The Tweet gave me no info, so I did a small amount of digging. This is the miles christianus — Christian solider, from the Summa Vitiorum by William Peraldus in the mid-13th century. The manuscript is British Library, Harley MS 3244 (after 1236), image on fol. 28r.
Above this picture of your valiant medieval knight, the heading says, “The Life of Man on This Earth Is Warfare” (I’m translating militia as warfare tonight.)
When I looked at the image, I realised this wasn’t your ordinary illuminated knight fairly quickly in seeing that his shield is a shield of the Trinity. Here’s one in English:
Then I looked at the heading. Indeed, this knight is an allegory! The thrill!
Unsurprisingly, his sword is the Word of God. But the armour is not, as it turns out, all Ephesians 6. Above his helmet, below the crown, we read “Hope of future joy”.
Behind his armoured neck, “Charity”.
His spear: perseverance.
His saddle: Christian religion.
Above the steed’s rear: good will.
On the blanket beneath the saddle: Humility.
Spurs: Discipline.
The reins: Discretion.
The hoofs: Delight, consensus, good work, custom.
The banner: The desire of the kingdom of heaven.
Stirrup: Readiness for a good work.
The angel bearing the crown has one banner that says, “They will not be crowned except those legitimately fight/contend. The angel bears a banner with seven streams in the other hand, recalling the Beatitudes of Matthew 5:
Theirs is the kingdom of the heavens;
they will possess the kingdom;
they will be consoled;
they will be satisfied;
they will receive mercy;
they will see God;
for they will be called sons of God.
The sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit lurk on the left, cut off presumably because they are headed for the gutter? I don’t know, and I can’t see the whole thing.
Nonetheless, the image is striking, and it is a reminder of what this life is. It is not just we priests who are to take up arms against the foe. This whole life here on earth is warfare. Christians are called by their Lord to fight against the Enemy. This fight is composed of practising the virtues, believing the truth, seeking the Kingdom of God, and so forth.
When we toss out the term “spiritual warfare” in relation to the battle for our souls, we tend to think immediately of demon possession or of intercessory prayer, that kind of thing. But the life of virtue is as much a battle as the life of prayer. Get on your knees and fight, yes! But also realise that every time you read the Bible or receive communion or pay attention to a sermon or show love to a neighbour you are fighting as well.
Take up arms against the foe and fight for an imperishable crown.
As you know, I’ll be teaching “King Arthur and the Baptism of the European Imagination” for Davenant Hall next term. I’m very, very, very excited for this course! Preparing for this course has allowed me to legitimately make time for medieval romances (when I’m not being diligent at my true vocation — more on that in a moment!).
One of the phrases that popped up in my recent reading of Malory, and one I remember from The Quest of the Holy Grail, is “the armour of the Lord” to refer to a priest’s vestments. The context is Knights of the Round Table coming upon one of the many hermits who live in legendary Britain’s forests. When they meet him, he is in the chapel, ready to sing Mass, wearing “the armour of the Lord.”
It is clear from the context that when I say “vestments”, it’s not simply a cassock or even cassock and surplice that are meant. This is the fifteenth century. If I remember my priestly training correctly, the armour of the Lord, then, is cassock, alb, amice, stole, surplice. Like a knight with his linen shirt, tunic, gambeson, haubergeon, plate armour. An arming cap under the helmet, of course.
Layers that transform you from an ordinary man in a linen shirt into a warrior.
And in a ritual society such as that of the 15th century, a man’s dress is part of what defines him.
Priests are warriors.
We have a high vocation. An impossible vocation — as my brother reminded us in his sermon at my ordination not long ago. Anyway, fighting the devil is part of the vocation of the priest.
The Prayer Book (I had a BCP ordination) calls us “watchmen of the Lord.” We are on guard to protect the Lord’s flock. “For they are the sheep of Christ, which he bought with his death, and for whom he shed his blood. The Church and Congregation whom you must serve, is his spouse and body.” (BCP 1962, p. 649) And the call is to care for the spiritual health of this flock. To protect it from wolves. To guide it so it does not go astray.
There’s a lot to be said about the priestly vocation — preaching the Word, administering the sacraments, helping the people pursue holiness through one’s guidance, and doing it all faithfully and in line with God’s word, not bringing in erroneous doctrine. Doing it all while leading a holy life.
Like my brother said, impossible.
This great treasure entrusted to the priest is the enemy’s great desire. All God’s wants is your heart. All the devil wants is the same. He wants to tear down and destroy what God has built, by whatever means he can. He wants to tear churches apart and scatter the faithful, to make the faithful lose faith. To laugh at those who mourn. To scorn those who love. To burn it all down.
Now, a healthy church will have an amazing team of older women praying and interceding for the congregation, for specific needs, for the priest, and so on.
This is good, because the priest is both the offense against the devil and one of the devil’s first targets. Tear him down with a scandal. Make him cause someone to lose faith. Use him to profane the name of God amongst unbelievers. Great. This is what the devil wants.
And so the priest goes to fight for these people against the forces of darkness. Interceding for this flock. Praying for their specific needs, at times known only to him. Praying for them more generally. Praying for wisdom to guide them to God almighty.
And on Sundays, he puts on the armour of the Lord. And he goes to battle against the forces of darkness with the soldiers of Christ under his command. And he consecrates the Body and Blood of the Lord that our sinful bodies may be made clean by His body, and our souls washed through His most precious blood.
Friends, the Holy Communion is a mystical feasting with Christ that binds us to Jesus, to all who partake at that moment, to all who partake around the world, to all the saints in heaven. It is the great advancement of the church militant against the devil. It is the way the Lord strengthens his people and makes them holy.
So pray for your priest as he goes out and fights the devil.
On April 6, I will begin teaching a long-awaited, much-desired (by me, at least) course, “King Arthur and the Baptism of the European Imagination”. I’ll get into the inspiration for the course in a future post, but for now: SIGN UP HERE! Today’s thoughts are instead something that surfaced in my mind about five years ago — Who’s Afraid of Medieval Literature? Why not read it for yourself?
At the time this question first struck me, I turned up at my workplace with my copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (trans. Tolkien, naturally). My boss made some noise about not being up to that level of reading or something. I didn’t say anything; maybe I should have! But, really, Sir Gawain is pretty easy, especially for a guy whose favourite book is Steven Erikson’s Gardens of the Moon. Gardens of the Moon is one of those hefty, 712-page fantasy novels with multiple main characters and plotlines that occasionally converge.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, on the other hand, has but a single plot. Tight and dense, with richly woven symbolism, sure. But only one — and it’s easy to follow. Tolkien’s translation takes 76 pages. And since it’s poetry, there is a lot of white space on the page. If you can manage Steven Erikson, you can manage the Gawain poet.
That’s not all — this was my first piece of medieval literature. The year of the inciting anecdote, I reread The Quest of the Holy Grail and got my hands on Corin Corley’s translation of Lancelot of the Lake (Lancelot du Lac). I first read Sir Gawain, however, when I was thirteen.
Thirteen!
I had read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Then I stalled on The Silmarillion. There wasn’t much other Tolkien available in the mid-90s besides other Silmarillion-type stuff. But then I saw his name emblazoned across a King Arthur story!!
Friends, I have long had a soft spot for King Arthur. In Grade 3, I crouched inside my bedroom door by the crack of light from hall reading some kids’ adaptation of King Arthur that I got from the school library. I picked up my own kids adaptation at London Drugs on a trip to Calgary another time. I would go on to read the young readers versions of Rosemary Sutcliff’s work (presumably adapted from Sword at Sunset?)
So naturally enough, when I went into Buddy’s Bookshop and saw it, I picked up this copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl, and Sir Orfeo with cover art by John Howe (my favourite Tolkien artist at the time). Here it is, 29 years later:
I loved it. I was thirteen, and I loved medieval narrative verse. Everything about the story fascinated me. It was intriguing to me that you put a description of dividing up a deer into poetry. I loved the description of Sir Gawain’s arms and armour. The story propelled me.
Not all medieval literature is as readily accessible, and different people react differently to it. I really struggled to read all of Beowulf when I was 18, but I love to reread Beowulf now. I’ve read it probably 5 times at this point. I have enjoyed multiple readings of The Nibelungenlied as well, not to mention the Norse sagas and Norse mythic literature. And, of course, there’s Arthur, the Matter of Britain.
These stories of Arthur are captivating and ensnaring. The prophecies of Merlin. The Sword in the Stone. The rebel kings. War against the Saxons. Arthur’s (clearly very historical) conquest of the Roman Empire. More to the point — the Round Table. The Green Knight. The various tales and adventures of the knights throughout the Kingdom of Logres. The Quest of the Holy Grail. The darkest road, leading to Camlann.
It seizes you, whether it’s the 19th-century retelling I read when I was 14, or Malory, or Geoffrey of Monmouth. It seizes you, whether it’s the film Excalibur or the musical Camelot. It seizes you, whether it’s The Once and Future King or Stephen R. Lawhead. It seizes you, whether it’s Tennyson or Malcom Guite.
Arthur and the Round Table get into you mind, into your veins, into your self.
The Arthurian legends are the stuff that fantasy is made of, alongside other medieval imaginative glamoury. Once when I was reading the Renaissance poet Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso (to quote CS Lewis, if you tire of Ariosto, you tire of life), my brother-in-law remarked that unless it had magic rings and swords with names, he wouldn’t read it. “You’ll never guess what…” I said.
I have blogged about the question of Robert E. Howard and Ariosto elsewhere. But we know for certain that Tolkien and Lewis, two of the founders of modern fantasy, were deeply influenced by being medieval lit professors. Tolkien both edited and translated Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. He lectured on Beowulf, preparing his own translation to work from; this besides his scholarly essays on these works. Two of CS Lewis’s greatest non-fiction works are The Allegory of Love and The Discarded Image, both of which are about medieval literature and the medieval image of the universe.
Other medieval literature feeds into other fantasy works, not to mention informing us as we approach the history of the period. With modern translations of so much medieval literature coming out all the time, it is increasingly accessible. Why not try it out? Why not get sucked into another world by being drawn back through time into the imaginations of another age?
Memento Mori: St Francis and Brother Leo contemplate death by El Greco
This past Sunday (Quinquagesima), as the final Sunday before Lent, the Gospel reading in the BCP lectionary was 1 Corinthians 13, that famous passage on love — an important passage at all times, including when you are about to embark on a period of more intentional personal discipline.
Today, I’d like to start with verse 3:
If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. (ESV)
According to The Interpreter’s Bible, this verse is not about the voluntary poverty of asceticism, where poverty is an end of itself.
This, as you may guess, is untrue. The first place my mind went was to St. Francis and the early Franciscan movement, to those little brothers, fraticelli, who gave up all they had and started an almost impossible institution that not only tried to avoid the growing monetary economy of 13th-century bourgeois Italy, not only called its members to own nothing of their own, but even tried not to own anything itself. The early Franciscan friaries were not the property of the order, so absolute was their commitment to Lady Poverty (as St. Francis and the early documents like to frame it).
This proved unfeasible even by 1250, just 24 years after the death of St. Francis.
But the friars, both Dominican and Franciscan (but especially Franciscan), took up poverty as a virtue. They believed it was the model our Lord left behind and that commands to the Apostles to take no money with them (Mt 10:9-10) were commands to anyone living the apostolic life.
One early Franciscan document that shows us their general attitude is “The Sacred Exchange Between Saint Francis and Lady Poverty” (in Francis of Assisi: Early Documents vol 1, The Saint, pp.529ff.) The “Sacred Exchange” is an allegory from the mid-1200s where Brother Francis and some of the fraticelli seek out Lady Poverty, and find that she is not to be found in the piazzas and the cities, but only through the ascent of a narrow way on a mountain. Unlike most who try to ascend this mountain, they ascend easily. Francis and Lady Poverty have a conversation about poverty, and then the exchange is made, in terms of an economic exchange and contract (much to be said for seeing early Franciscans in the light of 13th-century mercantile classes and city states in Italy).
The fraticelli place themselves at the feet of Lady Poverty to accept her as queen and abide by her judgements, and she mercifully accepts them even though so many have tried to live by her justice and failed. Here we see another mediaeval angle, of the troubadours and jongleurs that the fraticelli oftentimes modelled themselves, as minstrels and fools for God, tying themselves into the poetry of courtly love. Yet here, instead of a human queen or some other rich lady of higher station than themselves, they reject all of that pomp and choose Lad Poverty instead.
There is a lot packed into the “Sacred Exchange”. Allow me to share with you just one passage that supports my argument about poverty not being sought as an end in herself. When Francis and his companions reach Lady Poverty, she asks them why they are there. They respond:
We wish to become servants of the Lord of hosts because He is the King of glory. We have heard that you are the queen of virtues and, to some extent, we have learned this from experience. Casting ourselves at your feet, then, we humbly ask you to agree to be with us. Be for us the way of arriving at the King of glory, just as you were for Him when He, the Daybreak from on high, agreed to visit those sitting sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death. (ch. 16, p. 534)
Here we see what the end goal of poverty for the Franciscans is the Lord of hosts, the King of glory. They seek her as “the way of arriving at the King of glory”. Poverty is not the end game for the Franciscans. The goal of all their striving is the triune God who became incarnate in Christ.
Lady Poverty’s discourse in response, however, highlights how greed ran rampant throughout the human race from Adam until the coming of Christ, the great King of glory, Who Himself chose poverty. And since Christ, there have been the false poor and the true poor. The true poor embrace poverty as a means for finding God by divesting themselves of greed and the distractions of the world. The false poor would rather be rich, or they fall away, or they become proud and fail to seek the Lord of hosts.
This is, in essence, fleshing out St. Clare’s “Laudable Exchange”, but taking it higher, in fact. St. Clare says:
What a great laudable exchange: to leave the things of time for those of eternity, to choose the things of heaven for the goods of earth, to receive the hundred-fold in place of one, and to possess a blessed and eternal life.
In the “Sacred Exchange”, the deal is made not for the things of eternity but for God Himself, for He Himself is the reward we all seek.
This Franciscan approach to Lady Poverty is simply the 13th-century, Italian, itinerant outworking of the teaching of John Cassian’s first Conference from back in the early 400s. According to Cassian’s teaching, everything in life has a telos, an end, towards which you strive. But you do not actually work directly for the telos in most instances. Instead, you have a more immediate skopos, or goal, towards which you work. In Cassian’s schema, the monastic skopos is purity of heart, which you cultivate to the end, or telos, of seeing God (as per Matthew 5:8).
Poverty is one of the virtues to be cultivated to that end. Now, Cassian and Francis may have disagreements about the relative position of poverty amongst the virtues of the monastic life. But both agree that it is not pursued in and of itself. As Cassian says about purity of heart:
For the sake of this [purity of heart], then, everything is to be done and desired. For its sake solitude is to be pursued; for its sake we know that we must undertake fasts, vigils, labors, bodily deprivation, readings, and other virtuous things, so that by them we may be able to acquire and keep a heart untouched by any harmful passion, and so that by taking these steps we may be able to ascend to the perfection of love. These observances do not exist for themselves. -St. John Cassian, Conference 1.7.1 (Abba Moses, trans. Boniface Ramsey)
So as we enter Lent, let us remember that all our doings without charity are nothing worth. Let us remember that even our own holiness is not the end towards which we strive. Rather, we practise the virtues and the disciplines precisely as means towards the end of seeking and knowing the King of glory.
In the BCP calendar, we are descending from the feasts of Christmas and Epiphany into the fast of Lent through three Sundays we like to call the Gesimas — Septuagesima (70th), Sexagesima (60th), and Quinquagesima (50th). These three Sundays help us look ahead to the fast and consider the question of spiritual formation and the purpose that lies behind giving up chocolate for 40 days and 40 nights.
That purpose was highlighted in Septuagesima’s Epistle reading from 1 Corinthians 9, that we run for an incorruptible crown. St. Paul, therefore, encourages us to train hard.
Training and discipline require taking care and making specific plans. Athletes, to whom St. Paul is comparing disciples of Jesus, do not train willy nilly. And so we come to Lent thinking about the specific disciplines we’ll take on this year as well as, perhaps, the disciplined life at large. How shall we live for our Lord Christ every day, even after Lent is over?
If we are to be intentional about the spiritual life, about spiritual formation, we have to make some sort of plan, some sort of schedule. We have to actually do the things we believe will help us be formed into the likeness of Jesus Christ. We need to discern which disciplines are essential for all Christians, which ones will transform us in particular, and how to go about practising them.
And so now, longwindedly, allow me to turn to the Book of Common Prayer as a rule of life. The idea of the BCP as a rule of life is not mine, of course. It is most famously from Fr. Martin Thornton, whom I have not yet had the pleasure and delight to read. What is interesting, however, is taking this idea up as a Canadian. For in the Canadian BCP of 1962, we have a Supplementary Instruction to the Catechism that closes thus:
Every Christian man or woman should from time to time frame for himself a RULE OF LIFE in accordance with the precepts of the Gospel and the faith and order of the Church; wherein he may consider the following: The regularity of his attendance at public worship and especially at the holy Communion. The practice of private prayer, Bible-reading, and self-discipline. Bringing the teaching and example of Christ into his everyday life. The boldness of his spoken witness to his faith in Christ. His personal service to the Church and the community. The offering of money according to his means for the support of the work of the Church at home and overseas. (p. 555)
This closing to the Supplementary Instruction first appeared in any BCP with ours in 1962, having been inspired by the Lambeth Conference of 1948, which has this to say:
They should be led on to accept a rule of life comprising daily prayer and Bible reading, regular worship, and self-discipline, including alms-giving and personal service. (Resolution 112)
If you take up the idea of the Book of Common Prayer as a rule of life, most of these boxes are ticked already. Morning and Evening Prayer make room for both the prayers of the Church and the personal prayers of the disciple. They also take you through most of the Old Testament every year, the New Testament twice a year, and the Psalter every month. The BCP, then, is ample for fulfilling those two most foundational disciplines we were taught as children, “read your Bible, pray every day.”
Next, regular worship — if you take the BCP as a rule of life, it becomes apparent that you should be at church every Sunday, and possibly every feast day if worship is made available. There are provisions made for the public worship of the Church for every Sunday of the Christian year as well as major feasts and commemorations that fall on weekdays.
Perhaps we clergy could make those weekday feasts more commonly celebrated together?
Self-discipline is also covered by the BCP to some degree. Besides the Feasts, we also find on page xiii of the Canadian BCP, the Days of Fasting, Abstinence, and Solemn Prayer to Be Observed in the Anglican Church of Canada. The 1962 is still our formal Prayer Book, so these are still in effect for faithful Anglicans:
Major Fast Days: Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.
Days of Abstinence:
1 All the Fridays of the Year except Christmas Day and the Epiphany. 2 The Forty Days of Lent.
Days of Solemn Prayer:
1 The Ember Days at the Four Seasons, being the Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday after the Third Sunday in Advent, the First Sunday in Lent, the Day of Pentecost (Whitsunday), and Holy Cross Day (September 14).
2 The Rogation Days, being the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday before Holy Thursday, or the Ascension of our Lord.
This, of course, only covers one kind of self-discipline. But I am pretty sure that if we take it to heart, many of us will find that we are already leading a more disciplined life. Other kinds of discipline are not treated quite so directly, but almsgiving should be assumed by the Offertory at Sunday worship, to give one example.
If we follow the BCP as a rule of life first, and then prayerfully consider other disciplines or ways of prayer and worship that will also help us, then I think a great burden can be raised from many of us. It has become quite popular to create one’s own rule of life. I know I’ve done it at lease twice and quite failed at maintaining such discipline. It can become not only a burden but also a sort of self-searching exercise prone to confusing psychology and the spiritual life.
The Prayer Book removes this burden. It even removes the burden one may carry if one fails. There are so many rich prayers you end up praying, however haphazardly, wherein you are constantly reminded that God does not weigh our merits but pardons our offences, that we cannot of ourselves help ourselves, and so much more. Over and over again, the prayers of the BCP, the prefaces to the offices, emphasize the lavish grace and love of God poured out for us sinful humans. If you consistently try to live a Prayer Book life but are also full of minor slips and failings, the amount of Scripture, personal prayer, and the prayers of the Church that you will gain in your life, however imperfectly you do it, should also relieve the burden of feeling like a failure.
You will certainly know that you are guilty, but your feelings of guilt can be relieved as you turn to God who will make you holy, using the tools He has provided through prayer and Scripture and which He has led His church to order in this way through the Book of Common Prayer.
If you fall 1000 times, God will hep you up 1000 times. Fear not.
This morning, I went over to the cathedral, and the archdeacon led me through how to do a high church, ad orientem service of Holy Communion. Where to stand when, when to face congregation, when to genuflect, what hand motions to use while consecrating the elements, gave examples of private prayers to pray as well as what one must memorise–that sort of thing.
These considerations matter.
Now, I’m a moderately unfussy Prayer Book Anglican, broadly a low church traditionalist but would happily learn all I needed to be able to serve a high church congregation, amice and incense and all. It’s my willingness to face East or towards the people, to chant the service or not, etc., that makes me unfussy. In other ways, I am not unfussy.
I believe in using the Book of Common Prayer and following its rubrics. If “is” means “is”, as some are fond of saying with regards the Eucharist, “shall” means “shall”, not “may”. I believe that we should approach the throne of God with reverence and fear, albeit with confidence stemming from His grace — he does not weigh our merits but pardons our offences.
Part of the job of the priest is to help lead the people with reverence into reverence, to help them find God in the midst of the liturgy, as He meets the congregation in the prayers and the hymns, as He comes to them through His word written and above all through His word broken and poured out for them.
Sunday morning is not there to make us feel good, or simply to learn interesting things about the Bible and theology. Sunday morning is not entertainment. Sunday morning is for worshipping the one, true, and living God and encountering Him (even if, at times, the encounter feels like encountering a divine absence).
One of the great things about God, of course, is that He can turn up wherever He pleases. As in that Robert Duval film The Apostle, God can use barely (if at all) repentant sinners to reap a harvest of souls. As our own Articles of Religion teach, the worthiness of the minister does not affect the efficacy of the sacrament (see Article 26). God can, will, and does meet with His people in less than ideal circumstances.
Yet, as the experience of any of us who have lived through decade of church life can attest, the subjective and therefore pastoral angle of things can vary widely. A church service that does not act with reverence, or where the uniqueness of Jesus is denied, or where the miraculous is derided as ahistorical, or where it’s more about psychology than Gospel, or any number of other examples that arise in my mind — such a church service makes it harder for the weak sinners in the pews to meet with Jesus, and in some cases can obscure Christ and even work on some hearts to weaken their faith.
And so, as I prepare to become a priest, I think not simply about liturgics and stagecraft, not simply about the awesome and terrifying reality that I will be consecrating bread and wine, holding the body and blood of my saviour in a few weeks. I am also thinking about how to carefully lead the liturgy in such a way that does some small measure of justice to the extraordinary holiness of the Lord’s Supper.
When I first started talking about becoming a priest, there was some concern from one clergyman that I was mainly concerned with preaching and Bible studies since there’s a lot more to pastoral care than that. Indeed, hospital visits and other pastoral visitations are part of the job, and I’m getting better at them! It was another priest, though, who really made me think — what really makes a priest stand out is the sacraments. I need to be prepared, ready, and glad to feed God’s people with the Blessed Sacrament to be a priest.
And the fun fact about these two roles: They meet each other at the hospital. In the room of one parishioner dying of cancer, I had the extraordinary blessing and privilege to wheel out one of those hospital food tables that can go over a bed and place a corporal on it. Then I pulled out my dad’s (tiny) antique travel chalice and paten, poured out a small quantity of preconsecrated wine and stacked the hosts on the paten. 10 of us proceeded to share the Holy Communion together as I led them through a Deacon’s Mass based on the 1962 BCP.
A week and a half later, I was busy picking up my car from the shop when I got a message from the son of that parishioner saying the doctors said she only had a day left. What timing! And so I drove to the hospital and prayed the Last Rites. After that prayer, I shared with the family about the hope of the resurrection of the dead that all who belong to Jesus share, noting how this woman had asked me to make sure all her kids heard it from me.
The priest helps bring the people into the presence of God, whether it’s in a beautiful cathedral with stained glass such as where I was trained today or it’s in a hospital room with machines beeping and a funny, little table. The job is to bring them to God and to bring God to them.
The liturgy creates the space where the priest is able to open up his own heart and the hearts of God’s people to the One Who is already present. For the liturgy truly does not begin with the Introit or the opening hymn or the call to worship. Every Sunday, for every Christian, the liturgy begins when you wake up. The priest’s job is to help manifest the reality of God’s presence everywhere through this particular time of worship, where His presence is most potently known and most assuredly promised by God.
I love preaching and teaching, and I believe that is an important part of the office of priest — to feed Christ’s sheep (as we see in Leo, Chrysostom, Gregory). It is also the case that the liturgical place of the priest is vital to a healthy church, and I will probably spend my life exploring that facet of my calling as well.
Please pray for me, a sinner, as I prepare for ordination (God willing) on February 28.
Gaspare Fossati – Louis Haghe – Vue générale de la grande nef, en regardant l’occident. 1852
I just got my hands on Procopius’ On Buildings, partly from a desire to do a deep dive on Justinian someday, partly because my favourite building I’ve never visited is the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Procopius writes:
It exults in an indescribable beauty. (I.i.28)
The description he goes on to give matches the pictures I have seen, with an extraordinary eye for blending technical descriptive phrases with classical style.
Indeed one might say that its interior is not illuminated from without by the sun, but that the radiance comes into being within it, such an abundance of light bathes this shrine. (I.i.29)
Of interest to me right now are Procopius’ remarks about “that portion of the building in which they perform the mysteries in worship of God” (I.i.31) Here, the impression of the laboriously described apse (one could wish he simply had the term apse in his vocabulary, but he uses the term elsewhere, so…) and its transformation into the famed dome of Hagia Sophia is of something both full of grace, “but by reason of the seeming insecurity of its composition altogether terrifying.” (I.i.33) It is particularly terrifying terrifying because of how slender everything seems to be. Of course, it is all massively engineered (which Procopius knows and reassures the reader).
Yet here, where one stands under the dome, surrounded by piers, looking towards the East, towards the apse and the altar, one is seized by the beauty and grace as well as by the grandeur of something like this being strong enough not to fall over and crush you. But above you is another wonder:
Upon this circle [the cylinder where the windows are] rests the huge spherical dome which makes the structure exceptionally beautiful. Yet it seems not to rest upon solid masonry, but to cover the space with its golden dome suspended from Heaven. (I.i.45-46)
The architects so skilfully arranged the dome upon the cylinder above the arches in this wonder where a square becomes a circle that it seems to simply be a floating, golden circle above you. Gold, in the art of the Christian East, is the colour of Heaven. Moreover, the gold would reflect the sunlight back down to the worshippers more effectively. You are not simply under the blue vault of the heavens but actually in the Heaven of Heavens, in God’s throne room, when you come to the Divine Liturgy at the Church of Hagia Sophia.
Procopius goes on:
All these details, fitted together with incredible skill in mid-air and floating off from each other and resting only on the parts next to them, produce a single and most extraordinary harmony in the work, and yet do not permit the spectator to linger much over the study of any one of them, but each detail attracts the eye and draws it on irresistibly to itself. (I.i.47)
There is, of course, much more that he says, about the beautify of the decoration, about the gold covering the roof elsewhere in the church, as well as the precious stones used in its construction, besides the elegance of the architecture of the other parts of the church of Hagia Sophia.
Psalm 96:9 says, “O worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness: let the whole earth stand in awe of him.” That is, in effect, what lies behind places like this. Now, one may argue that holiness itself is the beauty extolled by the Psalmist, not the beauty of the moon, not the beauty of a cathedral. I hear the argument, yet I have found myself standing in awe of God in beautiful places. I recall standing transfixed by the moon one night in Cyprus, or standing in awe of Him at San Marco in Venice.
Justinian had a similar idea for Hagia Sophia. Procopius writes:
And whenever anyone enters this church to pray, he understands at once that it is not by any human power or skill, but by the influence of God, that this work has been so finely turned. And so his mind is lifted up toward God and exalted, feeling that He cannot be far away, but must especially love to dwell in this place He has chosen. And this does not happen only to one who sees the church for the first time, but the same experience comes to him on each successive occasion, as though the sight were new each time. Of this spectacle no one has ever had a surfeit, but when present in the church men rejoice in what they see, and when they leave it they take proud delight in conversing about it. (I.i.61-63)
I believe it is fitting that we construct beautiful churches for the assembly of the saints to worship Almighty God. A church building is, in fact, the throne room of heaven. We gather before God’s throne, and he is present with us just as he was with Solomon and the Temple in Jerusalem. Week in and and week out, God comes to his people through the bread and wine of the Holy Communion. We gather together and join the cherubim in their thrice-holy cry,
Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts! Heaven and earth are full of thy glory. Glory be to thee, O Lord Most High.
There is more that could be said of this Great Church of Constantinople, but here is enough for now. This was the chief church of the imperial city, and its chief function was to provide a place for the celebration of the Divine Liturgy. Like Suger building the first Gothic church, something new was born from a desire to create a space that lifts the hearts of troubled humanity up to the glory of God in the highest heaven.
If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you will be interested to know that I am now an ordained deacon in the Diocese of Saskatchewan, Anglican Church of Canada. I have been a deacon since October 6, and I will be a deacon until February 28, when I shall be ordained priest (d.v.). Some of you had encouraged me to go on with it and do this many years ago when I thought I was going to be a full-time academic. And now, here I am, deacon-in-charge of three congregations in northern Saskatchewan!
There are many reflections I could make about how God brought me to this point, including how events, conversations, readings, blog posts, and so forth from years and years ago were part of the preparation. And I may blog about them, about how God was preparing me even when I was headed somewhere else, and then what started to turn my heart towards ordained ministry.
For tonight, one quick thought: Nothing is lost.
Several weeks ago, I was preparing a sermon on the armour of God, and I began pulling out some knowledge about Roman arms and armour to help explain the imagery St. Paul uses in the passage. I quipped on Facebook that who would have thought that a background in Roman history, philology, and patristics would come in handy in sermon preparation!
But, of course, my background in those areas of academic study, as well as medieval Christianity, all play into my preparations for preaching on Sunday, for preparing young people for confirmation, for Monday night Bible studies, for any conversation about the faith that may arise — along with my other “lived experience”, from three nights in an Austrian monastery to hours standing with faithful Orthodox at Divine Liturgy to singing along to classic CCM from the 80s and 90s to this very day.
When I came to patristic studies, it was as a philologist and historian who was also a Christian. What I found as I studied the church fathers in my MTh and PhD, and then as I taught them for five years at the Davenant Institute, was that I was, unbeknownst to myself, a theology nerd! This means that when I read St Maximus the Confessor or St Thomas Aquinas or St Gregory Palamas or Richard Hooker, I get excited just thinking through what these guys mean.
But I’m also (praise the Lord!) not a complete idiot (entirely by the grace of God). And so when I got up to preach on Christmas Eve, I had a sermon prepared that arose from my study and engagement of Cyril of Alexandria and Maximus the Confessor, that quoted St. Leo the Great, but from which I cut Romanos the Melodist. Yet what I sought from them wasn’t the technical vocabulary or jargon or long discussions. Instead, I took what I believe these Fathers mean, how it flows from John 1, and proclaimed it in what I hope was a way that appealed to farmers, nurses, prison wardens, school teachers, carpet cleaners, truck drivers, security guards, miners, and whoever else came that night.
I hope it landed well.
What matters isn’t that a preacher knows Maximus but that he can communicate the beauty and glory of the Gospel to his congregation. But if a preacher is like me and does know Maximus to some extent, then Maximus can be wielded wisely to help the congregation see the beauty and glory of the Gospel. At least, this is what I hope for!
And so I’ll keep reading and meditating on Scripture and the Fathers, leading the people in their prayers, and visiting them when they are sick.
And I hope that you will pray for me, an unworthy sinner, as I carry out this ministry of the cure of souls.
Normally this time of year, I’m Athanasius-maxxing, as I’m sure you know. This year I’ve decided to Maximus-max instead. I’ve begun with the selection of his writings in The Philokalia, Vol. 2. He gets more stuff in The Philokalia than anyone else, which is pretty cool. The first selection from St. Maximus the Confessor is Four Centuries on Love (or on Charity, depending on translator).
Each “century” is a selection of 100 maxims/kephalaia in the the same tradition as Evagrius of Pontus, to whom Maximus owes a lot. They are short, pithy sayings, each of which you can mull over for a long time. They are not always necessarily connected from one to the next, although there is an overarching theme.
The First Century has some bold things to say about love. A lot of this is “Tweet-able”, if you will, but I realised that some of the kephalaia out of context could be misleading. Here are three examples:
Blessed his he who can love all men equally. (ch. 17)
Who loves God will certainly love his neighbour as well. Such a person cannot hoard money, but distributes it in a way befitting God, being generous to everyone in need. (ch. 23)
If love is long-suffering and kind (cf. 1 Cor. 13:4), a man who is contentious and malicious clearly alienates himself from love. And he who is alienated from love is alienated from God, for God is love. (ch. 38)
There are, of course, others. Now, these are all admirable and worthy of meditating upon. But taken outside of the rest of this century on love, they may be misunderstood. Chiefly, in our current climate of ethical discourse, when someone makes a moral discernment or ethical consideration.
If you claim to love your neighbour, goes the social media reactor on Twitter, BlueSky, Facebook, but say that his or her behaviour is sinful, you are not really loving. If you say you love your neighbour, but say that your neighbour has erroneous ideas about sex and gender, you are not really loving.
Et cetera.
But part of the First Century on Love is that your love extends to those who are not purified of the passions as much as to the holy:
The person who loves God cannot help loving every man as himself, even though he is grieved by the passions of those who are not yet purified. But when they amend their lives, his delight is indescribable and knows no bounds. (ch. 13)
A soul filled with thoughts of sensual desire and hatred is unpurified. (ch. 14)
If we detect any trace of hatred in our hearts against any man whatsoever for committing any fault, we are utterly estranged from love for God, since love for God absolutely precludes us from hating any man. (ch. 15)
He who loves Me, says the Lord, will keep My commandments (cf. John 14:15, 23); and ‘this is My commandment, that you love one another’ (John 15:12). Thus he who does not love his neighbour fails to keep the commandment, and so cannot love the Lord. (ch. 16)
And then, at the end of this sequence, we reach chapter 17:
Blessed his he who can love all men equally. (ch. 17)
We are called by St. Maximus to love all men equally. But that does not mean that sinners and those beset from the passions do not exist. Rather, it means that the sins of others do not mar our love for them. This, of course, is how Christian love has always operated until very recently. You love people, and their sin grieves you not because it makes you love them less, but because sin harms the sinner. Out of love for others, you acknowledge their sin, not to judge, but to love them into holiness.
It is a hard challenge, of course. It is easy to judge “sinners.”
I’m making some headway with Malory’s Morte Darthur at present (1/4 through!), and every now and then a knight declares something along the lines of, “Let us take the adventure God sends us.” Now, not everything in Malory is what I would call good and wise Christianity, and I certainly don’t think we should take these romances as sources of theology. Yet we can see in them, as with much other art, reflections of the good, true, and beautiful, prodding us with a lesson or two if only we have the eyes to see and the spirit to do something.
And so here we have this idea, “Let us take the adventure God sends us.”
Our idea of an adventure rises to mind with Conan the Barbarian, and “the days of high adventure.” An adventure occurs when you go out and do something exciting or something exciting happens to you. Bilbo going to the Lonely Mountain is an adventure. Or flying Bearskin Airlines is an adventure. An adventure is out-of-the-ordinary. It is something new and exciting. Adventures are the stuff of Indiana Jones, Doctor Who, Star Wars, Star Trek, Thor, and on and on.
GK Chesterton says that it is simply an inconvenience rightly conceived.
This idea of the adventure comes to us from the medieval romances. An adventure in their context is, in a most basic, etymological sense, simply what happens to them. It is whatever is coming, whatever comes, and you take it, whatever it may be. This is the idea as I understand it from the French Vulgate Quest of the Holy Grail, and it clearly still informs Malory.
The “adventure” a knight may thus take is anything that occurs when is out looking for one. Maybe it’s to fight on behalf of a knight. Maybe it’s to follow a hart. Maybe it’s to enter a castle and have your lady companion be required to be bled. Maybe it’s to joust against a random knight blocking the way. Maybe it’s to lead a siege. Maybe it’s to fight the devil in the form of a lion. Maybe it’s to pull a sword out of a stone. Or out of a scabbard.
Take the adventure. Pull out the sword and see where it leads you.
And when an adventure comes to you, you take it. God has sent it. You do not shrink back out of cowardice or because you’re in the mood for something else. And if you’re already following a different adventure when a new arrives, discretion must be applied as to what is the best course of action.
Imagine if we just took the adventures God sends us. What if, instead of everything unintended or unplanned by us being an inconvenience or frustration, we saw it as something sent by God for us to take up? What then? What would it mean?
First, I think it would help our minds focus aright. Joy is easier held when you approach life with what is called “a positive attitude.”
Second, we would probably “achieve” more. Take what comes and complete it. See it to the end of your part in the story. Take that adventure and own it. Follow the man with the brachet! Where is he taking that dog? Or maybe, stop to help that person whose car is broken down by the side of the road! Where will it lead you?
You’ll never know if you don’t take the adventure.
And that’s the point of these knights errant. They are not actually in control. They control themselves, but they do not try to choose their own adventure. The adventure chooses them, and they achieve greatness. If we are to achieve true greatness, we need to be more willing to accept the things that come to us, whether we like them or not.
Classically Christian 
