The Lord’s Prayer: A Puritan’s Doorway to Traditional Liturgy (Part 1)

“Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

On Earth as it is in Heaven. What exactly does that mean? Of course it has an eschatological dimension. We look forward to the day when all of the earth will be subdued to Christ and His rule of law will be complete and absolute. This same dimension finds expression in the Eucharist, because our communion declares the Lord’s death, looking forward to the day when He will return in glory. At the Lord’s table we look forward to the blessed marriage supper of the Lamb.

However, like the Eucharist, these words are relevant to the Church for the here and now. If we are to continually pray “thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” should we not seek to see God’s will done in the present? As the Church disciples nations, as it teaches families and individuals how to relate to one another as Christians ought, it is becoming God’s instrument for the fulfillment of this prayer in the world, one step at a time.

“On Earth as it is in Heaven.”

If this is an end toward which we have a part in working, that phrase sort of demands that we ask a question, doesn’t it? If we seek to see God’s will done here as it is in heaven, then what are we looking for?  In other words, just how is it done in heaven? Instead of writing the petition off as some vague wishful hope for a future reality, perhaps we should look at the passages of Scripture that give us lucid pictures of how things are done Heaven and . . . well, do that on Earth!

When we petition God to give us our daily bread (probable direct reference to the Eucharist aside), we do not expect God to simply drop bread out of the sky. We must work for that bread, trusting God to ultimately provide. In the same way, when we petition that God’s will might be done here as it is in Heaven, this does not mean that we ought to sit passively by just waiting for it to happen. Especially when we are given such clear visions of how it is to be done.

I suggest that the clearest view we have of the heavenly workings is in the Book of Revelation. It reveals things to us about Heaven that are only hinted at or shown in glimpses throughout the rest of the Bible, though there are many other passages that we can and should draw from to form a clear picture of what is done in heaven and how it relates to Christians in the New Covenant. And the context of Revelation is the Lord’s Day. John receives the vision as he is “in spirit.”

From that point on, the great theme throughout the book—what we see first and foremost happening in Heaven—is worship. Surely this has direct application for how our worship on Earth ought to look. When we read of the hosts of heaven—the angels, the saints, the martyrs, the elders—praising God, glorifying Christ, eating a feast, etc., we need to take note of those things. Just as importantly, we ought to take note of how they do those things. If the worship of Heaven looks like that . . . how does that inform our worship on Earth, if we pray as Christ taught us to pray: “Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven”?

I was planning to do this all in one post, but I think it would best be spread over several, point by point. So let this serve as my introduction. Through the next several posts in this series (or however many it takes) I want to show that if we remain faithful to our Reformed heritage of Sola Scriptura, we will find that the Biblical text not only doesn’t forbid traditional liturgies of the Church, but also properly leads us into a rich form of liturgical worship, which has been grasped and developed by the Church throughout the last 2,000 years.

And lest we get stuck in man’s tradition, we must understand that as the Spirit guides the Church to maturity, our worship should move from glory to greater glory, and our liturgy must be progressively purified, refined like gold, and brought closer and closer to that which we will be doing for eternity in the presence of Christ. This maturation has been taking place throughout the last 2,000 years, and we should expect to see it continue. God’s Spirit is not done with the Church.

Why “Eucharist”?

I can understand why some may be a bit wary of using the word Eucharist to refer to what has been called the “Lord’s Table,” the “Communion,” or the “Lord’s Supper.” After all, isn’t Eucharist a Roman Catholic term? Don’t we want to distance ourselves from doctrines like transubstantiation, the veneration of the host, and a great many other abuses of the Roman Church in history?

Well, yes, we should distance ourselves from those things. But we should not throw out what is really a Biblical name for the memorial meal that Christ gave to the Church. “Eucharist” simply means “Thanksgiving” in Greek. It is used to refer to the Lord’s Supper because at the last supper before his passion, Jesus took bread and broke it, “εὐχαριστήσας” — “having given thanks.”

In this way, Eucharist became the Church’s word to refer to the Supper, and more specifically to the Prayer of Thanksgiving itself. It is a good word, and more importantly a Biblical word. As we should strive not only for Sola Scriptura, but also Tota Scriptura, and since it is a good and Biblical tradition of the Church under the guidance of the Spirit in history, I think Reformed Christians can be peaceful about referring to Jesus’ memorial meal as the Eucharist.

There are two good reasons for calling the meal Eucharist: By calling it thus, we claim and acknowledge our historic roots in the ancient Church, and we show ourselves to be in solidarity with the saints of the last 2,000 years. And, we get to reclaim the Biblical meaning of the word, giving us an inroad to address historical abuses and misconceptions while assuring other orthodox Christians that we are, indeed, talking about the same thing.

“This is my body . . .” POOF!!!

Hoc est corpus meum.

These words have led to possibly the greatest piece of silliness in all of liturgical history. This is what happens when you don’t say the prayers in a language everyone can understand and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear clearly.

After all, you wouldn’t want them to hear you say “Hoc est corpus meum” and actually think you said hocus pocus, now you would you? Yet that is probably what happened in the medieval church.

The Eucharistic prayer of the medieval church, along with the whole liturgy, was spoken in Latin, and the general populace wasn’t schooled in Latin. To make matters worse, the words were whispered over the bread during the eucharist instead of spoken aloud. Together with a vulgar understanding of transubstantiation, it is no wonder that most people thought the priest was performing some sort of magic trick.

So because of several errors in worship, the words that should have been good news to the people of God—”This is my body”—were transformed into the magic phrase for parlor trick illusionists.

Eucharistic Memories: Age 2-4

Quoted sections are from chapters 66 and 67 of
Justin Martyr’s First Apology, c. AD 150

For not as common bread and common drink do we receive these; but in like manner as Jesus Christ our Saviour, having been made flesh by the Word of God, had both flesh and blood for our salvation, so likewise have we been taught that the food which is blessed by the prayer of His word, and from which our blood and flesh by transmutation are nourished, is the flesh and blood of that Jesus who was made flesh. For the apostles, in the memoirs composed by them, which are called Gospels, have thus delivered unto us what was enjoined upon them; that Jesus took bread, and when He had given thanks, said, “This do ye in remembrance of Me, this is My body;” and that, after the same manner, having taken the cup and given thanks, He said, “This is My blood;” and gave it to them alone . . .

I don’t think I’ve ever talked to anyone about this before, and am not sure what prompts me to write about it now. But . . . here it is:

I was not baptized until age 8 when we joined an OPC congregation. Obviously, neither was I welcomed to the Lord’s Table until after that. Since for almost six years after my 12th birthday my family attended a church that required confirmation to gain access to the Table, the first time I took communion I was a teenager. Well, at least officially . . .

The practice of Lord’s Supper always fascinated me. Since the age of two I can remember watching my parents participate in it along with the rest of the adults in church. I took it for granted that it was not for kids.  Of course, I didn’t know why.  That was just the way it was.

Once, when we brought an African American boy with us to church as part of some evangelical outreach, he became very excited when the elders began to pass around bread and . . . grape juice.

“Hey,” he said aloud, “they’re giving us food!” I hushed him quickly, explaining to him in a terse whisper that the food was for the grown-ups. He didn’t quite get it, and I saw the confused and slightly offended look on his face when the elders passed us by without giving us any. Well, duh, I thought (no, I didn’t actually know the word “duh” yet). It’s not for kids.

But even though I knew it was a grown-up thing, I imagined having a part in it, similar to the way that at the age of 3 I packed a little briefcase (actually the case to a toy medical kit) and pretended I was going to the office with my father one morning. I knew what communion was and what it meant, as much as a three-year-old can understand. The grape juice represented Jesus’ blood and the bread his body. I didn’t really know what that meant (who really does, fully?), but it was something Jesus did, and that meant it was a good thing. To me, a piece of bread together with a cup has been iconic of the Lord’s Supper for as long as I can remember.

Whenever I had grape juice at home, I’d ask for bread too, secretly pretending I was having communion. I remember unsuccessfully trying to pretend once with bread and orange juice, since grape juice was unavailable at that moment. I glibly told my mother that I was having communion, but she told me I shouldn’t pretend that. I conceded, yeah, orange juice was not very authentic.

Our church, Cornerstone Bible Church, where my father was an elder, met in a college classroom. After church service I’d drag my friends into some adjoining classroom and pretend to have another service, pushing a chair to the front of the room so I could climb up onto it and stand behind the podium to speak. Sometimes they humored me.

Early on at Cornerstone, after service my mother would let me have the bread that was left over from communion. Yep, that’s right. The actual bread that had sat in the communion tray and had been consecrated for holy use, as much as that meant to us back then. For my part, I never considered that a normal afternoon snack. There was something special about that bread, even if I couldn’t express exactly what it was. After all, as one can see from the examples above, even though my family had a more or less baptist understanding of the sacraments at the time, I’d been raised with a healthy respect and a deep appreciation for the Lord’s Table, and it sure took. As much as I liked to pretend when I could with bread and grape juice, this was different. This was the real thing.

For whatever reason, I stopped getting the “leftovers” fairly early on, much to my disappointment.¹ But I’ve remembered it to this day, and, at least as far as the church fathers would have seen it, that would have been my first conscious participation in the Eucharistic elements, even if there never seemed to be any leftover grape juice.

And on the day called Sunday, all who live in cities or in the country gather together to one place, and the memoirs of the apostles or the writings of the prophets are read, as long as time permits; then, when the reader has ceased, the president verbally instructs, and exhorts to the imitation of these good things. Then we all rise together and pray, and, as we before said, when our prayer is ended, bread and wine and water are brought, and the president in like manner offers prayers and thanksgivings, according to his ability, and the people assent, saying Amen; and there is a distribution to each, and a participation of that over which thanks have been given, and to those who are absent a portion is sent by the deacons.

At that age, somewhere between 2 and 4, I was like one who had been absent from the table (though I was never absent from the worship service) and was given the elements after the dismissal. Though there certainly was an amount of impropriety about my taking the elements then, since I hadn’t yet been baptized, I took them (or one of them, at least) nonetheless.

It made me feel a part of something bigger. It gave a sense of belonging along with the grown-ups of the church. I suppose if I can put words to the exact feeling it gave me, I’d say it made me feel special. But isn’t that one of the central points of Communion? It’s an expression of unity among and within the body. A meal reserved for the called-out ones.

Can I say that I derived any real spiritual benefit from it? Perhaps, if we acknowledge the objectivity of the sacraments and the real presence of Christ in the Supper when it is presented beside the preaching of the Word.

Even as Eucharist means to give thanks, that is what I do. I’m thankful every day that I was raised in a Christian home where I was always aware of the goodness of God. Where Christ was presented to me in Word and sacrament every single Lord’s Day (well, sacrament was once a month), even if I was not officially welcome to partake of the latter.

The lesson to be learned is simple: Never underestimate how much your little children understand or how even the slightest bit of inclusion in the life of the Church will benefit them, both now and in the future. And don’t discount the messages that exclusion sends them either.

It is said that a child’s most formative time of life is at about age 3. For the rest of their lives, long after they may have forgotten details or even whole events, that period of growth remains etched in their subconscious, molding their perceptions of the world.

Children are born to instinctively imitate their parents unless and until they are taught otherwise. If we really want them to imitate us in faith, then why should we, by our actions, teach them not to during their most formative years? If you want your children to follow you in faith, then teach them how to by including them in it. And teach them early.

Psalm 22:9-10
Yet you are he who took me from the womb;
you made me trust you at my mother’s breasts.
On you was I cast from my birth,
and from my mother’s womb you have been my God.