The epiclesis (Greek: “invocation”) was introduced in the Anglican Eucharist by Thomas Cranmer when the first edition of Book of Common Prayer was released in 1549.

Hear us, O merciful Father, we beseech thee; and with thy Holy Spirit and word vouchsafe to bless and sanctify these thy gifts, and creatures of bread and wine, that they may be unto us the body and blood of thy most dearly beloved Son Jesus Christ.

The epiclesis is not explicitly found in the Roman Rite, which of course Cranmer would be familiar with, in the form of the Sarum Missal. Did Cranmer get it directly from Eastern liturgies? This is somewhat disputed, even if it should be obvious that the epiclesis has an ancient pedigree. While the words do sound similar to the epiclesis used in Eastern liturgies, there were a number of Western precedents that Cranmer would have known about. Furthermore, such phrases about the Holy Spirit are characteristic of Martin Bucer’s and Peter Martyr’s eucharistic theology.

Peter Martyr had been staying with Cranmer during the preparation of the final drafts of the prayer book. In his Oxford lectures on 1 Corinthians and the institution of the Eucharist, Peter wrote of the essential connection between the work of the Spirit, the Word, and the consecration of the elements:

He [the Lord] is able to make common bread and wine a most effectual sacrament … such a change in it, in which bread and wine are translated from the natural order, and profane degree in which they were, to a sacramental state and order, both by the work of the Holy Spirit and by the institution of the Lord.

The 1549 prayer book was seen an interim work. Reformation principles began to set in and further revisions were expected. Under further scrutiny by Reformers like Bucer, they expressed concern that the prayer could be taken as indicating a change in the elements. In his comments on the 1549 rite in his Censura, Bucer suggested a redraft of Cranmer’s petition:

Hear us, O merciful Father, bless us and sanctify us by thy Word and Holy Spirit, that with true faith we may receive in these mysteries the body and blood of thy Son to be the food and drink of eternal life.

Cranmer dropped the phrase “bless us and sanctify us by thy Word and Holy Spirit” altogether in the 1552 prayer book: This prayer book has come down the centuries in its 1662 iteration as the authorized Book of Common Prayer — without an epiclesis.

So, how did the epiclesis find its way into our provincial prayer book and so many others? It is found within what has sometimes been called the “Prayer of Consecration”:

grant that by the power of your Holy Spirit
these gifts of bread and wine may be to us his body and his blood.

This came about as it is found in the 1637 Book of Common Prayer for Scotland, a rite that also influenced the first American prayer book released in 1789. The epiclesis was also included in the Alternative Service Book, with liturgical scholarship emphasizing its historical and doctrinal importance (i.e., its ancient patristic roots). By now, a middle way was preferred to serve the range of churchmanship in the Communion.

How do we view the practise and meaning of this “Prayer of Consecration”? The elements are being set apart (blessed, dedicated) that it “may be to us his body and his blood.” What should it signify for those who want to be true to our English Reformation commitments?

Cranmer says in Article 28 on the Communion:

The Supper of the Lord is not only a sign of the love that Christians ought to have among themselves one to another, but rather it is a Sacrament of our Redemption by Christ’s death: insomuch that to such as rightly, worthily, and with faith, receive the same, the Bread which we break is a partaking of the Body of Christ; and likewise the Cup of Blessing is a partaking of the Blood of Christ.

This is self-explanatory. The article also said the Eucharist is to be received in a “spiritual and heavenly“ manner. This implies, rather directly, the operation of the Holy Spirit:

Sacraments ordained of Christ be not only badges or tokens of Christian men’s profession, but rather they be certain sure witnesses, and effectual signs of grace, and God’s good will towards us, by which he doth work invisibly in us, and doth not only quicken, but also strengthen and confirm our Faith in him.

Hence, through the Spirit, the elements work in us. How? As the prayer book’s liturgy made clear, to “be for us” the body and blood to us, via our (Spirit-formed) faith, in a “spiritual and heavenly” manner.

This is all quite consistent with the 1549 epiclesis. This way of construing the central pneumatic character of the Lord’s Supper and, more broadly, the whole apparatus of the church’s life was not foreign to the reformers, but actually foundational. We can remind ourselves that William Tyndale’s work was at the root of much popular and learned English Reformation attitudes. Tyndale was the great “pneumatic” thinker of the English Reformation, and looked to the Spirit as the “worker” of all divine Christian realities.

Obviously, there were concerns afoot about whether it may encourage some to look at the Eucharist in terms of “transubstantiation.” The removal of the epiclesis in later English versions of the BCP was driven by some of these concerns. However, the issue was not the theology of the 1549 epiclesis, but its possible misunderstanding. As time has gone on, it is possible to take up Cranmer’s and earlier English Reformation pneumatic thinking about the Eucharist with greater appreciation. The renewal of the work of the Holy Spirit within some parts of our church has provided a fresh lens through which to interpret the theological richness embedded in earlier liturgical formulations.

As we reflect on the evolution of Anglican liturgy, it becomes evident that while certain aspects may have been lost in transition, there is value in re-examining and recovering elements that resonate with our theological heritage.

In our pursuit of liturgical fidelity, we are called to engage with the past, not as stagnant tradition, but as a dynamic source of theological insight and spiritual renewal.

Additional note: I am by no means a trained liturgist and in the young diocese where I come from, we are also finding our way in our liturgical practices and formation. I will appreciate further input and insights on this area of our liturgy.

The red blight on a white Christmas appears to be ill-fitted, not unlike the juxtaposition of the Holy Innocents on the day after. This lesser saint seems to be relegated to obscurity on our church calendar.

However, this was not the case for the Dutch artist Rembrandt. The Stoning of Stephen was the subject of his first signed painting, which he completed in 1625 at the age of 19. He portrayed it in a diagonal divide of serene light and brutish dark zones. A self-portrait is inserted between the kneeling saint and the man holding a large stone. It was suggested that this was because the Bible was for Rembrandt “a kind of diary, an account of moments in his own life.”

We can easily envision ourselves in that scene, akin to his self-portrait — confused and frightened, for 2023 has proven to be another violently charged year, when anger has pounded against the innocent with the modern hail of bullets and munitions. It seems that human hatred and barbarity have not changed much.

Beyond the world’s tumultuous scenes and headlines, the Feast of St. Stephen continues to illuminate the darkness stemming from the untimely loss of friends or loved ones. At the time of my writing, many of us Christians in Singapore are mourning the recent passing of an inspiring and exemplary leader who died suddenly at the age of 56. Stephen is merely one among a long list of saints throughout history whose deaths were untimely and tragic.

Yet somehow, death gives way to life, like a grain of wheat that falls to the ground (John 12:24), even if prematurely. This has been the enduring witness of the Church. Stephen’s tragedy scattered witnessing believers and eventually turned Saul into Paul. As Tertullian would assert centuries later, the blood of martyrs is indeed the seed of the Church.

However, not every tragedy makes sense, even when hindsight is applied. This can easily be a point for reflection on the Holy Innocents. Perhaps these two feasts, so close to each other, cover well the realities of life. When light is snuffed out into darkness, sometimes we can’t shed light on the tragedy, at least not on this side of life.

The death of Stephen should of course move us a little back in history, for it was his Imitatione Christi. While we ponder on the meaning of his early demise, for Stephen it was an honor to walk in Christ’s steps, to die like him.

To die is gain, as St. Paul will put it. Suffering is always more difficult for observers as we struggle with a painful sense of bereavement that we hope will heal with time. We take comfort that Jesus stands at the right hand of God (Acts 7:56) as he welcomes one of his saints who has fallen asleep (Acts 7:60), who will wake up in the glory of his presence.

Many will continue to struggle with the incongruence of “this most wonderful time of the year” in the midst of wars that are still raging. The same holds for those struggling with bereavement, made more difficult by the memories and sentiments that this season will stir.

For them, the Feast of St. Stephen, on the second day, helps convey a more complete message of Christmas.