Tag Archives: Augustine of Hippo

The Cup of Blessing That We Bless

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On the left, a Russian bishop prepares the one Bread and one Cup, adequate for a large number of communicants, who will all receive from the same loaf and chalice. On the right, a priest places the “fermentum” in the chalice, signifying the unity of the Eucharist which he celebrates with the Eucharist which the bishop celebrates elsewhere that day.


Judge what I say. The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not communion in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not communion in the body of Christ? Because there is one bread we, the many, are one body, for we all share in one and the same bread. (1 Cor. 10:15-17)

Because the parish in Corinth–wealthy members, poor members, Gentile Christians, Jewish Christians, the “weak”, the “strong”–all partake of the one bread and the one cup at the Eucharist, they are one body. One fellowship. One community united in faith against the temptations and allurement of the fallen world. Although many, they are one–manifesting and revealing the Kingdom of God to all those willing to look and see.

That chalice, or rather, what the chalice holds, consecrated by the word of God, is the blood of Christ. Through these elements the Lord wished to entrust to us his body and the blood which he poured out for the remission of sins. If you have received worthily, you are what you have received.

St, Augustine of Hippo, Easter Sermon

St. Augustine reminds his congregation of what St. Paul told the Corinthians: they must partake of the bread and cup worthily. If they do not partake in a worthy manner, the Holy Gifts will destroy them rather than enliven them.

But St. Paul didn’t say the Corinthians had to be pure or sinless. He said they had to be worthy. Worthiness is a very different thing. To be worthy to touch, to be worthy to consume the Body of Christ does not mean to be sinless. As several English theologians in the 1600s and 1700s pointed out, to be worthy is to be committed to self-examination, committed to repentance, committed to always turning around, changing direction, re-orienting myself towards Christ. So I must always prepare to approach the Table by examining myself, reviewing what I have done and who I have been during the time since I last approached the Holy Table. Examine myself, measure myself against our standard—which is Christ—and determine how I might, in perhaps some single small way, turn my back on that person that I do not want to be and take some small step closer to being the person I was made to be in Christ.

To be worthy of receiving Holy Communion, to dare to touch the Corpus Christi, I must be committed to self-examination and repentance. One of those English theologians, Simon Patrick[1] in 1660, suggested using a phrase from the Gospel that Greek and Russian Christians use as they approach the chalice: “Lord, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” The thief crucified with Christ acknowledged Jesus as Lord and reoriented his life—turning his back on his image of himself as a victim who was owed whatever he could take from other people—and he asked Jesus to make a place for him in the Kingdom. What was Jesus’ answer? “Today, you will be with me in paradise.” If we approach the chalice with the self-examination, the reorientation of our lives, the words of the thief—Remember me in your kingdom—Christ makes the same promise to us: Today you will be with me in paradise. Today you will begin to live forever.

[1] Bishop of Ely, Mensa Mystica, or a Discourse concerning the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. (Prayer Book Spirituality, p. 283)

Many Faces of Antichrist

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The figure of the Antichrist appears in several places in the New Testament before he appears in the Apocalypse (Book of Revelation). In the first epistle of St. John, we read Children, it is the last hour; and as you have heard that antichrist is coming, so now many antichrists have come; therefore we know that it is the last hour.” (1 John 2:18) The antichrists are those who oppose the apostle’s teaching. They are the heretics (lit. “the choosers”) who choose a different teaching and place themselves in opposition to the Church.

In the 2nd epistle to the Thessalonians, the antichrist is the “man of lawlessness” (2 Thess. 2:3-10) who opposes peace, order, and harmony–both civil and ecclesiastical. The seven-headed, ten-crowned dragon of the Apocalypse is typically identified with this “man of lawlessness,” the Antichrist. The dragon deceives and destroys, confusing and laying waste to the Church and the known world.

St. Paul makes the cryptic remark: “… the mystery of lawlessness is already at work; only he who now restrains it will do so until he is out of the way.” (2 Thess. 2:7) Who restrains the Antichrist? St. Paul seems to presume that his readers know but later readers have had to surmise. Even St. Augustine threw up his hands and exclaimed, “I admit that the meaning of this completely escapes me.” (City of God, Book 20, chapter 19)

St. John Chrysostom considered the Antichrist to be the personification of chaos and destruction. It was the power of Rome (even in her pagan days) that kept complete anarchy and destruction at bay. Chrysostom thought of himself as a “Roman” living in the “New Rome” of the ongoing Roman Empire that continued to constrain the Antichrist. Many early fathers and preachers agreed with him and would probably say that “that which restrains the Antichrist” continued to do so until 1917-1918, when Austro-Hungary and imperial Russia–the last two governments to see themselves as the continuation of the Roman Empire–finally collapsed or were overthrown.

The idea that imperial rule kept the world safe from evil is ancient. In the Old Testament, it seems that the ancient Israelites thought the kings of Israel were the “first line of defense” against the evil angels. (For more about this, see Margaret Barker‘s book, The Last Prophet.)

St. Francis Takes Refuge in the Cleft

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St. Francis, with the wounds of the stigmata visible on his hands and foot, kisses the foot of Christ on the Cross in this detail from a 13th century image in the Arezzo basilica of St. Francis.

St. Francis of Assisi is known for many things. Several episodes in his life have become part of popular culture, some still associated with his name while his connection to others has been forgotten: how many remember that the Christmas manger scene–the creche–was “invented” by St. Francis in 1223?

“For in the day of trouble he [the Lord] shall keep me safe in his shelter; he shall hide me in the secrecy of his dwelling, and set me high upon a rock.” (Psalm 27:7)

As I was reading the psalms last week, I was reminded of another incident in St. Francis’ life. In the autumn of 1224 (the year after he organized the first creche), St. Francis received the stigmata (meaning “brand” or “mark”)–the five wounds of Christ–although this was not generally known until after his death in 1226. The stigmata is commonly referred to as “the wounds of love” described by the bride in the Song of Songs 2:5. The groom then tells the bride, “Come, my dove, in the cleft of the rock…” (Song of Songs 2:13-14).

We are told by St. Gregory of Nyssa that this cleft “is the sublime message of the Gospel” and the person who loves God is not coerced to take refuge in the Gospel but must freely choose to love God and the Good News; St. Gregory points out that King David “realized that of all the things he had done, only those were pleasing to God that were done freely, and so he vows that he will freely offer sacrifice. And this is the spirit of every holy man of God, not to be led by necessity.” What is coerced is not love. Love must be freely given and freely received. Taking refuge in the rock is to freely give oneself to God and to be freely received by God.

The psalm refers to this same idea: the Lord will protect his friend, his beloved from danger by sheltering the beloved in the “secrecy of his dwelling,” the cleft “high upon the rock.” Readers–such as Augustine of Hippo–understood this psalm to promise freedom from sin to the beloved of God; the one who loves God would be kept safe from the danger of damnation even if slain by enemies.

Medieval poets often identified the “cleft in the rock” mentioned by the Song and the psalms with the wounds of Christ, especially the wound in Christ’s side made by the spear. Early Christian authors, such as St. Methodius of Olympus, preached that “Christ slept in the ecstasy of his Passion and the Church–his bride–was brought forth from the wound in his side just as Eve was brought forth from the wound in the side of Adam.”

The stigmata was the seal of St. Francis’ love for God and God’s love for Francis. It was in the refuge of this love that Francis found the safety to love the world which was in such need.