The Sunday before Christmas, in addition to Sunday Mass at my regular parish, I attended services at a small, protestant church, of the Church of God denomination (if this is the right nomenclature). The reason why isn’t important, but the experience itself was – it made me both depressed and thoughtful.
The people were open and friendly. Down in the small basement cafeteria they talked and sipped coffee, while upstairs the kids completed last minute rehearsals for their Christmas production.
The service began with a few Christmas carols, followed by a “few words” from one of the elders. He talked about how hard the pastor worked and how much he deserved a generous Christmas donation. A collection was taken. He emphasized the importance of writing all checks for tithes to the pastor rather than to the church itself (IRS considerations). Another collection was taken. He noted that the Christmas prayer service would take place on the 21st so that the pastor and his family could travel out of state for Christmas.
Then came the children, who performed less with enthusiasm than with a grim sense of purpose. There were maybe a dozen of them, dressed in white sheets, waving tinsel and “dancing” to a very loud, rock-style praise song.
Finally, the pastor spoke for several minutes, proclaiming the birth of Jesus to a piano accompaniment. As his tone grew deeper and more emotional, schnibbles of bread and plastic thimbles of grape juice were passed out and consumed, and a few minutes later, it was over.
What is a Catholic to make of this? I don’t mean to speak uncharitably of these folk, or of others who believe as they do, but, to put it with my usual lack of delicacy, how is it possible for good people to settle for so little? In the end, gathered in the small, sparsely furnished room, beneath a bare cross, these disciples had only the warmth of their fellowship to sustain them. A fellowship based on what? On a sense of shared knowledge, or shared access, that is not available to an outsider? But surely, any group has that!
I would put it this way, and I hope that in doing so I am not exhibiting a blundering lack of charity, for I know enough about these folks to know that they are good, and goodness ought not to be disparaged. In the Mass, the first action is an acknowledgement of sin. After the readings and the homily, prayers of supplication are offered. Our sins and our helplessness – our utter unworthiness – is expressed beneath the tortured body of Christ. But after all that, we arise and receive the Body and Blood. What have we done, what could we possibly do, to deserve such a gift? Nothing – of course.
In that spare little church, however, the salvific arc was greatly attenuated. The prayers were well said, but the Body was merely bread, the Blood merely grape juice. The service was an observance only. And that is sad. It bespeaks an attitude whereby salvation is a done deal, an almost contractual guarantee, something that happened twenty centuries ago, and now remains only to be commemorated by the congregation’s optional presence, and by its participation in a purely symbolic gesture. We know what we know. Thin gruel indeed.
Referring to the protestant spirituality of the American south in the early 19th century, the non-believing “religious critic” Harold Bloom remarks in his book, The American Religion, that “depravity is only a lack of saving knowledge”. Conversely, then, lack of depravity is only possession of saving knowledge. Redemption is in the "knowing". Once you know what you know, however, is nothing more required? If not, then the gate is considerably wider than the Savior indicated, and the gatekeeper is a gnostic.
The people were open and friendly. Down in the small basement cafeteria they talked and sipped coffee, while upstairs the kids completed last minute rehearsals for their Christmas production.
The service began with a few Christmas carols, followed by a “few words” from one of the elders. He talked about how hard the pastor worked and how much he deserved a generous Christmas donation. A collection was taken. He emphasized the importance of writing all checks for tithes to the pastor rather than to the church itself (IRS considerations). Another collection was taken. He noted that the Christmas prayer service would take place on the 21st so that the pastor and his family could travel out of state for Christmas.
Then came the children, who performed less with enthusiasm than with a grim sense of purpose. There were maybe a dozen of them, dressed in white sheets, waving tinsel and “dancing” to a very loud, rock-style praise song.
Finally, the pastor spoke for several minutes, proclaiming the birth of Jesus to a piano accompaniment. As his tone grew deeper and more emotional, schnibbles of bread and plastic thimbles of grape juice were passed out and consumed, and a few minutes later, it was over.
What is a Catholic to make of this? I don’t mean to speak uncharitably of these folk, or of others who believe as they do, but, to put it with my usual lack of delicacy, how is it possible for good people to settle for so little? In the end, gathered in the small, sparsely furnished room, beneath a bare cross, these disciples had only the warmth of their fellowship to sustain them. A fellowship based on what? On a sense of shared knowledge, or shared access, that is not available to an outsider? But surely, any group has that!
I would put it this way, and I hope that in doing so I am not exhibiting a blundering lack of charity, for I know enough about these folks to know that they are good, and goodness ought not to be disparaged. In the Mass, the first action is an acknowledgement of sin. After the readings and the homily, prayers of supplication are offered. Our sins and our helplessness – our utter unworthiness – is expressed beneath the tortured body of Christ. But after all that, we arise and receive the Body and Blood. What have we done, what could we possibly do, to deserve such a gift? Nothing – of course.
In that spare little church, however, the salvific arc was greatly attenuated. The prayers were well said, but the Body was merely bread, the Blood merely grape juice. The service was an observance only. And that is sad. It bespeaks an attitude whereby salvation is a done deal, an almost contractual guarantee, something that happened twenty centuries ago, and now remains only to be commemorated by the congregation’s optional presence, and by its participation in a purely symbolic gesture. We know what we know. Thin gruel indeed.
Referring to the protestant spirituality of the American south in the early 19th century, the non-believing “religious critic” Harold Bloom remarks in his book, The American Religion, that “depravity is only a lack of saving knowledge”. Conversely, then, lack of depravity is only possession of saving knowledge. Redemption is in the "knowing". Once you know what you know, however, is nothing more required? If not, then the gate is considerably wider than the Savior indicated, and the gatekeeper is a gnostic.
