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?
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Invitation to Transcendence
If you thought we were finished with Easter, think again. The Season rolls on.
It’s not just that there is a seven-week-plus period of time we label “Easter”. More than that, we’re starting to catch on that the Easter experience infects the whole life of the church. Rehearsing the different facets of the narrative helps us absorb a story that changes hearts and minds, and renews lives, including ours.
In a very real way, Easter lingers on in the life of the church and becomes the dynamic theme of the Christian faith. This is true in our liturgy as well. Easter keeps popping up, on any Sunday, at any time. Again and again the Easter message finds expression in our praise and prayers.
For example, when we gather around the Table for the Lord’s Supper, the invitation often used includes a paraphrase of part of the account of one of the appearances of the risen Christ (Luke 24:30-32*):
According to Luke,
when our risen Lord was at table with his disciples,
he took the bread, and blessed and broke it,
and gave it to them.
Then their eyes were opened
and they recognized him.
The next lines transfer that biblical experience of awareness and awe from the two disciples to all of us gathered at the Lord’s Table:
This is the Lord’s table.
Our Savior invites those who trust him
to share the feast which he has prepared.
This is not a casual connection. The words of the liturgy were crafted intentionally to make sure we realize that our ritual acts at the table are related to what happened at another table so long ago.
Now the temptation is to squeeze time and push the two events, the Emmaus meal and our Lord’s Supper, together. By so doing, we might imagine that we are going back in time to be with Jesus just as the disciples were.
Yet if we do that, the Lord’s Supper becomes nostalgia, a fond, and often foolish, remembering of things gone and lost forever. Quickly the experience is filed away like faded photographs, and while it may have been nice in the moment, is has no continuing impact.
Yet the two events at two different tables, one set nearly twenty centuries ago, and the other where we are today, are, in fact, brought together now. The experience of the disciples then, becomes our experience now: our eyes are opened and we recognize the Risen Lord in the common acts of breaking bread and pouring wine.
Clearly this is not a ritual to plow through quickly. It calls for reflection, for pondering, for wondering, for looking inward as well as outward in the community of faith. We are to approach this table expecting something to happen, anticipating a promise to be kept.
The words of the liturgy introduce more than an act of serving bits of bread and sips of wine to a crowd—they are an introduction of a Person, Christ himself really present in our midst. The liturgy invites us to transcendence. What was beyond our grasp before is now in our hands. What has been ethereal and wispy is now tangible and true. What may have been abstract is comprehensible. What seemed otherworldly is real. In short, when we celebrate the Lord’s Supper, the transcendent becomes immanent.
This is a repeated mystery. Again and again God’s people find themselves around a table they thought was theirs to meet the Living Lord as their Host. The words of the liturgy make the introduction.
Is there a sense of awe and mystery when Communion is celebrated at your church? Do people expect anything wonderful to happen?
___________________________________
*When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?" (NRSV)
It’s not just that there is a seven-week-plus period of time we label “Easter”. More than that, we’re starting to catch on that the Easter experience infects the whole life of the church. Rehearsing the different facets of the narrative helps us absorb a story that changes hearts and minds, and renews lives, including ours.
In a very real way, Easter lingers on in the life of the church and becomes the dynamic theme of the Christian faith. This is true in our liturgy as well. Easter keeps popping up, on any Sunday, at any time. Again and again the Easter message finds expression in our praise and prayers.
For example, when we gather around the Table for the Lord’s Supper, the invitation often used includes a paraphrase of part of the account of one of the appearances of the risen Christ (Luke 24:30-32*):
According to Luke,
when our risen Lord was at table with his disciples,
he took the bread, and blessed and broke it,
and gave it to them.
Then their eyes were opened
and they recognized him.
The next lines transfer that biblical experience of awareness and awe from the two disciples to all of us gathered at the Lord’s Table:
This is the Lord’s table.
Our Savior invites those who trust him
to share the feast which he has prepared.
This is not a casual connection. The words of the liturgy were crafted intentionally to make sure we realize that our ritual acts at the table are related to what happened at another table so long ago.
Now the temptation is to squeeze time and push the two events, the Emmaus meal and our Lord’s Supper, together. By so doing, we might imagine that we are going back in time to be with Jesus just as the disciples were.
Yet if we do that, the Lord’s Supper becomes nostalgia, a fond, and often foolish, remembering of things gone and lost forever. Quickly the experience is filed away like faded photographs, and while it may have been nice in the moment, is has no continuing impact.
Yet the two events at two different tables, one set nearly twenty centuries ago, and the other where we are today, are, in fact, brought together now. The experience of the disciples then, becomes our experience now: our eyes are opened and we recognize the Risen Lord in the common acts of breaking bread and pouring wine.
Clearly this is not a ritual to plow through quickly. It calls for reflection, for pondering, for wondering, for looking inward as well as outward in the community of faith. We are to approach this table expecting something to happen, anticipating a promise to be kept.
The words of the liturgy introduce more than an act of serving bits of bread and sips of wine to a crowd—they are an introduction of a Person, Christ himself really present in our midst. The liturgy invites us to transcendence. What was beyond our grasp before is now in our hands. What has been ethereal and wispy is now tangible and true. What may have been abstract is comprehensible. What seemed otherworldly is real. In short, when we celebrate the Lord’s Supper, the transcendent becomes immanent.
This is a repeated mystery. Again and again God’s people find themselves around a table they thought was theirs to meet the Living Lord as their Host. The words of the liturgy make the introduction.
Is there a sense of awe and mystery when Communion is celebrated at your church? Do people expect anything wonderful to happen?
___________________________________
*When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?" (NRSV)
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Descending
In some circles, the Sunday after Easter is referred to as “Low Sunday.” This always brings a snicker from those who think it applies it to the low attendance in church. Apparently the term came from the fact that the Sunday following the grand and high celebration of Easter Day was bound to be less enthusiastic.
Nevertheless, Easter (the Season, that is) moves on its seven-week journey to Pentecost. During these Great Fifty Days we explore the mystery of the Resurrection of Christ, and its implications for and impacts on each one of us.
During the Easter Vigil, in reaffirming our baptisms, we recited the Apostles’ Creed via a question-and-answer process. One line in it struck me as relevant for Easter reflection, and brought back memories.
When I was but a mere lad learning my way among words and sentences, going to church was an educational event. My dad was often the tutor, pointing out the words in print as they were spoken or sung by the people. It was fun to follow along, exciting to be part of the celebration.
As a succinct statement of the Christian faith, the Apostle’s Creed was a wonderful foundational piece of liturgy for a boy like me. There was a small glitch in it, however. Every time the congregation affirmed their faith using the Creed, they left out a line—I saw it there in the print version in the front of the hymnal: “He descended into hell.” The fugitive line was marked with an asterisk, referring to a simple note stating the obvious: “Some churches omit this.”
At first, from my childish viewpoint, I thought it was omitted because of the swear word it contained. Much later I discovered it was a controversial affirmation, and perhaps misunderstood—worthy at least of some serious consideration.
“The descent of Christ into hell” is controversial probably because there is no broad consensus about what it means. As a theological concept, there are a number of different meanings read into it. As a doctrinal statement, it’s ambiguous.
For some it’s a statement about the hell of death’s agony that Christ experienced—an extension of the redundant statement that he was “crucified, dead, and buried.” It was one more way of saying he was really dead, dead, dead, all the way down dead—to heighten the impossibility of such a dramatic event as his resurrection.
Christ’s descent into hell has also been noted as the sign of his enduring complete separation from God on our behalf, and that his resurrection is an even more dramatic restoration of his and our relationship to God.
For others, “hell” is a translation of the Greek Hades, the place where the dead abide, both the godly and ungodly. The idea is suggested here that Christ descended to bring back those of history who were God’s servants, just as he brought Lazarus back from the dead. Orthodox icons picture Jesus lifting Adam and Eve out of their tombs.
Maybe it meant that he went also to give the ungodly one more chance, proclaiming his Good News to the lost so they might be found again and caught up in the embrace of God.
Christ’s going down to the dead is also understood metaphorically, reminding us that there is nowhere Christ will not go to bring us out of the tombs of death that threaten to box us in, and give us resurrection in our own lives.
Nevertheless, precious few sermons have been preached on this line of the creed (I confess neglecting it), and it hasn’t attracted a lot of academic theological analysis either. The descent of Christ to the dead might be thought a minor theological point, but there it is in the Creed.
Perhaps the statement’s ambiguity is its virtue. It calls us, as does the rest of the Creed, and the Nicene Creed as well, to find application of our affirmed faith to the lives we live. We are summoned to explore another dimension of the mystery of life and death—and resurrection—that we see in Jesus Christ.
Does your church include the phrase, “He descended into hell” in the Apostles’ Creed? What do you understand it to mean? Would you prefer to include it in the Creed or omit it? Why?
Nevertheless, Easter (the Season, that is) moves on its seven-week journey to Pentecost. During these Great Fifty Days we explore the mystery of the Resurrection of Christ, and its implications for and impacts on each one of us.
During the Easter Vigil, in reaffirming our baptisms, we recited the Apostles’ Creed via a question-and-answer process. One line in it struck me as relevant for Easter reflection, and brought back memories.
When I was but a mere lad learning my way among words and sentences, going to church was an educational event. My dad was often the tutor, pointing out the words in print as they were spoken or sung by the people. It was fun to follow along, exciting to be part of the celebration.
As a succinct statement of the Christian faith, the Apostle’s Creed was a wonderful foundational piece of liturgy for a boy like me. There was a small glitch in it, however. Every time the congregation affirmed their faith using the Creed, they left out a line—I saw it there in the print version in the front of the hymnal: “He descended into hell.” The fugitive line was marked with an asterisk, referring to a simple note stating the obvious: “Some churches omit this.”
At first, from my childish viewpoint, I thought it was omitted because of the swear word it contained. Much later I discovered it was a controversial affirmation, and perhaps misunderstood—worthy at least of some serious consideration.
“The descent of Christ into hell” is controversial probably because there is no broad consensus about what it means. As a theological concept, there are a number of different meanings read into it. As a doctrinal statement, it’s ambiguous.
For some it’s a statement about the hell of death’s agony that Christ experienced—an extension of the redundant statement that he was “crucified, dead, and buried.” It was one more way of saying he was really dead, dead, dead, all the way down dead—to heighten the impossibility of such a dramatic event as his resurrection.
Christ’s descent into hell has also been noted as the sign of his enduring complete separation from God on our behalf, and that his resurrection is an even more dramatic restoration of his and our relationship to God.
For others, “hell” is a translation of the Greek Hades, the place where the dead abide, both the godly and ungodly. The idea is suggested here that Christ descended to bring back those of history who were God’s servants, just as he brought Lazarus back from the dead. Orthodox icons picture Jesus lifting Adam and Eve out of their tombs.
Maybe it meant that he went also to give the ungodly one more chance, proclaiming his Good News to the lost so they might be found again and caught up in the embrace of God.
Christ’s going down to the dead is also understood metaphorically, reminding us that there is nowhere Christ will not go to bring us out of the tombs of death that threaten to box us in, and give us resurrection in our own lives.
Nevertheless, precious few sermons have been preached on this line of the creed (I confess neglecting it), and it hasn’t attracted a lot of academic theological analysis either. The descent of Christ to the dead might be thought a minor theological point, but there it is in the Creed.
Perhaps the statement’s ambiguity is its virtue. It calls us, as does the rest of the Creed, and the Nicene Creed as well, to find application of our affirmed faith to the lives we live. We are summoned to explore another dimension of the mystery of life and death—and resurrection—that we see in Jesus Christ.
Does your church include the phrase, “He descended into hell” in the Apostles’ Creed? What do you understand it to mean? Would you prefer to include it in the Creed or omit it? Why?
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