We all know that Christian worship is a group activity. Even on a desert island, a Christian does not praise and pray to God in solitude. Always there is a spiritual connection, not only with other Christians somewhere on the mainland, but with the church through the ages, saints and sinners who have gone before us.
As much as this is obvious, it is still easy to forget. .
Look at the Prayer of Confession for example. We all approach that part of the liturgy with some fear and trembling—if we don’t, then we’re not taking it seriously. We bring baggage full of personal stuff that we hope will be sorted out in the process of the prayer, and the junk discarded by the Assurance of Pardon..
But it’s never just “my” prayer. It’s not “all about me”. The Prayer of Confession is all about us, all of us, humans that we are, tripping and stumbling through life with bumps and bruises to show for our sinfulness. God knows all about us before we even find the words or read the ones in the bulletin to ask for help—and God is at the ready to do what needs to be done for us with grace and tenderness.
There is always solidarity in this kind of confession, as long as we remember that the folks around us are in the same boat as we are, leaky as it surely is. The company of other sinners similar to ourselves bolsters our courage for candor.
So the Prayer of Confession has this universal human quality to it. But even more than that, the prayer would not even exist in the order of worship if we all did not know already that God is waiting for us to lift it up. There is a common expectation that Confession is good for the soul, and God’s Grace is available for the asking. We wouldn’t be brazen enough to admit our weakness and failures if it didn’t fit our understanding of who God is.
Another example would be the Prayers of the People. No matter how these are done, a lot of individual and personal requests pop out, as well they should. Sometimes names and situations are verbalized out loud, other times silently—nevertheless, “my” specific concerns are offered by me, as everyone else does.
Unique and singular as the prayers may be, however, we offer them in the midst of the rest of the congregation—my prayers become our prayers, everyone else’s prayers become mine. Prayer is a mutual enterprise, the act of the church more than it is only the act of individual Christians. Therein lies the church’s strength, for the Spirit moves among us and binds us in a community of care and concern.
Nowhere is this truer than in the making of commitments to follow Christ. In reaffirming our baptisms or coming to the Table, we are reminded that we are to be part of the Body of Christ. Baptism marks us as members of that Body, Eucharist nourishes us in that Body—both lead us to discipleship.
Certainly and surely, these involve deeply personal commitments, life-changing decisions to be made and renewed constantly. Yet they are never entirely solo acts. Always they are made in the context of the whole people of God. Motivation to follow Christ faithfully is always enhanced and strengthened by the support of those around us who are daring to go on the same journey.
Unfortunately, I’ve been in a few churches where it seems that some of the pew sitters are there only to do their private devotions. To be undisturbed by others in the room, they find a safe corner, and scoot out just before the last liturgical word.
I’ve also participated in a service or two where the hymns are all first person singular—the “Me and God” songs—as though each worshipper had a single line to the Divine to transact their singular spiritual business.
The Greeting of Peace is one of the best antidotes to stark individualism. Passing from one to the other the gracious healing spirit of Christ, overcomes animosity and bridges gaps to unify the people as the Church, the Body of Christ.
So, remember in planning worship that liturgy and hymnody need more plural, please.
What hymns do you sing in church that are for the whole church? Which ones are first person singular? How about unison prayers: singular or plural?
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
"Why We Do What We Do"
When applied to the church at worship, this title is my humble offering for a working definition of liturgical theology.
What happens on a Sunday morning, or at many other times for that matter, makes sense. When God’s people are gathered to give praise and make commitments, there are reasons and rationales to the rites and rituals involved. There is a logic to it all—and a theo-logic as well.
Now that doesn’t mean that there is only one correct explanation for every act carried out or word spoken. If that were true, Christian worship would have stalled centuries ago and would be a museum piece now.
On the contrary, Christian worship is an activity of the Spirit in the Body of Christ, and it is living, breathing and constantly growing. There’s always something new, refreshing and surprising taking place.
At the same time, Christian worship is not an orphan discovered on the church’s doorstep. It has a history and heritage, lessons learned in the past to be rehearsed in preparing for the future.
When we worship, there’s always something new or old needing an explanation. The basic question is always, “Why do we do what we do?”
The problem with all this is simply that the question is rarely asked. Pew-sitters, assuming they actually show up to sit in the pew, are usually not interested enough to ask. Too few people pause to reflect on their worship experience, and its meaning in their lives.
Perhaps this is why so many worshippers mumble the creed into their waist-high-held order of service or whisper the words of hymns. They simply do not know what they’re doing, much less why. Their participation is without purpose, lackadaisical and even lazy.
At the same time, it has been my experience that there are always some who do care, who want to worship with understanding. Explanations are helpful to them in making their praise of God intentional and their commitments deliberate. They really want to know “why we do what we do” in worship, so that they can do it better.
I wonder how many congregations have programs that include continuing liturgical education. Not just for children, but for adults as well—maybe particularly for adults.
In most Sunday school programs, I speculate, worship education is a sometime kind of thing. Once or twice a year, perhaps. That’s strange, isn’t it, when worship is the central and formative activity of any congregation. Yet worship is so frequently allowed to be shaped, not by belief and sacred tradition, but by sentimentality and faddish novelty. Education of all ages about Christian worship, old and new, should be a core part of every congregation’s annual program.
In order to accomplish this, of course, we have to have teachers. It’s logical to turn to the theologically trained clergy and professional musicians to provide such a resource in every congregation. Reasonable as that seems, it isn’t as reliable as we’d expect.
For some reason, so many clergy I know have a low level of motivation themselves to understand “why we do what we do” on Sunday mornings. In spite of the fact that they have to preside over such events, it seems not to be a priority. Other things clamor to be first in line in the daily routine, I’m sure, so that even those responsible for the service of worship let preparation slide. Nevertheless, what’s central and fundamental in the life of the church deserves to be at the top of the professional’s agenda.
Another reason for slow reaction time on the part of professional ministers and musicians to understand “why we do what we do,” so I’m told, is that they have not been well-prepared by their seminary training. Musicians rarely get theological foundation for the music they present. Ministers get courses on liturgy and worship, but they are few and often optional. “Liturgical theology”, if it is recognized at all, is considered by seminary professors a “secondary” subject—students should learn biblical, historical, systematic theology, and what they need for worship will trickle down.
One of the forces for renewal in worship life of our churches is for the people in the pews to rise up and demand to know “why we do what we do.” Then, maybe ministers and musicians will bang urgently on the doors of seminaries, pressing for continuing education in liturgical theology. One can only hope.
If you’re a minister or musician, how comfortable are you in explaining to lay people theological background and meaning of Sunday worship? If you are a church member, what questions do you have about worship to ask your pastor/presider or musician?
What happens on a Sunday morning, or at many other times for that matter, makes sense. When God’s people are gathered to give praise and make commitments, there are reasons and rationales to the rites and rituals involved. There is a logic to it all—and a theo-logic as well.
Now that doesn’t mean that there is only one correct explanation for every act carried out or word spoken. If that were true, Christian worship would have stalled centuries ago and would be a museum piece now.
On the contrary, Christian worship is an activity of the Spirit in the Body of Christ, and it is living, breathing and constantly growing. There’s always something new, refreshing and surprising taking place.
At the same time, Christian worship is not an orphan discovered on the church’s doorstep. It has a history and heritage, lessons learned in the past to be rehearsed in preparing for the future.
When we worship, there’s always something new or old needing an explanation. The basic question is always, “Why do we do what we do?”
The problem with all this is simply that the question is rarely asked. Pew-sitters, assuming they actually show up to sit in the pew, are usually not interested enough to ask. Too few people pause to reflect on their worship experience, and its meaning in their lives.
Perhaps this is why so many worshippers mumble the creed into their waist-high-held order of service or whisper the words of hymns. They simply do not know what they’re doing, much less why. Their participation is without purpose, lackadaisical and even lazy.
At the same time, it has been my experience that there are always some who do care, who want to worship with understanding. Explanations are helpful to them in making their praise of God intentional and their commitments deliberate. They really want to know “why we do what we do” in worship, so that they can do it better.
I wonder how many congregations have programs that include continuing liturgical education. Not just for children, but for adults as well—maybe particularly for adults.
In most Sunday school programs, I speculate, worship education is a sometime kind of thing. Once or twice a year, perhaps. That’s strange, isn’t it, when worship is the central and formative activity of any congregation. Yet worship is so frequently allowed to be shaped, not by belief and sacred tradition, but by sentimentality and faddish novelty. Education of all ages about Christian worship, old and new, should be a core part of every congregation’s annual program.
In order to accomplish this, of course, we have to have teachers. It’s logical to turn to the theologically trained clergy and professional musicians to provide such a resource in every congregation. Reasonable as that seems, it isn’t as reliable as we’d expect.
For some reason, so many clergy I know have a low level of motivation themselves to understand “why we do what we do” on Sunday mornings. In spite of the fact that they have to preside over such events, it seems not to be a priority. Other things clamor to be first in line in the daily routine, I’m sure, so that even those responsible for the service of worship let preparation slide. Nevertheless, what’s central and fundamental in the life of the church deserves to be at the top of the professional’s agenda.
Another reason for slow reaction time on the part of professional ministers and musicians to understand “why we do what we do,” so I’m told, is that they have not been well-prepared by their seminary training. Musicians rarely get theological foundation for the music they present. Ministers get courses on liturgy and worship, but they are few and often optional. “Liturgical theology”, if it is recognized at all, is considered by seminary professors a “secondary” subject—students should learn biblical, historical, systematic theology, and what they need for worship will trickle down.
One of the forces for renewal in worship life of our churches is for the people in the pews to rise up and demand to know “why we do what we do.” Then, maybe ministers and musicians will bang urgently on the doors of seminaries, pressing for continuing education in liturgical theology. One can only hope.
If you’re a minister or musician, how comfortable are you in explaining to lay people theological background and meaning of Sunday worship? If you are a church member, what questions do you have about worship to ask your pastor/presider or musician?
Monday, July 16, 2012
Declaration?
What goes on in worship after the Confession of Sin? The Declaration of Forgiveness. That’s according to the Book of Common Worship (1993)(BCW)—at least that’s what it says in the order of service.
If you look at that part of the same book that lays out the “Basic Movement of the Service for the Lord’s Day,” you’ll find that it’s clear whose forgiveness is being conveyed:
"Gathering
"The people gather in response to God's call, offering praise in words of scripture, prayer, and song. The people acknowledge their sinfulness and receive the declaration of God's forgiveness." (Emphasis mine.)
In still another part of the BCW, “The Service for the Lord’s Day: A Description of Its Movement and Elements,” you’ll read this paragraph:
"Having confessed our sin, we remember the promises of God's redemption, and the claims God has on all human life. The assurance of God's forgiving grace is declared in the name of Jesus Christ. We accept God's forgiveness, confident that in dying to sin, God raises us to new life." (Emphases mine.)
It seems that other Christians flaunt similarly diverse terms for this act of worship: Assurance/Declaration/Affirmation of Pardon, Declaration of Divine Grace, and Absolution. I suppose there are probably more.
I bring this up, not to point out the imprecise nature of our liturgical language, but to raise the question of the liturgical role played by the person pronouncing these assurances, declarations, affirmations and absolutions.
In the liturgy of the BCW, these statements are aimed directly at the people in the pews by the speaker, presumably the pastor or presider:
"I declare to you in the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven."
In this, the speaker appears to carry out a priestly function. We don’t have priests, of course, but sometimes the liturgy calls upon presiders to be priest-LY, to be the communicator from God to people, and this is one of them.
The Reformation understanding of the Priesthood of Every Believer squelched any thought that any one person must be the mediator of our relationship with God. By virtue of the New Covenant, Jesus became the sole Mediator for all God’s people.
Nevertheless, the Declaration of Forgiveness runs the risk of looking like what we don’t believe in. Yes, that’s not a priest doing that, but it looks “priest-ly”. It’s a temptation to arrogance, suggesting that the pronouncer of pardon is above the sinners who need it.
So, what to do?
Looking back in history to the 1946 version of the Book of Common Worship, we find that the “Assurance of Pardon” to be said by the minister, in the first order, reads:
"Almighty God, who doth freely pardon all who repent and turn to Him, now fulfill in every contrite heart the promise of redeeming grace; remitting all our sins, and cleansing us from an evil conscience; through the perfect sacrifice of Christ Jesus our Lord."
The declaration or assurance includes the speaker! Pardon is assured for the minister as well as the people. He or she is in the same leaky boat of sin as everyone else, and personally affirms for him- herself the much-needed bailing out from God.
To be sure, one thing it would require is that the pastor/presider would have to pray the confession of sin personally and not just lead others in its recitation. If that is genuinely done, then the declaration or assurance including the speaker would be heartfelt as well.
What would happen if we pluralized those assurances and declarations of pardon and forgiveness so that the pastor/presider is one of the people? Perhaps this would narrow the lay-clergy gap in some churches. This small change would move the Declaration of Forgiveness from looking and sounding priestly to being more pastoral, less condescending and more compassionate.
Not a bad shift in tone for our liturgy.
How is the Declaration of Forgiveness conveyed to the people in your church?
If you look at that part of the same book that lays out the “Basic Movement of the Service for the Lord’s Day,” you’ll find that it’s clear whose forgiveness is being conveyed:
"Gathering
"The people gather in response to God's call, offering praise in words of scripture, prayer, and song. The people acknowledge their sinfulness and receive the declaration of God's forgiveness." (Emphasis mine.)
In still another part of the BCW, “The Service for the Lord’s Day: A Description of Its Movement and Elements,” you’ll read this paragraph:
"Having confessed our sin, we remember the promises of God's redemption, and the claims God has on all human life. The assurance of God's forgiving grace is declared in the name of Jesus Christ. We accept God's forgiveness, confident that in dying to sin, God raises us to new life." (Emphases mine.)
It seems that other Christians flaunt similarly diverse terms for this act of worship: Assurance/Declaration/Affirmation of Pardon, Declaration of Divine Grace, and Absolution. I suppose there are probably more.
I bring this up, not to point out the imprecise nature of our liturgical language, but to raise the question of the liturgical role played by the person pronouncing these assurances, declarations, affirmations and absolutions.
In the liturgy of the BCW, these statements are aimed directly at the people in the pews by the speaker, presumably the pastor or presider:
"I declare to you in the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven."
In this, the speaker appears to carry out a priestly function. We don’t have priests, of course, but sometimes the liturgy calls upon presiders to be priest-LY, to be the communicator from God to people, and this is one of them.
The Reformation understanding of the Priesthood of Every Believer squelched any thought that any one person must be the mediator of our relationship with God. By virtue of the New Covenant, Jesus became the sole Mediator for all God’s people.
Nevertheless, the Declaration of Forgiveness runs the risk of looking like what we don’t believe in. Yes, that’s not a priest doing that, but it looks “priest-ly”. It’s a temptation to arrogance, suggesting that the pronouncer of pardon is above the sinners who need it.
So, what to do?
Looking back in history to the 1946 version of the Book of Common Worship, we find that the “Assurance of Pardon” to be said by the minister, in the first order, reads:
"Almighty God, who doth freely pardon all who repent and turn to Him, now fulfill in every contrite heart the promise of redeeming grace; remitting all our sins, and cleansing us from an evil conscience; through the perfect sacrifice of Christ Jesus our Lord."
The declaration or assurance includes the speaker! Pardon is assured for the minister as well as the people. He or she is in the same leaky boat of sin as everyone else, and personally affirms for him- herself the much-needed bailing out from God.
To be sure, one thing it would require is that the pastor/presider would have to pray the confession of sin personally and not just lead others in its recitation. If that is genuinely done, then the declaration or assurance including the speaker would be heartfelt as well.
What would happen if we pluralized those assurances and declarations of pardon and forgiveness so that the pastor/presider is one of the people? Perhaps this would narrow the lay-clergy gap in some churches. This small change would move the Declaration of Forgiveness from looking and sounding priestly to being more pastoral, less condescending and more compassionate.
Not a bad shift in tone for our liturgy.
How is the Declaration of Forgiveness conveyed to the people in your church?
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Integrated Preaching
Every once in a while I come across a Lord’s Day service in which the sermon is subjected to some kind of segregation from the rest of the liturgy.
For example, when the sermon is the only part of the service done by the preacher, it leads one to believe that it’s qualitatively different and distinct from everything else. This is probably more common where there are multiple pastors, when one preaches while the other serves as liturgist.
The distinction, made by some, that preaching is God’s Word addressed to the people, while the remainder is the people’s praise and prayers aimed God-ward, is faulty if not foolish. The entire liturgy is a dialogue between God and the people, including the sermon. The word “homiletics” comes from the Greek word, homilētikos, from the verb homilēo meaning “to converse with.” Sermons are always conversations, engaging the people in the pews as they mentally offer their prayerful and thoughtful responses.
Bad enough that the sermon is treated as a solo performance, one step away from entertainment, even worse is that the congregation is tacitly invited to sit back and relax and watch the preacher preach. If the people are not working during the sermon, then it ceases to be “liturgy” (= “the work of the people”) in any realistic form.
Too often it’s forgotten that every sermon has a unique context—or, better, many contexts. Preaching does not take place in a vacuum. Sermons arise out of Scripture, and travel the journey of the Dominical Year, supported by songs and hymns and anthems and other music that awakens the soul. These, one would hope, are fairly well accepted points of integration of preaching with the rest of the liturgy. There are two others, however, that are flagrantly neglected.
First of all, when preaching is separated from the prayers of the people, as well as other major prayers of the service, the sermon is cast adrift in the sea of abstraction. How this often happens is that lay liturgists or other staff pastors will fill these responsibilities by way of freeing the preacher to preach.
Long-time pastors who know their congregations well may get away with this—for a while. Sooner or later, however, the sermon will lose its pastoral sensitivity and go stale.
Pastoral prayer and preaching are closely linked. In this regard I always think of Harry Emerson Fosdick of Riverside Church in New York, who was not only a preacher of note, but one who had the spiritual capacity to envelop others in his prayers.* A friend of mine, who worshipped at Riverside back then, told me that when Fosdick led in prayer, he had the sense that the two of them were alone in the room, so intimate and powerful was the connection—and that this personal relationship continued in the sermon.
Preachers should always lead the congregation in prayer before stepping into the pulpit. It makes for better sermons.
The other notoriously neglected liturgical connection with preaching is the Eucharist. When there is no Supper to follow, the Word has not been fully presented, and the sermon has been diminished.
There are those who think that omitting the Sacrament gives more emphasis to the proclamation of the Word. That is true, but only in the sense that more time is allotted. Actually, ending the service without the Sacrament leaves the proclamation incomplete, and the worshipper’s experience of the Word only partial.
All the more reason, then, to return to celebrating Holy Communion every week. Not only is the Sacrament diminished by infrequent observance, but the proclamation of the Word in Scripture and sermon is also undermined. When they are separated in this way, neither is fulfilling its liturgical purpose. Word and Sacrament are unbreakably theologically linked and therefore both should be constantly integrated with the liturgy of the people.
Even though, regrettably, we so often do not celebrate the Sacrament on the Lord’s Day, when it is observed it would be appropriate to have the preacher preside at the Table. This would be a reasonable visual demonstration of the linking of Word and Sacrament.
Who leads the Prayers of the People where you worship? When you have Communion, does the preacher always preside? How often do you celebrate the Eucharist? Why?
________
*For some outstanding examples of “pastoral prayers” (even if the language is somewhat outdated), see if you can find a copy of Fosdick’s A Book of Public Prayers, Harper and Brothers, New York 1959.
For example, when the sermon is the only part of the service done by the preacher, it leads one to believe that it’s qualitatively different and distinct from everything else. This is probably more common where there are multiple pastors, when one preaches while the other serves as liturgist.
The distinction, made by some, that preaching is God’s Word addressed to the people, while the remainder is the people’s praise and prayers aimed God-ward, is faulty if not foolish. The entire liturgy is a dialogue between God and the people, including the sermon. The word “homiletics” comes from the Greek word, homilētikos, from the verb homilēo meaning “to converse with.” Sermons are always conversations, engaging the people in the pews as they mentally offer their prayerful and thoughtful responses.
Bad enough that the sermon is treated as a solo performance, one step away from entertainment, even worse is that the congregation is tacitly invited to sit back and relax and watch the preacher preach. If the people are not working during the sermon, then it ceases to be “liturgy” (= “the work of the people”) in any realistic form.
Too often it’s forgotten that every sermon has a unique context—or, better, many contexts. Preaching does not take place in a vacuum. Sermons arise out of Scripture, and travel the journey of the Dominical Year, supported by songs and hymns and anthems and other music that awakens the soul. These, one would hope, are fairly well accepted points of integration of preaching with the rest of the liturgy. There are two others, however, that are flagrantly neglected.
First of all, when preaching is separated from the prayers of the people, as well as other major prayers of the service, the sermon is cast adrift in the sea of abstraction. How this often happens is that lay liturgists or other staff pastors will fill these responsibilities by way of freeing the preacher to preach.
Long-time pastors who know their congregations well may get away with this—for a while. Sooner or later, however, the sermon will lose its pastoral sensitivity and go stale.
Pastoral prayer and preaching are closely linked. In this regard I always think of Harry Emerson Fosdick of Riverside Church in New York, who was not only a preacher of note, but one who had the spiritual capacity to envelop others in his prayers.* A friend of mine, who worshipped at Riverside back then, told me that when Fosdick led in prayer, he had the sense that the two of them were alone in the room, so intimate and powerful was the connection—and that this personal relationship continued in the sermon.
Preachers should always lead the congregation in prayer before stepping into the pulpit. It makes for better sermons.
The other notoriously neglected liturgical connection with preaching is the Eucharist. When there is no Supper to follow, the Word has not been fully presented, and the sermon has been diminished.
There are those who think that omitting the Sacrament gives more emphasis to the proclamation of the Word. That is true, but only in the sense that more time is allotted. Actually, ending the service without the Sacrament leaves the proclamation incomplete, and the worshipper’s experience of the Word only partial.
All the more reason, then, to return to celebrating Holy Communion every week. Not only is the Sacrament diminished by infrequent observance, but the proclamation of the Word in Scripture and sermon is also undermined. When they are separated in this way, neither is fulfilling its liturgical purpose. Word and Sacrament are unbreakably theologically linked and therefore both should be constantly integrated with the liturgy of the people.
Even though, regrettably, we so often do not celebrate the Sacrament on the Lord’s Day, when it is observed it would be appropriate to have the preacher preside at the Table. This would be a reasonable visual demonstration of the linking of Word and Sacrament.
Who leads the Prayers of the People where you worship? When you have Communion, does the preacher always preside? How often do you celebrate the Eucharist? Why?
________
*For some outstanding examples of “pastoral prayers” (even if the language is somewhat outdated), see if you can find a copy of Fosdick’s A Book of Public Prayers, Harper and Brothers, New York 1959.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Ad Lib Liturgy
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?
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?
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?
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