of what has already been accomplished while clinging with a certain hope that all will one day be complete. Our age is indeed (as the Fathers described) not one of shadow but image–viz., sure tokens of Christ’s accomplishments. And yet a better understanding of the OT shadows might illumine the mysteries of what we now enjoy in our Lord and his Church. What does the ancient foreshadowing teach us about our common, albeit transformed inheritance, in and with Israel?

To begin, the key elements of the inheritance are three in number: not two–as is often the case in most “biblical theologies”, but three. Old Testament narrative is not simply defined by a Land and a Line, but also a Liturgy. This might seem to throw a wrench in a study generally identified with Protestant scholarship, but rather I would suggest this as a correction, a completion (without being too presumptuous) to an otherwise stellar, although characteristically inadequate, effort. With this in mind, I must propose that Israel’s inheritance of the covenant blessings are ultimately predicated on orthodoxy, which means, in its original and full sense, right worship. God’s elect were then, as they are today, principally restored through the revealed liturgy that unites them with the glory of the Divine life. I do not mean to say that the promises of dominion and dynasty (as Stephen Dempster describes) are not central; rather, I am recommending that they be recognized as the means to an even more fundamental end.

But, one might ask, wasn’t the Exodus chiefly about returning to Canaan? Isn’t the real content of the promise made to Abraham about inheriting the land? The problem here is that such an objection seems to oppose land and liturgy, which makes no sense in the larger context of the OT. Israel was not destined by God to just be a “great nation” or even, as my seminary professor Richard Pratt proposed, the staging ground (Eden, the center of the world) for global conquest. Instead, she was to be the “light to lighten the Gentiles,” the conduit for reconciliation with God that the prophets condemned apostate Israel for failing to realize. This light was the light of God’s presence that Israel uniquely encountered in the temple cult. The liturgy of the sacrifices was designed by God to transfigure the worshipers, viz., to make them a kingdom of priests fit to inherit the promises and draw the other nations through their righteous living. Without the worship, the provision of the land and the line appear inadequate, just imitations of what any other nation could boast. The liturgy takes these kingly motifs and gives them a doxological direction that points towards the real telos–communion even greater than that of Eden.

The centrality of the liturgy should help us make better sense of why Moses admonished Pharaoh to consent to the Exodus in the first place. Israel needed to go into the wilderness because she was commanded to worship. God was not going to bring her into Canaan until she learned to do what his intentions demanded. True Sabbath rest was not possible without the liturgical underpinnings necessary to covenant fidelity. Thus, we can understand the meticulous construction of the tabernacle, from its design to its liturgical articles to its symbolic seven-day construction: God was “starting over again” to ready his people–even the whole world–for the future: a future we now know to be the cosmic recapitulation enacted by the Incarnate Son of God. Israel, above all other things, was a “liturgical people,” since it was most especially in her worship that she engaged in covenant fellowship. Not surprisingly, it was her faithfulness to the rubrics of this worship that determined her experience of either the blessings or curses of this covenant.

For true Israel–the Church–as we look forward with greater enlightenment towards the promised Sabbath rest, our condition remains essentially the same. Although the shadows of the Temple and its rituals have been fulfilled in Christ, the centrality of the liturgy has not changed. Christ, as we learn from the NT, is the true temple, the priest and the sacrifice. Thus, it is our faithful participation in him: his glorious presence, his priestly intercession and his self-offering that will decide our destiny in the covenant. The Church cannot inherit God’s promises if she insists on worshiping according to her own imagination or desire for self-affirmation. Christianity is not an idea to be reinvented, it is not a theological enterprise to be systematically buttressed, rather it is the sacrifice of a chosen people offered to God for his glory. It is the fulfillment of the ultimately vain spilling of animal blood that Christ accomplished as the new covenant oblation. Thus, it is in the sacrifice of his blood that Christians are redeemed; without it, we cannot have new life. True Christian worship, as given by God for our justification, never departs from this sacrifice. The covenant is forever sealed in the sacrifice of the blood, otherwise the liturgy becomes an empty display or, worse yet, a tailored show. As the NT and the Fathers testify, only the Eucharist secures our salvation, for only the consecrated bread and chalice unite our sacrifice with Christ’s, and furthermore, bind the worshipers on both sides of Calvary together into one, true Israel. The ancient Jewish adumbrations still teach us that the hope of a promised land, an eternal reign, and an immortal life is most surely revealed in our worship. We will only inherit if we taste the first fruits of the covenant now.