As a parish priest, I learned to hear the unspoken questions beneath the questions voiced by anxious parishioners in semi-private whispers during coffee hour. Most folks don't ask questions about doctrine in a vacuum. Inevitably, some heartfelt conflict with friends and family lies beneath abstract questions of doctrine.

In context, my friend was asking me why so many of his Evangelical friends have embraced the demonization of and inhospitality toward immigrants. His diplomatically phrased question implied four underlying questions. The first two were questions about Christian doctrine; the second two were about Christian ethics. In short, "Why are we Christians such hypocrites? And, what am I to do when repulsed by such hypocrisy in Christians I love?"

The way he framed his question signaled that my friend presupposed a doctrine often called regeneration: the idea that the baptismal waters produce an ontological change (a change in the being) in the Christian. Unlike many who publicly proclaim their cultural identity with Christian symbols on display via jewelry and clothing, he understands that Christian identity is not merely about agreeing that Jesus is the name we give to the one who saves us. He understands that the gospel can't be good news for us if it doesn't transform our minds and actions.

Christian identity, rooted in the gospel, should be reflected in how we think and engage with near and distant neighbors. About folks he knew, he wondered, "I see on cotton-blend T-shirts that they identify as Christian; why don't I also see that identity proclaimed through greater compassion in their behavior?

That begs the question: how do we know if someone is a Christian?

We don't have to guess. The Church, across time and our denominational fragments, universally sees baptism as the objective moment the community recognizes a new member of the Church. One receives the pervasive gift of the Spirit's presence coincident with baptism and becomes something different than before so that one begins a transformation journey.

But does that transformation happen magically in that baptismal moment? Before? Later? That's above my pay grade, though most Christians across time and denominational fragments urge one of these three possibilities.

As a priest in the one holy, catholic, and apostolic Church, I can say with authority that we can confidently celebrate a transformation promised by Jesus if we follow where he leads. All things are new: we walk a new path. After baptism, the baptized become something other than they were before. They are born of the Spirit and thus charged and equipped to begin a journey of transformation that embodies the Good News.

My friend made two conceptual errors. First, he saw transformation as an event rather than a journey. Second, like many, he confused the gift of the Holy Spirit and Christian identity with the baptized's transformation. It's that gift and identity that are pervasive, not the acceptance of Jesus as one's Lord.

Every moment after baptism brings the question of whether we accept/reject Jesus's Lordship. The transformation we call sanctification is that journey along which we become habituated to the embodied process of responding responsibly with a "Yes!" So the gift of the Spirit is pervasive, but because we remain Sapiens, so too is our free will.

My friend expected Christians to be more compassionate upon receipt of their identity as Christians. But as we observe fellow Christians along their holiness journey, we rightly hope to witness them becoming relatively more habituated to saying "yes" rather than "no" to the grace that Jesus commands us to embody. As Martin Luther put it, we are reborn, still sinners, yet simultaneously on the journey of sanctification that makes faith, hope, and Jesus-style love possible and, increasingly, embodied.

It's much harder to say "Yes!" to Jesus's lordship over our lives than to wear his name on our ballcap. That explains why many prefer the latter.

That's true for the Southern Baptist preacher who declares holy war against Muslim immigrants. It's true for the Methodist man who sees Spanish-speaking laborers as invaders rather than near or distant neighbors to whom hospitality is due. It's true for the Presbyterian woman who quotes Scripture in her texts but refuses truth-telling when it's inconvenient, preferring the facade of peace to reconciled life with loved ones.

After all, compassion denotes our communion in suffering. It's much harder for all of us to say "Yes!" to Jesus's lordship when that's what love demands.

When we see a lack of compassion from Christians, our calling is twofold: (1) to overcome the repulsion that it engenders in us, and (2) to figure out what love demands in that moment.

How do we best love our incompassionate neighbor? In all cases, love calls us to intercede. Intercession is the act of intervening or mediating on behalf of another, and it can take various forms. Sometimes, the necessary intercession is to name sin as sin and call each other back to the path we promised to walk together. But sometimes that's not pragmatic - for good reasons.

But that doesn't leave us hopeless. For love may demand, at the moment, simple intercessory prayer—offering to God our sacrifice of prayer that God will draw nearer to our neighbor as we strive together to become the living hands of Christ.

Since I am an Episcopal priest and part of the global Anglican Communion, I will answer this great question from that perspective. Since Methodists and Presbyterians use books of worship that are genealogically derivative from our 1662 Book of Common Prayer, and since the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America uses a substantially similar book of worship, I expect that’s a good starting point.

The Catechism in the Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church (p. 859) gives six names for this rite:

• Holy Eucharist

• Lord’s Supper

• Holy Communion

• Divine Liturgy

• Mass

• Great Offering

Historical Usage

• The 1549 prayer book named it “The Supper of the Lord and the Holy Communion, commonly called the Mass.”

• This was later changed to “Lord’s Supper and Holy Communion.”

• Our General Convention authorized the usage of the title “Holy Eucharist” in 1804.

• The Roman church adopted the title “Holy Eucharist” in the 1960s.

Designation of Liturgies

• These titles are appropriate ways to designate the liturgies of Word and Sacrament. They are different names for the same sacrament.

Reasons for Interchangeable Use

• Sensitivity to Congregation Backgrounds

  • Many members and guests have been reared in Protestant traditions, commonly referring to the meal as the Lord’s Supper or Holy Communion.

  • Others come from Episcopal, Roman, and Orthodox catholic traditions, where the “Holy Eucharist” has become more common in recent decades.

  • As a matter of hospitality to our mixed congregation and visitors, I use the titles interchangeably to help everyone infer that each designates the Sacrament.

• Emphasizing Aspects of Our Story

  • The “Lord’s Supper” evokes a table set by Jesus at which we all sit, making it easy to talk about God's nearness, our companionship as sisters and brothers, and our friendship with God and each other.

  • “Holy Communion” is used to emphasize the union in our communion.

  • The “Eucharist” evokes the altar of God around which all Israel gathers to give thanks to the transcendent God who is the source of all things.

Deliberate Selection

• My selection from our six titles for the sacrament is deliberate and depends on our context.

• If you notice which one I use, it gives you a cue that I am trying to evoke a particular aspect of our relationship with God and each other.