The Confession and Absolution

Way back when Prayer Book revision was a hot button issue, I recall that one of the points of objection was the changing of the 1928 Prayer Book words of the Nicene Creed from “I believe” to the original, ancient “We believe.” The criticism was “I don’t know what YOU believe, so why should I say ‘We’?” The answer, of course, is what was said earlier in this series of articles: The Nicene Creed is the Church’s formal statement of belief. It is what “the Church” believes, though any one of us may at any time be more or less firm in our belief in the Creed’s particular claims. The “we” is “We the Church.”

But that’s not my point. Those objectors didn’t seem to have any trouble with the language of the confession which, time out of mind, had said, “We confess.” WE confess. It is a corporate confession as much as it is a personal confession – maybe more so. It is not a breast-beating “I am not worthy. I am a worm and no man.” (sic). It is an acknowledgment that we, as a body, have fallen short of Christ’s vision of what a community founded on love can be. C. S. Lewis once said that he felt dishonest when he said the Prayer Book words “the burden (of our sins) is intolerable.” He said he didn’t feel any intolerable load as a result of his sins. Then, he says, he realized the confession was not about his feelings. It was simply making a statement of fact. We screw things up, individually and corporately, and we can acknowledge and be appropriately sorry for that.

And what is “sin”? There is a useful distinction between “Sin” and “sin.” Capital “S” sin is the human condition. The world is broken in some way, and we inevitably feel a separation from God, from our neighbors and our true selves. This is the human condition. It is the world we are born into. This separation from God, others and self – and the fear that this inevitable separation engenders in us – causes us to act in defensive and selfish ways. Those defensive and selfish ways are “sins.” Capital “S” Sin leads us to little “s” sin. It is healthy for heart, mind and soul (and body as we are now learning) to get honest about this, by acknowledging our fear and the bad choices it leads us to. Confession is not about “I am not worthy, I am not worthy” so much as it is about “We are worth so much more than we are giving ourselves credit for.” We are God’s beloved. Immediately following this confession of the way things are, the priest or bishop PRONOUNCES God’s forgiveness. The priest does not “forgive.” God forgives (even before we ask); the priest or bishop merely assures us all of the forgiveness that God’s unconditional love offers us.

The Prayers of the People

The Book of Common Prayer directs that at each Eucharist the gathered People of God pray for the Universal Church, its members, and its mission; the Nation and all in authority; the welfare of the world; the concerns of the local community; those who suffer and those in any trouble; and the departed (with commemoration of a saint when appropriate). This part of the Eucharist has always seemed to me to be “under-rated.” I mean, here we are, the beloved People of God, gathered in God’s presence in the special way that a Eucharist provides, and, as a body, we “have God’s ear.” (Yes, we always have God’s ear, but this is corporate worship, the uniting of God’s People in attention and intention. That is a very different thing from our private prayers and petitions.)

Like the Peace, it feels to me like this moment of corporate prayer has gotten diluted. In Rite II the opportunity for members of the congregation to offer their own concerns is almost always offered. In my experience, there are sometimes a few whispered petitions – nothing wrong with that - but it feels to me like a missed opportunity. What if one were to say in a voice loud enough to be heard something like, “I pray for my friend Fred who is in the hospital for surgery,” or “Let’s pray for those Christians in Syria who are being held captive and are in danger of death,” or “Lord Jesus, please hold my daughter close as she moves out into the world and her new job”? What if? I can almost guarantee that it would draw us closer in love and concern for one another. This is so different from the monologue read from the front of the church by someone in vestments. What if the Prayers of the People were read by a member of the congregation (or a deacon located among them), making it clear that these are the prayers OF THE PEOPLE? Another thing to notice is that even if there is some vocal response from the congregation when we pray for those in distress or need, there is usually nothing said when space is made for thanksgivings. Again, what if one were audibly to say something like, “I give thanks for the safe return of my friend from Afghanistan,” or “Thank you God for gathering my family together this Christmas”? What if?

Here’s a thought: what if on Sunday each of us was responsible for praying out loud for those people and issues that concern us, and “the prayer list” was what we took home to guide our prayers during the weekdays, knowing that the clergy and others were praying that same list in church throughout the week as well?

The Nicene Creed

This creed is “the Church’s faith.” It is what we, as the whole Church, hold to be true. It is what “We believe.” This is different from The Apostles' Creed. The shorter Apostles’ Creed is derived from the earliest known rites of Holy Baptism. It was the question and answer dialogue between the bishop and the one about to be baptized: “Do you believe in God the Father?” “I believe in God the Father.” The Apostles’ Creed is a personal statement and it represents “the faith of the Apostles,” that is, what the early church held as a summary of the faith inherited from the earliest of times.

The Nicene Creed came later, around 325, and it was hammered out in a council of bishops and others whom the Emperor Constantine the Great had called together to settle conflicts brewing among various local Christian communities about what was “true.” Constantine was something of a monomaniac - he wanted one emperor in charge of one empire that had one understanding of this newly “official” Christianity. Many see this interweaving of state and church, of politics and religion as an unfortunate thing. The arguments for and against are endless and never likely to be conclusive or agreed on. At any rate, this creed became eventually, though not immediately, the official statement of the whole Church.

This creed is more than an antique statement in outmoded terms. Our challenge is to ask “What were the earliest Church leaders trying to say by the words of this creed?” What did it mean to THEM to say “he came DOWN from heaven”? What did that mean to THEM? Then we must ask how we would state that truth in today’s terms. It isn’t an easy task, but it is a necessary one. Today’s Christians are not asked to embrace an antique and superceeded cosmology (map of the universe), one that includes a physical heaven above the clouds and a literal hell under the ground, for instance; but what are we to make of these earlier claims? And how DO we understand these ideas in our own day? We don’t have to cross our fingers as we say things that use an ancient world-view, but neither are we expected to believe no longer reasonable statements from a pre-scientific world. Reciting the Creed, we stand united as one people with one basic faith – with much room for human reason and experience to guide us.

The Sermon

I am a believer that when clergy take the ordination oath, “I do solemnly engage to conform to the doctrine, discipline, and worship of the Episcopal Church,” they have sworn to conduct worship according to the explicit expectations of the Book of Common Prayer. There is lots of freedom and room for creative variation within what is permitted, but there are also limits. Each Eucharistic service simply says, “Sermon.” That means it isn’t optional. In general the sermon takes as its main text the Gospel reading, but there is nothing hard and fast about that. I’ve certainly preached using the Hebrew Bible as the main text, likewise The Epistle.

Sermons are peculiar critters, not a lecture,not a speech, not primarily “educational,” but “formational.” They are meant to inform us, but in the deeper meaning of that word: to form us within, to shape our inner selves. They are meant to address the “heart and soul and mind” with which we are asked to love the Lord our God. It is another way our worship seeks to help us grow more Christ-like.

Ideally the sermon explores the “there and then” aspect of the reading. That is, what was the issue? Why was this story told? What life situation did it address in its own time and its own place? What was going on in the lives of the original hearers? Then there is a turn: how is our life situation like theirs, and what does the reading have to say to us about our lives here and now. What is the Good News for us? (Thank you, Professor The Reverend Bill Hethcock.)

How long should a sermon be? Professor Hethcock’s wisdom about that is if you notice that it is too long or too short, then it probably is. A sermon should hold your attention and touch your heart in such a way that the passage of time is not noticed at all. The correct length of the sermon is the length you don’t notice.