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
Friday, May 25, 2012
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?
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Can Church-Going Be Spiritual?
There’s an oxymoron for you: “Church-going” and “spiritual” in the same sentence? Nevertheless it’s a real question, and for many the obvious answer is, “of course not!”
Our culture has come to drive a sharp wedge between what, for want of better terms, might be called “religion” and “spirituality”.
The “religious” types are characterized as those (usually older) folks to toddle off to church on a Sunday, and make their way through whatever formal liturgy is set before them.
The “spiritual” ones are (usually younger) people who are not likely to be seen in church on Sunday, but even so consider themselves God’s children and constantly seek, by various means, a stronger connection with the Almighty.
Before you start filing yourself and everyone you know in one folder or the other, please understand that these are not “never-the-twain-shall-meet” categories. All of us, if the truth be known, and if we take our faith seriously to almost any degree, will find ourselves shifting to and fro, and often settling on a blend of the two.
For one thing, setting oneself to the task of worship, even in a church building with a group including strangers as well as friends, is in itself a spiritual discipline. It may not be the most thrilling or profound experience, but that’s beside the point that worship is a way for people to seek an encounter with God.
Where the church often fails, is in corporate worship that is unrecognizable as a spiritual discipline. If the liturgy is lifeless, the prayers pedestrian, and the scripture stammered out, then it becomes an activity to be endured rather than to be entered into.
What needs to happen is that we catch on to the fact that in order to worship in any fashion or tradition, we will need to claim various insights and means that can only be defined as “spiritual”.
Each of the various acts of worship in a given service reveals where “spiritual disciplines” come into play. For right now, however, let’s focus on one.
The Prayers of the People is a relatively new term for most of us older folks. In my youth and early ministry, the term was The Pastoral Prayer. The idea was, I suppose, that the pastor was qualified to write and then speak the prayer by virtue of being the pastor—the one who shepherded the congregation and cared for the spiritual, and sometimes physical, needs of the people.
As a result of being a good pastor, she or he could take a quiet hour or so in the study to contemplate the people’s circumstances and the grace of God, and then craft an appropriate prayer. When the pastor read the prayer during worship, if done with sensitivity, the people would hear it as their own.
The Pastoral Prayer, then, was really the Prayers of the People. The format changed, however, so that the people were not allowed to be so passive in prayer. Forms of bidding prayers, guided prayers and congregational refrains led to more involvement vocally, and, it was hoped, spiritually, in each petition.
The prayers themselves became more generic in order to cover more territory, and required more thoughtfulness on the part of the people. Prayer book prayers, written long ago and far away by strangers, don’t always cut it, so it’s still necessary for pastoral editing and writing to take place to make them fit “this congregation, today”.
The most important thing to remember, of course, is that these are the people’s prayers—not the pastor’s or anyone else’s. So in offering the prayers, in presenting them with and for the people, time and care must be taken to encourage the worshippers to engage in spiritual disciplines.
For example, the discipline of silence. Too often pastoral and people’s prayers are rattled through. Without meaningful pauses, such prayers will go by in a flash, unused by those in the pews.
When there is quiet time in prayers, the spiritual disciplines of meditation and reflection can take place. Each person has the opportunity to make the prayers their own, to fill in the blanks and add their own petitions, and to have their souls open to the touch of the Holy Spirit.
Elsewhere in a worship service similar spiritual opportunities are available: quiet centering at the beginning of the service, celebrating the grace of God, a silent prayer of personal confession, quiet contemplation following Scripture readings, rejoicing in the community of faith, pausing to reflect on the mystery of it all when receiving the elements of the Lord’s Supper, thoughtfully accepting the charge and benediction—all are ways of seeking and being open to the presence of the living Christ.
Going to church should not be devoid of spiritual experience. On the contrary, that’s what it’s all about.
How would you define “spirituality”? Where do you find worship in your church to be “spiritual” for you?
Our culture has come to drive a sharp wedge between what, for want of better terms, might be called “religion” and “spirituality”.
The “religious” types are characterized as those (usually older) folks to toddle off to church on a Sunday, and make their way through whatever formal liturgy is set before them.
The “spiritual” ones are (usually younger) people who are not likely to be seen in church on Sunday, but even so consider themselves God’s children and constantly seek, by various means, a stronger connection with the Almighty.
Before you start filing yourself and everyone you know in one folder or the other, please understand that these are not “never-the-twain-shall-meet” categories. All of us, if the truth be known, and if we take our faith seriously to almost any degree, will find ourselves shifting to and fro, and often settling on a blend of the two.
For one thing, setting oneself to the task of worship, even in a church building with a group including strangers as well as friends, is in itself a spiritual discipline. It may not be the most thrilling or profound experience, but that’s beside the point that worship is a way for people to seek an encounter with God.
Where the church often fails, is in corporate worship that is unrecognizable as a spiritual discipline. If the liturgy is lifeless, the prayers pedestrian, and the scripture stammered out, then it becomes an activity to be endured rather than to be entered into.
What needs to happen is that we catch on to the fact that in order to worship in any fashion or tradition, we will need to claim various insights and means that can only be defined as “spiritual”.
Each of the various acts of worship in a given service reveals where “spiritual disciplines” come into play. For right now, however, let’s focus on one.
The Prayers of the People is a relatively new term for most of us older folks. In my youth and early ministry, the term was The Pastoral Prayer. The idea was, I suppose, that the pastor was qualified to write and then speak the prayer by virtue of being the pastor—the one who shepherded the congregation and cared for the spiritual, and sometimes physical, needs of the people.
As a result of being a good pastor, she or he could take a quiet hour or so in the study to contemplate the people’s circumstances and the grace of God, and then craft an appropriate prayer. When the pastor read the prayer during worship, if done with sensitivity, the people would hear it as their own.
The Pastoral Prayer, then, was really the Prayers of the People. The format changed, however, so that the people were not allowed to be so passive in prayer. Forms of bidding prayers, guided prayers and congregational refrains led to more involvement vocally, and, it was hoped, spiritually, in each petition.
The prayers themselves became more generic in order to cover more territory, and required more thoughtfulness on the part of the people. Prayer book prayers, written long ago and far away by strangers, don’t always cut it, so it’s still necessary for pastoral editing and writing to take place to make them fit “this congregation, today”.
The most important thing to remember, of course, is that these are the people’s prayers—not the pastor’s or anyone else’s. So in offering the prayers, in presenting them with and for the people, time and care must be taken to encourage the worshippers to engage in spiritual disciplines.
For example, the discipline of silence. Too often pastoral and people’s prayers are rattled through. Without meaningful pauses, such prayers will go by in a flash, unused by those in the pews.
When there is quiet time in prayers, the spiritual disciplines of meditation and reflection can take place. Each person has the opportunity to make the prayers their own, to fill in the blanks and add their own petitions, and to have their souls open to the touch of the Holy Spirit.
Elsewhere in a worship service similar spiritual opportunities are available: quiet centering at the beginning of the service, celebrating the grace of God, a silent prayer of personal confession, quiet contemplation following Scripture readings, rejoicing in the community of faith, pausing to reflect on the mystery of it all when receiving the elements of the Lord’s Supper, thoughtfully accepting the charge and benediction—all are ways of seeking and being open to the presence of the living Christ.
Going to church should not be devoid of spiritual experience. On the contrary, that’s what it’s all about.
How would you define “spirituality”? Where do you find worship in your church to be “spiritual” for you?
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
24-Hour Easter
As a companion piece to my rant last December about having to sort out two Christmases, the subject this week is the Easter dilemma, also resulting from an overlap of secular culture and the Christian calendar.
In the world around us, Easter Sunday is observed, yes, even celebrated, as a paean to spring. Longer days, better weather, and the end to cabin fever are causes for rejoicing.
The hymnody of the day includes such melodious odes as “Easter Parade” and “In My Easter Bonnet”. Rituals feature egg dying, egg hiding and egg hunting. Bright colored vestments are the order of the day, as are jelly beans and other candies to delight the taste. The personification of the spirit of the season is the Easter Bunny.
So much for the secular holiday. Now with fear and trembling we turn to the Christmas Holy Day of Easter, only to discover that Easter is not a single day as we’d been led to believe, but a season of seven full weeks plus a day for a total of fifty days.
For the rest of the world, however, Easter is over and done with. While Christians are supposed to have barely begun observance and celebration, the attendance charts for the Sundays of the Season of Easter reveal that most members have bought the 24-hour Easter concept.
Part of the problem is, strangely enough, how the church has come to deal with the crucifixion of Christ, which is a necessary preliminary to Easter.
In the old days (prior to 1955), the Sunday before Easter was observed just about universally among Christians as “Palm Sunday”, recalling the great parade of Jesus and his fans into Jerusalem. That signaled the start of Holy Week, step-by-step leading up to the Passion of Christ.
There came a time when the Roman Church, for a variety of reasons, decided that the Gospel readings for the sixth Sunday of Lent would include the Synoptics’ accounts of Christ’s suffering and death. In the wake of Vatican II, many Protestants, including Presbyterians, bought this practice as well.
Several reasons are cited for this, most of which are fairly obtuse, except for one honest one: Let’s deal with the Passion of Christ the Sunday before Easter because realistically not many people go to Good Friday services—and we shouldn’t just go from one celebration (Palm Sunday) to another (Easter). Therefore, the narrative of the Passion of Christ is squeezed in as a footnote to Palm Sunday.
(As an aside: Why don’t we call it Palm/Passion Sunday, if we’re going to continue this practice, instead of Passion/Palm Sunday, which is out of chronological order?)
The result of this minimalizing of the crucifixion by making it part of Sunday worship rather than allowing it a day of its own is to minimalize the Resurrection as well. What is dealt with in a piece of Palm Sunday liturgy can be disposed of easily in a 24-hour Easter.
On the other hand, if we were to give full throttle to Holy Week, including the Triduum (the Great Three Days of Maudy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday ending with the Easter Vigil) we would recognize the need to continue the Easter response. What happened during Holy Week deserves rehearsing in our lives, and the results of the Resurrection speak volumes to the God-given new life we receive from the Risen Lord.
What this all means is that we need to put some energy into restoring the Christian calendar. It’s been too easy to abandon it for the sake of convenience and acquiescence to another Hallmark holiday. Lent in its fullness includes a profound Holy Week, which deserves to be followed by an even greater, longer season of rejoicing in Christ’s resurrection.
Does your church have services on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and/or Holy Saturday (Easter Vigil)? What happens in your congregation in the way of on-going Easter observances all the way to Pentecost?
In the world around us, Easter Sunday is observed, yes, even celebrated, as a paean to spring. Longer days, better weather, and the end to cabin fever are causes for rejoicing.
The hymnody of the day includes such melodious odes as “Easter Parade” and “In My Easter Bonnet”. Rituals feature egg dying, egg hiding and egg hunting. Bright colored vestments are the order of the day, as are jelly beans and other candies to delight the taste. The personification of the spirit of the season is the Easter Bunny.
So much for the secular holiday. Now with fear and trembling we turn to the Christmas Holy Day of Easter, only to discover that Easter is not a single day as we’d been led to believe, but a season of seven full weeks plus a day for a total of fifty days.
For the rest of the world, however, Easter is over and done with. While Christians are supposed to have barely begun observance and celebration, the attendance charts for the Sundays of the Season of Easter reveal that most members have bought the 24-hour Easter concept.
Part of the problem is, strangely enough, how the church has come to deal with the crucifixion of Christ, which is a necessary preliminary to Easter.
In the old days (prior to 1955), the Sunday before Easter was observed just about universally among Christians as “Palm Sunday”, recalling the great parade of Jesus and his fans into Jerusalem. That signaled the start of Holy Week, step-by-step leading up to the Passion of Christ.
There came a time when the Roman Church, for a variety of reasons, decided that the Gospel readings for the sixth Sunday of Lent would include the Synoptics’ accounts of Christ’s suffering and death. In the wake of Vatican II, many Protestants, including Presbyterians, bought this practice as well.
Several reasons are cited for this, most of which are fairly obtuse, except for one honest one: Let’s deal with the Passion of Christ the Sunday before Easter because realistically not many people go to Good Friday services—and we shouldn’t just go from one celebration (Palm Sunday) to another (Easter). Therefore, the narrative of the Passion of Christ is squeezed in as a footnote to Palm Sunday.
(As an aside: Why don’t we call it Palm/Passion Sunday, if we’re going to continue this practice, instead of Passion/Palm Sunday, which is out of chronological order?)
The result of this minimalizing of the crucifixion by making it part of Sunday worship rather than allowing it a day of its own is to minimalize the Resurrection as well. What is dealt with in a piece of Palm Sunday liturgy can be disposed of easily in a 24-hour Easter.
On the other hand, if we were to give full throttle to Holy Week, including the Triduum (the Great Three Days of Maudy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday ending with the Easter Vigil) we would recognize the need to continue the Easter response. What happened during Holy Week deserves rehearsing in our lives, and the results of the Resurrection speak volumes to the God-given new life we receive from the Risen Lord.
What this all means is that we need to put some energy into restoring the Christian calendar. It’s been too easy to abandon it for the sake of convenience and acquiescence to another Hallmark holiday. Lent in its fullness includes a profound Holy Week, which deserves to be followed by an even greater, longer season of rejoicing in Christ’s resurrection.
Does your church have services on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and/or Holy Saturday (Easter Vigil)? What happens in your congregation in the way of on-going Easter observances all the way to Pentecost?
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