Cruising the seas of the Web on my Google surfboard, I made unexpected landfall on a tiny article from the May 28, 1905, New York Times, that included the following:
Persons brought up after the straitest sect of Presbyterianism have undergone so many shocks within the last few years that another more or less may not particularly matter. But still the proposal for what can be called only a Presbyterian Liturgy, made by Dr. Henry van Dyke, is still calculated to make to sit up in astonishment the Presbyterian General Assembly to which it was made….
[The “service book” prepared by Dr. van Dyke] is a collection of “forms of sound words” for use on the several occasions to which it is applied. We should expect that such a proposal would be made, if by any Presbyterian minister, by one well known for literary and aesthetic sensibility, as Dr. van Dyke eminently is. The practice of improvisation may be tolerated when the officiating clergyman happens to be a man of genius, of sympathy, and of taste. But in the nature of things this combination is not common….
The “service book” referenced here, which was to become the Book of Common Worship of 1906, was not the first or last effort in this direction. A Book of Public Prayer—Authorized Formularies of Worship of the Presbyterian Church as Prepared by the Reformers, Calvin, Knox, Bucer and Others was published in 1857. Subsequent to van Dyke’s 1906 version were revisions in 1932 and 1946, The Worshipbook in 1970 and, most recently, The Book of Common Worship (1993).
The New York Times article calls to our attention the perennial conversation (or controversy) regarding printed prayers for corporate worship as opposed to those of the improvised, ad lib variety. It’s a persistent problem that’s been around for a long time and is obstinate enough as to not likely go away any time soon.
On one side of this great liturgical divide are those who prefer to pray impromptu, from the depths of the soul, they would argue (certainly not off the tops of their heads, as opponents complain). Extemporaneous prayer by the leader of worship far surpasses, they say, anything scrawled or typed by someone else, somewhere else at some time long ago. God wants to know what’s in our hearts now, not what an unknown author wrote once upon a time.
The loyal opposition in this debate counters with the observation that on-the-spot praying is often riddled with ums, ahs, and repetitious phrases, and sounds casual and tossed off. Collections of prayers and forms that have survived use for generations and even centuries offer a solid resource for worshipping communities even today. We do well, they say, to rely on the best bequeathed to us and prepared for us by the liturgical poets like Henry van Dyke.
By and large, I fall in the latter category. I’m a prayer book kind of guy, which, given my background, goes without saying.
My seminary training, back towards the middle of the last century, led me to rely on the Book of Common Worship (1946). Although not entirely, but mainly as models of durable prayers. Spending time and putting effort into preparing the prayers for Sunday morning was also drilled into us. One professor repeatedly admonished us that we should spend as much time crafting prayers to the Almighty as we would writing sermons for the assembly.
Clearly, preparation was a priority. One did not ramble or scramble in leading prayer. The consequence was that the people would be misled. They would be more distracted by a faltering, fumbling prayer, than one cleanly and confidently composed in advance.
Nevertheless, the impromptu prayer people have a point. I’ve heard elegant and eloquent pre-written prayers read with all the passion of narrating the phone book. It’s easy to flatten them out, or repeat inflections so as to make them painfully boring. Presentation requires preparation too.
Leading prayers fails when the leader merely reads or recites them—they must be given devout focus by the leader. In the very process of putting pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard and writing a prayer, the author must also be praying. And then, when the prayer is used by the leader, it is prayed again as it is read aloud.
Yet the possibility—even probability—of improvisation never goes away. Always we find that ad lib that pops up at the calling of the Spirit, not really calculated in advance, though prompted by the words we’re reading. It happens as a surprise to the leader if not to the hearers, when a new spark of insight brightens the liturgy.
No matter how well we arrange the words of our prayers and fashion their imagery, there’s always the Spirit to make the best we can do even better.
If you’re a worship leader, do you write your own prayers, use a worship book, or pray impromptu? Or some of all three?
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
"What, Again?
It was at a presbytery retreat as several of us were sitting around conversing, when the subject came up.
It seems that an individual we all knew was troubled by the liturgical admonition that popped up here and there for her to “remember your baptism.” The reason why she considered this irritating was that, because she was a babe in arms at the time, of course she couldn’t remember her baptism. Furthermore, she never entered the doors of a church anywhere until she was a teenaged adult—those who took her for baptism never took her anywhere near a religious structure or anything resembling Christian education.
So when she finally ventured into a house of worship, it was under her own steam. The time came that she sought out the religious education she needed, went on to be a member, an elder, and, over the years, served on a whole bunch of committees and task groups in presbytery, synod and General Assembly.
But, she told others, she never felt she had been baptized, and someday needed to submit to the sacrament. “What, again?” is usually the response she gets. “You’ve already been baptized—and God acted in that baptism to claim your life, whether you were aware of it or not. We don’t do re-baptisms, and that’s final!” Etc.
It was a lively discussion as we pondered the plight of our friend.
The most obvious thing to us was that she was not the only person, in the church or outside, who was in that position. Many infants are baptized and never heard of again—unless they march themselves up to the building and turn the door knob to enter.
I know I have been lied to by numerous parents and guardians who promised in answering one or more questions to bring up their children “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord”—and yet, they and their children were no-shows.
These folks were interested in “getting Johnny done” for some reasons other than theological. Maybe it was superstition or magic by which they wanted to clinch the deal for the child’s salvation. Or perhaps it was social pressure: this baptism thing was what everyone was doing, so we should too.
For whatever reason, it was not backed up by parental commitment to see that the child grew up in faith and was led to full discipleship. The result for our friend was that she had no “Christian childhood,” and started the journey, not at the beginning, but somewhere down the path. To her, it felt like she should be baptized as a believer rather than trading on a not-remembered, not-completed infant version.
Now, one might wryly respond to all this by saying that the baptism of our friend and others like her just didn’t “take.” Well, if you’re of the superstitious bent, maybe that works—but God doesn’t do things part way, so it was, from God’s point of view, a full baptism.
Yet, from the human perspective, the baptism was lacking since promises and commitments made by people were not kept. Of course, pastors and sessions aren’t very good at banging on doors and jingling phones to find out why, after “Johnny was done”, he hasn’t been around.
Infant baptism, from the standpoint of the one baptized, is a passive experience. The full meaning of it depends entirely on other people, parents, pastors, family, and who knows who else. Believer baptism, however, is very different—the one who is to be baptized makes the promises and is responsible to carry them out—this is a totally personal commitment, based on the individual’s past experience, not just future hopes.
So, back to our friend’s dilemma: Is there room in our Reformed understanding of the sacrament to accommodate a pastoral need like hers? Or, are we locked into the practice and preferences of the Reformers half a millennium ago? Could she present herself for baptism in order to make her own promises and commitments anew?
Today’s circumstances are not the same as five hundred years ago, obviously. Things change, among them liturgical and ecclesiastical practices. In Calvin’s day, for example, the Table was securely fenced, against children as well as heretics and other theological undesirables. Today children are fed at the Lord’s Table, nurtured and nourished with the rest of the family.
What if we thought about the unknown number of people, men and women, like our friend, who were claimed by God in baptism, but never really knew it? What might we do?
One thing is that we would not baptize infants and let them slip away so easily—sessions would more vigorously pursue families who have made baptismal commitments for their children to encourage and assist them in living up to their vows.
The other possibility is that we might welcome those who had no “Christian childhood,” no “nurture and admonition of the Lord,” and invite them to respond to God’s claim on their lives by affirming their faith and receiving the holy bath. In other words, we might “re-baptize” them. Although this would clearly be a departure from centuries of practice, it might be worth considering.
What do you think?
It seems that an individual we all knew was troubled by the liturgical admonition that popped up here and there for her to “remember your baptism.” The reason why she considered this irritating was that, because she was a babe in arms at the time, of course she couldn’t remember her baptism. Furthermore, she never entered the doors of a church anywhere until she was a teenaged adult—those who took her for baptism never took her anywhere near a religious structure or anything resembling Christian education.
So when she finally ventured into a house of worship, it was under her own steam. The time came that she sought out the religious education she needed, went on to be a member, an elder, and, over the years, served on a whole bunch of committees and task groups in presbytery, synod and General Assembly.
But, she told others, she never felt she had been baptized, and someday needed to submit to the sacrament. “What, again?” is usually the response she gets. “You’ve already been baptized—and God acted in that baptism to claim your life, whether you were aware of it or not. We don’t do re-baptisms, and that’s final!” Etc.
It was a lively discussion as we pondered the plight of our friend.
The most obvious thing to us was that she was not the only person, in the church or outside, who was in that position. Many infants are baptized and never heard of again—unless they march themselves up to the building and turn the door knob to enter.
I know I have been lied to by numerous parents and guardians who promised in answering one or more questions to bring up their children “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord”—and yet, they and their children were no-shows.
These folks were interested in “getting Johnny done” for some reasons other than theological. Maybe it was superstition or magic by which they wanted to clinch the deal for the child’s salvation. Or perhaps it was social pressure: this baptism thing was what everyone was doing, so we should too.
For whatever reason, it was not backed up by parental commitment to see that the child grew up in faith and was led to full discipleship. The result for our friend was that she had no “Christian childhood,” and started the journey, not at the beginning, but somewhere down the path. To her, it felt like she should be baptized as a believer rather than trading on a not-remembered, not-completed infant version.
Now, one might wryly respond to all this by saying that the baptism of our friend and others like her just didn’t “take.” Well, if you’re of the superstitious bent, maybe that works—but God doesn’t do things part way, so it was, from God’s point of view, a full baptism.
Yet, from the human perspective, the baptism was lacking since promises and commitments made by people were not kept. Of course, pastors and sessions aren’t very good at banging on doors and jingling phones to find out why, after “Johnny was done”, he hasn’t been around.
Infant baptism, from the standpoint of the one baptized, is a passive experience. The full meaning of it depends entirely on other people, parents, pastors, family, and who knows who else. Believer baptism, however, is very different—the one who is to be baptized makes the promises and is responsible to carry them out—this is a totally personal commitment, based on the individual’s past experience, not just future hopes.
So, back to our friend’s dilemma: Is there room in our Reformed understanding of the sacrament to accommodate a pastoral need like hers? Or, are we locked into the practice and preferences of the Reformers half a millennium ago? Could she present herself for baptism in order to make her own promises and commitments anew?
Today’s circumstances are not the same as five hundred years ago, obviously. Things change, among them liturgical and ecclesiastical practices. In Calvin’s day, for example, the Table was securely fenced, against children as well as heretics and other theological undesirables. Today children are fed at the Lord’s Table, nurtured and nourished with the rest of the family.
What if we thought about the unknown number of people, men and women, like our friend, who were claimed by God in baptism, but never really knew it? What might we do?
One thing is that we would not baptize infants and let them slip away so easily—sessions would more vigorously pursue families who have made baptismal commitments for their children to encourage and assist them in living up to their vows.
The other possibility is that we might welcome those who had no “Christian childhood,” no “nurture and admonition of the Lord,” and invite them to respond to God’s claim on their lives by affirming their faith and receiving the holy bath. In other words, we might “re-baptize” them. Although this would clearly be a departure from centuries of practice, it might be worth considering.
What do you think?
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Expectations
I often wonder what other people expect of church worship as they roll out of the sack on a Sunday morning. The question is not what people want to get out of church, but what they anticipate the experience might hold for them. I sometimes wonder if anyone really considers such a question.
It’s a good query to pose to oneself, however, as a part of getting ready to go to the Lord’s Day service. What is waiting for me there? What should I look forward to? What should I be prepared for, and how might I brace myself accordingly? The expectations I bring with me have a great deal to do with what happens effectively in the course of the hour or so I’ll spend at worship.
For example, in those few shining moments when parishioners have told me why they really come to church, some have admitted that it was because they expected to see their friends. One person even fessed up to attending in order to be in the company of his boss—and when his boss went to another church, so did he.
I knew others who came with more noble expectations, looking for peace and quiet, a dose of calmness, and a comfortable pew all to themselves. These folks, as you might imagine, were the first to glower or grumble when the child acted up or the senior citizens conversed at full voice.
Some came to hear the beautiful music, the soaring tones of the organ and the bright, uplifting harmonies of the choir. As long as the hymns were familiar old friends, they were enjoyed as well, but a new hymn, a total stranger, was not eagerly welcomed.
“A good sermon” was occasionally mentioned as what a person expected to hear, although that was never clearly defined. One I thought was a homiletical gem might draw no response at all, while another thrown together among wall-to-wall pastoral and other crises played to rave reviews. Go figure.
Expectations of this kind are low-level, and basically miss the point of worship all together. If all we are looking for are friends, there are many venues for socializing. If we want to go someplace for serenity and soundlessness, the library might do as well or better. Granted that church services often offer music that is outstanding, but to get only what you want to hear, you’d be better off with your stack of CDs and stereo at home. Oratory is hard to come by these days, given the political climate, and maybe the local pastor’s sermon actually is the best one can expect after all.
For Christian worship, higher expectations are called for.
The part of the service called “The Gathering” leads us to expect that we will be part of a different group—not just a collection of friends or people we’d like to be friends with, but people summoned by God to be special people. Not that we come to church because we are special people already; God knows we’re not. Sinners, every one.
So included in "The Gathering" we find the Prayer of Confession. A personal expectation one might have coming to church is to be called upon to admit shortcomings and accept God’s forgiveness—neither of which is very easy.
“The Word” is proclaimed in Scripture and we should expect to hear ancient wisdom and story as timely as the morning newspaper. We can always anticipate hearing something fresh and new, some liberating thought or inspiring challenge.
“The Eucharist” is the thanksgiving celebration that is at the heart of Christian worship. Around the table set with God’s gifts of new life, we rejoice in the presence of our risen Lord—we expect to meet him there, as he promised.
And before we leave there is “The Sending”. We can expect to be challenged and prodded into discipleship, set on our way with a blessing as we go to serve the Lord.
Wrapped up in all this is the primary expectation for us all to be conscious of and alert to the presence of God. We anticipate the experience of meeting Christ in our midst. We look and listen for the movement of the Spirit within and among us.
Therefore, we can expect that whenever we worship God we will be changed, our lives will be forever altered. God will claim us as special people with special responsibilities. God will teach us new wisdom, and nourish us toward new strength. God will shove us out into the world to do the worship of service.
Life will not be the same again. You can expect that, for sure. And if we come to worship with that expectation, worship will not be the same again either.
What do you expect when you come to church? How does worship change you?
It’s a good query to pose to oneself, however, as a part of getting ready to go to the Lord’s Day service. What is waiting for me there? What should I look forward to? What should I be prepared for, and how might I brace myself accordingly? The expectations I bring with me have a great deal to do with what happens effectively in the course of the hour or so I’ll spend at worship.
For example, in those few shining moments when parishioners have told me why they really come to church, some have admitted that it was because they expected to see their friends. One person even fessed up to attending in order to be in the company of his boss—and when his boss went to another church, so did he.
I knew others who came with more noble expectations, looking for peace and quiet, a dose of calmness, and a comfortable pew all to themselves. These folks, as you might imagine, were the first to glower or grumble when the child acted up or the senior citizens conversed at full voice.
Some came to hear the beautiful music, the soaring tones of the organ and the bright, uplifting harmonies of the choir. As long as the hymns were familiar old friends, they were enjoyed as well, but a new hymn, a total stranger, was not eagerly welcomed.
“A good sermon” was occasionally mentioned as what a person expected to hear, although that was never clearly defined. One I thought was a homiletical gem might draw no response at all, while another thrown together among wall-to-wall pastoral and other crises played to rave reviews. Go figure.
Expectations of this kind are low-level, and basically miss the point of worship all together. If all we are looking for are friends, there are many venues for socializing. If we want to go someplace for serenity and soundlessness, the library might do as well or better. Granted that church services often offer music that is outstanding, but to get only what you want to hear, you’d be better off with your stack of CDs and stereo at home. Oratory is hard to come by these days, given the political climate, and maybe the local pastor’s sermon actually is the best one can expect after all.
For Christian worship, higher expectations are called for.
The part of the service called “The Gathering” leads us to expect that we will be part of a different group—not just a collection of friends or people we’d like to be friends with, but people summoned by God to be special people. Not that we come to church because we are special people already; God knows we’re not. Sinners, every one.
So included in "The Gathering" we find the Prayer of Confession. A personal expectation one might have coming to church is to be called upon to admit shortcomings and accept God’s forgiveness—neither of which is very easy.
“The Word” is proclaimed in Scripture and we should expect to hear ancient wisdom and story as timely as the morning newspaper. We can always anticipate hearing something fresh and new, some liberating thought or inspiring challenge.
“The Eucharist” is the thanksgiving celebration that is at the heart of Christian worship. Around the table set with God’s gifts of new life, we rejoice in the presence of our risen Lord—we expect to meet him there, as he promised.
And before we leave there is “The Sending”. We can expect to be challenged and prodded into discipleship, set on our way with a blessing as we go to serve the Lord.
Wrapped up in all this is the primary expectation for us all to be conscious of and alert to the presence of God. We anticipate the experience of meeting Christ in our midst. We look and listen for the movement of the Spirit within and among us.
Therefore, we can expect that whenever we worship God we will be changed, our lives will be forever altered. God will claim us as special people with special responsibilities. God will teach us new wisdom, and nourish us toward new strength. God will shove us out into the world to do the worship of service.
Life will not be the same again. You can expect that, for sure. And if we come to worship with that expectation, worship will not be the same again either.
What do you expect when you come to church? How does worship change you?
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
"Last Words" - Part Two
Reading my previous post, a finicky critic would insist that one cannot have two sets of “last words”—one must be penultimate or next-to-last, if the other will be the final words.
So let’s be clear at the top that both the Charge and what follows (the Blessing) go together to make up the last words of a Christian worship service, à la the Presbyterian model in the Book of Common Worship (1993). The Charge and Blessing are a matched set.
In fact, the Charge without the Blessing is only a string of biblical instructions, hortatory commands that may or may not be obeyed. It is not intended, however, that anyone should take these on as a solo act. God does not send people into the world’s wilderness alone or empty-handed. The Blessing conveys God’s presence and power so we can live out the Charge.
“Blessing” is the term used in the BCW replacing the more common term “Benediction.” The two words are not exactly interchangeable, although they carry much the same impact.
A “benediction” is literally a “good word” transmitting essentially “good wishes”. Of course in the setting of Christian worship it carries much more freight than that. At the conclusion of the service the presider is not simply saying, “Good-bye and good luck.” Yet it’s possible to be delivered as a casual comment and heard as such.
The words of the Benediction are scriptural, and suggest therefore that this is not a mere pastoral send-off, but a communication of a good word from no less than God, a form of the Good News of Jesus Christ. There is nothing mundane and ordinary here, but the conferring of an extraordinary gift.
Enter the substitute word, “blessing”, which has a much broader significance. All wrapped up in this word are ideas like a special favor granted, perhaps a gift bestowed, a sign of mercy passed from one person to another. In the context of our worship, of course, these are all conferred by God.
These are the words of empowerment. By the Blessing of God, we are given the wherewithal to accomplish what the Charge requires of us.
The most common text used in this fashion is Paul’s parting line from his Second Letter to the Corinthians (13:13):
The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.
I’d suspect that a fair number of sermons are preached on this text—and if not, they should be. At least the verse warrants some explanation or interpretation from time to time so that folks don’t just listen without hearing what it says. “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ” conjures up the whole life and ministry of God, and his gracious, forgiving, healing presence with us. “The love of God” speaks of power of good over evil, of life over death, a divine love (agape) we are able to live out. “The communion of the Holy Spirit” witnesses to the strength of the Spirit in which we share as God’s own people.
The other Blessings collected in the BCW (pp. 83 and 161) similarly send us forth with the confidence of faith, the assurance of God’s presence as we step out the church door to follow our Lord in the mission to which we have been charged.
There is a caveat, however, something for presiders to beware.
My seminary training far back in the last century included directions of how to pronounce the benediction (as it was termed then). The preacher was to raise an arm and outstretch the hand in a gesture simulating the laying on of hands. I remember the commentary that went with it: this is the last vestige of the priestly function of the clergy, the only time we are in that role.
Over the years I became less than comfortable with that posture and thought. It came to pass that I would speak the blessing with arms open wide, palms up, welcoming God’s gift for the whole congregation. We need to be clear that the Blessing is not the clergy’s to give, but God’s for the whole worshipping community to receive.
If it’s the Charge that sends us on God’s mission in this world, it’s God’s Blessing that makes us bold and brave, willing to take risks with our Lord. After all, we are not ever alone in God’s service, never left to our own devices and desires, but challenged and raised up to a new life in Christ.
Rather than stay standing after the Blessing, perhaps we do better to be seated in silence for a moment or two, just to mull over not only what we are called to do and be, but the encouragement those last words are for each of us. Music can lead the procession out, underscoring the inspiration of the last words.
What Blessing (or Benediction) is used in your church? Is it scriptural? Does it follow a Charge?
So let’s be clear at the top that both the Charge and what follows (the Blessing) go together to make up the last words of a Christian worship service, à la the Presbyterian model in the Book of Common Worship (1993). The Charge and Blessing are a matched set.
In fact, the Charge without the Blessing is only a string of biblical instructions, hortatory commands that may or may not be obeyed. It is not intended, however, that anyone should take these on as a solo act. God does not send people into the world’s wilderness alone or empty-handed. The Blessing conveys God’s presence and power so we can live out the Charge.
“Blessing” is the term used in the BCW replacing the more common term “Benediction.” The two words are not exactly interchangeable, although they carry much the same impact.
A “benediction” is literally a “good word” transmitting essentially “good wishes”. Of course in the setting of Christian worship it carries much more freight than that. At the conclusion of the service the presider is not simply saying, “Good-bye and good luck.” Yet it’s possible to be delivered as a casual comment and heard as such.
The words of the Benediction are scriptural, and suggest therefore that this is not a mere pastoral send-off, but a communication of a good word from no less than God, a form of the Good News of Jesus Christ. There is nothing mundane and ordinary here, but the conferring of an extraordinary gift.
Enter the substitute word, “blessing”, which has a much broader significance. All wrapped up in this word are ideas like a special favor granted, perhaps a gift bestowed, a sign of mercy passed from one person to another. In the context of our worship, of course, these are all conferred by God.
These are the words of empowerment. By the Blessing of God, we are given the wherewithal to accomplish what the Charge requires of us.
The most common text used in this fashion is Paul’s parting line from his Second Letter to the Corinthians (13:13):
The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.
I’d suspect that a fair number of sermons are preached on this text—and if not, they should be. At least the verse warrants some explanation or interpretation from time to time so that folks don’t just listen without hearing what it says. “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ” conjures up the whole life and ministry of God, and his gracious, forgiving, healing presence with us. “The love of God” speaks of power of good over evil, of life over death, a divine love (agape) we are able to live out. “The communion of the Holy Spirit” witnesses to the strength of the Spirit in which we share as God’s own people.
The other Blessings collected in the BCW (pp. 83 and 161) similarly send us forth with the confidence of faith, the assurance of God’s presence as we step out the church door to follow our Lord in the mission to which we have been charged.
There is a caveat, however, something for presiders to beware.
My seminary training far back in the last century included directions of how to pronounce the benediction (as it was termed then). The preacher was to raise an arm and outstretch the hand in a gesture simulating the laying on of hands. I remember the commentary that went with it: this is the last vestige of the priestly function of the clergy, the only time we are in that role.
Over the years I became less than comfortable with that posture and thought. It came to pass that I would speak the blessing with arms open wide, palms up, welcoming God’s gift for the whole congregation. We need to be clear that the Blessing is not the clergy’s to give, but God’s for the whole worshipping community to receive.
If it’s the Charge that sends us on God’s mission in this world, it’s God’s Blessing that makes us bold and brave, willing to take risks with our Lord. After all, we are not ever alone in God’s service, never left to our own devices and desires, but challenged and raised up to a new life in Christ.
Rather than stay standing after the Blessing, perhaps we do better to be seated in silence for a moment or two, just to mull over not only what we are called to do and be, but the encouragement those last words are for each of us. Music can lead the procession out, underscoring the inspiration of the last words.
What Blessing (or Benediction) is used in your church? Is it scriptural? Does it follow a Charge?
Friday, May 25, 2012
"Last Words"
It’s often been said that we Presbyterians are “peculiar people.” Without going into everything that might imply, there’s one place it’s true that can be celebrated
I’ve noticed in my recent visits to Episcopal and Lutheran churches, they come to the end of the service in a fashion different from the way I’m used to. Their services usually wind down with a blessing, followed by a hymn as the choir and clergy exit, with a final very brief dismissal.
Presbyterians—at least those who follow the Book of Common Worship model—will sing the hymn first and save the blessing and send the people out with it at the very end.
The unique feature here, however, is not the sequence as much as it is something called the “Charge”. In the Presbyterian order, the Charge is coupled with the Blessing and delivered as the “last words”—and like many last words, the Charge deserves our attention.
Of many samples of a Charge offered in the book, the first is:
Go out into the world in peace; have courage; hold on to what is good; return no one evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak, and help the suffering; honor all people; love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.*
The Charge appears in the last segment of Christian worship, the “Sending”, which is often under-emphasized. It is easy to let the worship experience fizzle out—an ill-fitting hymn and a half-hearted blessing can sink it. A strong charge as this one, however, demands a strong hymn and enthusiastic blessing to go with it.
The problem is that we tend to look on the end of a worship service like we do the conclusion of a movie, opera or stage play. When it’s over, we get up and go home.
Worship is a drama, to be sure. In worship during the church service, we are the actors playing to God our audience, and the clergy and choir and other leaders are the “prompters” telling us how to act our parts. But when a service of worship is over, it isn’t really over—the scene merely shifts. We are sent from one scene in church to another in the world. As in church worship, we continue to be the actors and God continues to be our audience. Every word we say and every action we perform continue to be our liturgy, our worship in service of God. The stage on which we “strut and fret” is out there where we live our lives as followers of Jesus Christ.
Worship at any time and any place finds its ultimate expression in actions. How we behave, how well we imitate our Lord and try to live up to God’s expectations for our lives is the measure of our loyalty and commitment to Jesus Christ. Worship is not just what we say, but also what we do.
The biblically-based Charge quoted above is a powerful prompting of our actions on the stage of the world, last words to guide us in worshipping God the rest of the week. It is a charge of responsibility, a challenge, an urging, a cue to Christian action.
In my pastoral ministry I often used this charge, committed it to memory and delivered it eye-to-eye to my friends in the pews.
One Sunday after church, a man came to me and asked if we could speak in private. He seemed troubled, so we ducked into my study and sat down. With tears in his eyes he told me how he had been “thrown under the bus,” as he put it, by a co-worker, and how he had vowed to get even. He went on to say how he’d found the perfect revenge to exact on his colleague. But then he revealed that he restrained himself because he heard in his head (or heart) the words “return no one evil for evil.” “I just couldn’t do it,” he said. “Thank God I’d learned those words.”
The Charge sends all of us to carry worship from one place to another, to glorify God with our good efforts, and to live out the grace we’ve received in Jesus Christ.
Does your church service send people out challenged and charged to live Christ-like lives?
* See 1 Cor. 16:13; 2 Tim. 2:1; Eph. 6:10; 1 Thess. 5:13-22; 1 Peter 2:17
I’ve noticed in my recent visits to Episcopal and Lutheran churches, they come to the end of the service in a fashion different from the way I’m used to. Their services usually wind down with a blessing, followed by a hymn as the choir and clergy exit, with a final very brief dismissal.
Presbyterians—at least those who follow the Book of Common Worship model—will sing the hymn first and save the blessing and send the people out with it at the very end.
The unique feature here, however, is not the sequence as much as it is something called the “Charge”. In the Presbyterian order, the Charge is coupled with the Blessing and delivered as the “last words”—and like many last words, the Charge deserves our attention.
Of many samples of a Charge offered in the book, the first is:
Go out into the world in peace; have courage; hold on to what is good; return no one evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak, and help the suffering; honor all people; love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.*
The Charge appears in the last segment of Christian worship, the “Sending”, which is often under-emphasized. It is easy to let the worship experience fizzle out—an ill-fitting hymn and a half-hearted blessing can sink it. A strong charge as this one, however, demands a strong hymn and enthusiastic blessing to go with it.
The problem is that we tend to look on the end of a worship service like we do the conclusion of a movie, opera or stage play. When it’s over, we get up and go home.
Worship is a drama, to be sure. In worship during the church service, we are the actors playing to God our audience, and the clergy and choir and other leaders are the “prompters” telling us how to act our parts. But when a service of worship is over, it isn’t really over—the scene merely shifts. We are sent from one scene in church to another in the world. As in church worship, we continue to be the actors and God continues to be our audience. Every word we say and every action we perform continue to be our liturgy, our worship in service of God. The stage on which we “strut and fret” is out there where we live our lives as followers of Jesus Christ.
Worship at any time and any place finds its ultimate expression in actions. How we behave, how well we imitate our Lord and try to live up to God’s expectations for our lives is the measure of our loyalty and commitment to Jesus Christ. Worship is not just what we say, but also what we do.
The biblically-based Charge quoted above is a powerful prompting of our actions on the stage of the world, last words to guide us in worshipping God the rest of the week. It is a charge of responsibility, a challenge, an urging, a cue to Christian action.
In my pastoral ministry I often used this charge, committed it to memory and delivered it eye-to-eye to my friends in the pews.
One Sunday after church, a man came to me and asked if we could speak in private. He seemed troubled, so we ducked into my study and sat down. With tears in his eyes he told me how he had been “thrown under the bus,” as he put it, by a co-worker, and how he had vowed to get even. He went on to say how he’d found the perfect revenge to exact on his colleague. But then he revealed that he restrained himself because he heard in his head (or heart) the words “return no one evil for evil.” “I just couldn’t do it,” he said. “Thank God I’d learned those words.”
The Charge sends all of us to carry worship from one place to another, to glorify God with our good efforts, and to live out the grace we’ve received in Jesus Christ.
Does your church service send people out challenged and charged to live Christ-like lives?
* See 1 Cor. 16:13; 2 Tim. 2:1; Eph. 6:10; 1 Thess. 5:13-22; 1 Peter 2:17
Monday, May 14, 2012
Offering?
I know I’ve commented on this before, but, in spite of my
very clear pronouncements, the Offering persists in posing some liturgical
questions.
First of all, technology has made the contribution of
money to the church a simple thing to accomplish outside the boundaries of
worship. Many people just send in a
monthly check; others find it possible to pay by credit card; and, I
understand, it’s possible to make an automatic direct deposit from your account
to the church’s.
Of course the problem with all that efficiency is that it
de-personalizes the ritual. It falls in
the same category as taxes withheld. It
happens while you’re not looking, and is, therefore, relatively painless,
disconnecting any idea of “sacrifice” from the offering.
You still have to prayerfully (one would hope)
contemplate the form you fill out allowing the automatic transfer or the check
you scrawl out, but that’s a once-upon-a-time prayer, and a distant memory when
you’re in the midst of worship. It’s not likely to be a pressing present issue.
Let’s assume, for the sake of conversation, that you’re
one of that endangered species of people who actually bring your offering every
week to present in person. A check written as you arrive at church, or cash out
of your wallet is placed in an offering envelope. You’re ready to offer it as
an act of worship.
The deacons, ushers, or other appointed collectors, march
up and take large brass plates and circulate among the pew-sitters to receive
their gifts. Most donors, however, tend
to slip the folding cash or envelope or check into the plate, almost
surreptitiously. It does not appear to be a matter of great import; it seems to
have low liturgical impact on the participants.
The problem here is that the Offering is carried out in a
manner in which the worshipper is very passive.
If “liturgy” is the work of the people, then, judging by their actions,
the people don’t seem to be working very hard.
Sure, they work hard, perhaps, to acquire the money they drop in the
plate, but they are not very active liturgically.
Too often, the Offering is regarded as a means of “paying
dues”—or worse, paying for admission to the service, much like going to the
movies or a concert. The Offering, then,
is not offered as much as it is collected, and it’s highly questionable whether
the donors “get it” at all.
Another potential problem is the music used at the time of the Offering, especially as it is being received. If it is an “anthem”, it can easily glide into the performance category—if it does, it becomes a great distraction. The music the choir sings during the Offering should captivate the congregation and focus closely on the theme of our humble gifts being in response to God’s gift of new life in Jesus Christ.
If the Offering music is instrumental, the danger is that
it will slide into the “noodling” category, meaningless sound to prevent
silence from happening, a mere “cover” for the passing of the plates.
Music, as everyone should know, is very powerful, and has, itself, theological content. The right music, done well, can raise the spirit of the Offering from mundane to marvelous. Music is not just accompaniment for the liturgical act of the Offering, it can and should be expressive of its meaning.
Some years ago, we attended a church where the Offering took place in a strikingly different manner. The Offering was announced as an opportunity for reaffirming or making a personal commitment to serve Jesus Christ. The “deacons” stood at either side of a container at the front of the room, and the people were “invited” to come forward to present their gifts.
During the procession, we sang songs and hymns about
God’s gifts to us and our commitments to Christ. The connection of music and action was
powerful.
When I described this to a friend, he suggested cynically
that, among other virtues of the procedure, the pastor and deacons could
clearly see who gave and who didn’t.
True. Yet, not so cynically, it held all the people accountable to one
another as well as to God—not a bad thing.
Since I’ve told others about this mode of Offering, I’ve heard tales of some churches out there that have the same kind of process.
More attention needs to be paid to this part of the
Sunday service. Too many questions about its meaning and personal significance
are left hanging demanding theological education. More imagination is called for as well to help
the Offering become more authentic worship by the people.
For the Offering is never just of giving some money, nor
paying our dues, nor even supporting the church in its wonderful work—the
Offering is the act by which we give ourselves anew to God, to the service of
Christ. The Offering is nothing less
than an “altar call” in response to God’s wondrous gifts.
What is the Offering like in your church? Have you ever experienced an offering by
processing to make your gift?
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Intersection
I confess that I was a bit disappointed to discover that the service we planned to attend last Sunday would not include the Eucharist. Being an every-Sunday-sacrament sort of guy, I thought for sure the service would seem unfinished—just like so many Presbyterian services participated in before where we had the “Service of Word and Sacrament” without the sacrament.
The locale for this worship event, however, was an Episcopal church,* and the reason for not having the Eucharist was somewhat different.
There was an earlier standard Lord’s Day service that morning with the Lord’s Supper. The one we would attend was labeled Morning Prayer, signaled by the black stoles worn by the clergy.
The two services come from two separate, but not unrelated, lines of liturgical development. The one evolved as the mode of weekly worship for the gathered Christian community—the other is part of the community’s daily worship pattern.
The Eucharistic service, then, belongs to the Sunday service, and not to the daily one—although it is not impossible to have Communion at a daily prayer service, just not likely.
Daily Prayer takes place on a schedule usually including three or four, or more “hours” or times each day: Evening, End of Day, Morning, and Midday.
When we come to Sunday morning, then, the two lines intersect—the Lord’s Day worship and Morning Prayer arrive at the same time.
Some Christians, I’d suppose, will waive the Morning Prayer because they consider it out-ranked by Lord’s Day worship. Not the Episcopalians, however. They will do both. And that’s what happened in this situation: we had Morning Prayer with a sermon included, something very different from a Lord’s Day service with the Eucharist lopped off the end.
Morning Prayer, like all Daily Prayer services, is heavy on the Psalms. The Gathering included the hymn, “All People That on Earth Do Dwell”, Old 100th, and the Lessons (the same New Testament texts used in the Lord’s Day service) were bracketed with two sung versions of the 23rd Psalm. The Prayers followed the model Lord’s Prayer with “suffrages” or intercessions, other prayers and the General Thanksgiving, concluding with the greeting of peace. Finally a sermon was preached, followed by a closing hymn and blessing.
It is this pattern that emerged as the predominant one for much Protestant worship in America. It was not a curtailed Lord’s Day service, but an amplified daily service. It was not sacrament centered, but prayer and sermon centered. This had an appeal for many as our nation was taking shape, moving across the continent.
I was reminded that the church I served, as so many others built at the in the 19th century and beginning of the 20th century, was designed as a lecture hall. Looking at the original plans, if you sat in the front pew, you could stretch out your leg and touch the pulpit—no room for a table, because the customary worship didn’t call for one. Sermon rather than sacrament, in many denominations, became what really counted.
Perhaps this explains, at least a little bit, the neglect of the Lord’s Supper by so many Protestants, including us Presbyterians. The Morning Prayer version had all that we really needed—prayers and praise, scripture and sermon—and besides, so the argument goes, the weekly Communion is Catholic, not for us.
Besides this small historical insight, the experience itself was instructive.
Morning Prayer, as all the Daily Prayer services, has a particular ambience, a feeling or mood. It invites contemplation and reflection. The Psalms touch human emotions at the deep places, and the prayers seem to have words that express our hopes. The Scripture readings are read in a way to call us to ponder their meaning for our lives. The sermon somehow has an intimacy and personal impact.
It’s a subtle difference, to be sure, but a significant one. The two kinds of services do not actually merge into one, as many people and congregations have concluded. They are still separate strands of Christian worship, and point to two different needs: the weekly celebration of the community, and the daily prayer discipline of the community.
The Morning Prayer service on Sunday morning serves as a reminder to us that we must do more, in another service, to include the Sacrament of Communion, and that we must also do much more, in many services, to pray diligently every day.
Do you have Daily Prayer services at your church? At church meetings? At home? How often do you celebrate the Lord’s Supper? Why?
*The Trinity Church of Boston on Copley Square.
The locale for this worship event, however, was an Episcopal church,* and the reason for not having the Eucharist was somewhat different.
There was an earlier standard Lord’s Day service that morning with the Lord’s Supper. The one we would attend was labeled Morning Prayer, signaled by the black stoles worn by the clergy.
The two services come from two separate, but not unrelated, lines of liturgical development. The one evolved as the mode of weekly worship for the gathered Christian community—the other is part of the community’s daily worship pattern.
The Eucharistic service, then, belongs to the Sunday service, and not to the daily one—although it is not impossible to have Communion at a daily prayer service, just not likely.
Daily Prayer takes place on a schedule usually including three or four, or more “hours” or times each day: Evening, End of Day, Morning, and Midday.
When we come to Sunday morning, then, the two lines intersect—the Lord’s Day worship and Morning Prayer arrive at the same time.
Some Christians, I’d suppose, will waive the Morning Prayer because they consider it out-ranked by Lord’s Day worship. Not the Episcopalians, however. They will do both. And that’s what happened in this situation: we had Morning Prayer with a sermon included, something very different from a Lord’s Day service with the Eucharist lopped off the end.
Morning Prayer, like all Daily Prayer services, is heavy on the Psalms. The Gathering included the hymn, “All People That on Earth Do Dwell”, Old 100th, and the Lessons (the same New Testament texts used in the Lord’s Day service) were bracketed with two sung versions of the 23rd Psalm. The Prayers followed the model Lord’s Prayer with “suffrages” or intercessions, other prayers and the General Thanksgiving, concluding with the greeting of peace. Finally a sermon was preached, followed by a closing hymn and blessing.
It is this pattern that emerged as the predominant one for much Protestant worship in America. It was not a curtailed Lord’s Day service, but an amplified daily service. It was not sacrament centered, but prayer and sermon centered. This had an appeal for many as our nation was taking shape, moving across the continent.
I was reminded that the church I served, as so many others built at the in the 19th century and beginning of the 20th century, was designed as a lecture hall. Looking at the original plans, if you sat in the front pew, you could stretch out your leg and touch the pulpit—no room for a table, because the customary worship didn’t call for one. Sermon rather than sacrament, in many denominations, became what really counted.
Perhaps this explains, at least a little bit, the neglect of the Lord’s Supper by so many Protestants, including us Presbyterians. The Morning Prayer version had all that we really needed—prayers and praise, scripture and sermon—and besides, so the argument goes, the weekly Communion is Catholic, not for us.
Besides this small historical insight, the experience itself was instructive.
Morning Prayer, as all the Daily Prayer services, has a particular ambience, a feeling or mood. It invites contemplation and reflection. The Psalms touch human emotions at the deep places, and the prayers seem to have words that express our hopes. The Scripture readings are read in a way to call us to ponder their meaning for our lives. The sermon somehow has an intimacy and personal impact.
It’s a subtle difference, to be sure, but a significant one. The two kinds of services do not actually merge into one, as many people and congregations have concluded. They are still separate strands of Christian worship, and point to two different needs: the weekly celebration of the community, and the daily prayer discipline of the community.
The Morning Prayer service on Sunday morning serves as a reminder to us that we must do more, in another service, to include the Sacrament of Communion, and that we must also do much more, in many services, to pray diligently every day.
Do you have Daily Prayer services at your church? At church meetings? At home? How often do you celebrate the Lord’s Supper? Why?
*The Trinity Church of Boston on Copley Square.
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