Boxes and The Collect For Purity
May 3, 2010
NOTE: I read this reflection last week during the liturgy before the Collect For Purity.
Many of us live much of our lives in individual little boxes. We are inevitably insulated from the lives of others by the mini-environments we surround ourselves with. We wake up in the box of our home, make our own coffee, eat our own breakfast and drive away in the box of our cars, listening to our own music and going at our own pace.
At work or school, we occupy the box of our desk, shuffling through our email inboxes and the quaint little box of our “to do” list. At the end of the day the car box and the home box and the TV box and the computer box are waiting to encapsulate us again.
But this first part of worship, The Gathering, is designed to break the box. The prayers and music call us out of our individual spaces and into a bigger space, God’s space—where we discover a different pace, God’s pace—and a new people, God’s people.
The medieval Church had fallen into the habit of relegating this part of the liturgy to the clergy alone, before the service began, in an enclosed, exclusive place—a box, if you will.
But the Anglican Reformer Thomas Cranmer believed The Gathering was a call to everyone in the church, not just the priests. So when he wrote our Book of Common Prayer, he moved The Gathering from the clergy’s box to the common place of the people. All were to participate in gathering together—for we were all called into God’s shared space.
So let this prayer lift you from your box. God’s space is waiting and open. It is the place you’ll meet the divine. It is the place you’ll meet your community. It is the place we stand in now.
Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hidden: cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.
David Bentley Hart: An Orthodox Easter
March 30, 2010
This also included some observations on Holy Week so I thought I might risk talking about Easter before Holy Week has come to a finale. HT: Wall Street Journal
An Orthodox Easter
Expressive extravagance, dramaturgical splendor.
By DAVID B. HART
Friday, A
pril 9, 2004 12:01 A.M. EDT
This is one of those rare years when Christians of the Eastern and Western communions will celebrate Easter on the same Sunday. For those of us who–in quixotic moments–blow upon the gray embers of our hopes for a reunited Church, this is always an especially happy occasion. We may not all be entering into the mysteries of Christ’s death and resurrection as one, but at least this year we are doing it at the same time.
After all, one of those tiresome platitudes that hovers over the division between the ancient churches is that, whereas Eastern Orthodox tradition principally emphasizes the resurrection of Christ, Catholic (and Protestant) tradition principally emphasizes his death. The one, it is said, proclaims more a “theology of glory”; the other, more a “theology of the cross.”
There may be some truth in this, but not much. The more deeply one ventures into either tradition, the more one grasps the inseparability in both of Christ’s passion and glorification, his sacrifice and his victory. And it is in just these rare years when our two Paschal calendars coincide–when we mourn and rejoice together–that this commonality seems especially evident.
One genuinely pronounced difference between East and West does, however, become obvious at these times: that of liturgical sensibility. Nor is this insignificant. How we worship very much determines how we “see” the suffering or risen Christ in our devotions.
To those unfamiliar with Orthodox worship, it is difficult to convey a proper sense of its sheer expressive extravagance–its dramaturgical splendor, its combination of the mystical and the spectacular, its profusion of symbols, poetry and large forceful gestures. The churches are lavishly adorned with icons, the entire liturgy is sung, the services are long and intricate, and everything (if well executed) is utterly absorbing.
And during Holy Week (or Passion Week, as it is called in the East), all this liturgical exorbitance reaches its climax. As the week progresses, worship becomes all but continuous, morning and evening, culminating in three magnificent services in which is concentrated all the dramatic genius of Byzantine liturgy.
On Friday night, the service of Lamentation is celebrated. An image of the dead Christ is laid in his funeral bier (ornately carved, copiously decorated with flowers), and shatteringly powerful hymns of mourning are sung over him. The bier is then borne in procession around the outside of the church; briefly, the church doors become the gates of Hades, upon which the priest beats with the book of the Gospels to announce the arrival of the Lord of Glory, who comes to plunder death of its captives.
The eucharistic liturgy on Saturday morning is an unapologetic exercise in triumphalism. Its governing theme is Christ’s conquest of death, sin and the devil, and his harrowing of hell. At one point, in fact, the priest passes through the congregation flinging bay leaves to every side as a symbol of Christ’s victory.
And this same triumphalism pervades the Easter Vigil that begins that same night and continues on well into the early hours of Easter morning. At the moment of highest drama, at midnight, all the lights in the church are extinguished, and the faithful wait in total darkness. The priest then bears a lighted candle in through the central door of the great icon screen behind which the altar is hidden, as a symbol of the risen Christ departing from his tomb, and summons the congregation to light the candles they have brought with them from this flame.
Thereafter, the liturgy is all light and joy, punctuated by frequent repetitions of the great Paschal hymn–”Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tombs restoring life!” And (incredibly enough) a feast follows.
As I have said, one must experience such worship to understand its profundity. I can say only that, in my two decades of being Orthodox, the power of these services has not diminished in the least; and every year, at one point or another, I become entirely lost in the glory of the Gospel being announced and portrayed before my eyes.
And as, again, this is one of those years when one can almost deceive oneself that the churches are united, I might finish by recommending an Eastern custom to all Christians, of every communion. For 40 days following Easter, the Orthodox greet one another with the words “Christ is risen!” To which the correct response is “He is risen indeed!”
Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams on Holy Week
March 27, 2010
Buddy Christ: Conductor of the Great Guilt Machine
January 15, 2010
There is a great degree of peace that comes from not only knowing who you are, but also in finding a Christian community that embraces who you are while helping you to improve your obedience to Christ. In my personal journey of faith, I have experienced this peace most poignantly after making a transition from what has come to be known as a “low church” setting to what is called the “high church” setting. Let’s get the formalities out of the way, first. High church most commonly refers to how a church conducts its worship services. They typically incorporate the church calendar into a pre-determined order of service and annual order of services. They typically incorporate some form of worship vestments, ritual, and other such accoutrements. They typically conduct their worship in buildings that one could consider more architecturally sacred or traditional (as much of the liturgy actually plays off the layout of the worship space). All of this informs the “high church’s” ecclesiology and theology as well. Just how that liturgy informs one’s theology is precisely the point of this post.
First, perhaps most importantly, I do not intend to speak pejoratively of the Low Church tradition. I have not come to think of “low church” as meaning unsophisticated or less intellectual, which is often the case when folks use the term. I use the terms low church and high church in their appropriate sense, as described above. Nonetheless, there is an interesting shift in perspective that seems to have taken place in my move to the high church. Indeed, it is the reason making the move has proven so spiritually healthy for me.
Much of the Low Church practices what I like to call “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. For the sake of clarity, I am not accusing all Low Church Christians of practicing “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. In fact, I have healthy relationships with a number of people that seem to be able to function within the Low Church tradition without being affected by “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. Now, in fairness, I have many, many more friends in the Low Church that are completely and irrevocably invested in “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. And, frankly, it serves them well. Until you have been part of a congregation comprised of the poorest of the poor - the dregs of society, that comes together on Sunday and rejoices that they have a Savior that is friend and brother, I am not sure you can really appreciate the value of the Low Church. However, though I have seen plenty of my own personal poverty, I am not wired like anyone that benefits from “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity.
Here’s the inside track on “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity. These Christians actually have a relational experience with Christ that functions in the place of deep, fulfilling human relationships. However, if you can imagine the relational guilt and frustration that comes from having a close friend snub you, then you can understand how the Low Church brand of “Jesus is my best friend” Christianity became a toxic environment for me.
I have never felt guilt over anything like I did when I would hear friends; pastors or relatives speak of their “relationship” with Jesus. Jesus doesn’t whisper in my ear throughout the day like my bff. He doesn’t greet me in the morning with gentle encouragement like my wife. He doesn’t hold me in his arms and comfort me like a parent when tragedy strikes. Jesus isn’t my best friend. And until I figured out how that played into who I am, I lived a guilt-ridden existence.
I have prayed much penance, and I have performed much personal punishment, and I have cried out in anxiety on many occasions, because I was left thinking that Jesus didn’t want to be my best friend since I didn’t experience those things. You can imagine how distressing that must be since another essential doctrine of the Low Church is how damn much Jesus loves everyone and everything, except apparently (I thought) for me. So, needless to say, once I was able to remove myself from that environment, life got a bit better.
Consequently, the high church seems to fit who I am. I don’t know if I have some raging, uncontrollable ego; if I am incorrigibly greedy or if I am just so stubborn (perhaps none?). Nonetheless, I need God to be bigger than me. I need God to be transcendent and awesome. I need church to be sacred and the things of Christ to be holy. I need there to be deep reverence and ceremony – not because it is “better,” “smarter,” or more “correct.” I need those things, because that is who I am in Christ. It is how my heart worships. I get lost in the wonder and mystery and terror that are the worship of a holy, awesome God in a high church setting. Jesus isn’t my buddy; he is my True Lord, my High Priest, and my Exalted King.
12 Propositions…#8
January 1, 2010
The Seasons of Advent and Christmas are different, they have different emphasis, one is penitential the other a feast. Hymns, Readings, Collects, Antiphons etc… should reflect this.
Miracle on Silver and Fourth Street: How the Liturgy Saved Christmas
November 4, 2009
This Advent season, I will have been an Episcopalian for one year. For those of you with the patience, fortitude, or whatever else it may take, I offer the story of my Christmas miracle. Hopefully, many of you will read this soon enough to invest serious, personal introspection into your celebration of Advent. It has literally changed my life. Like Scrooge, I was rescued from damnation by supernatural intervention – Like the Wise Men, I was led to the Truth by celestial signs – Like the shepherds, I learned to sing about joy to the world.
When I was twelve, my family’s move to a trailer park in a rural town just south of Albuquerque meant an increase in living standards. We had been living in the city’s only definable ghetto – affectionately referred to as the “warzone” by townies. Honestly, my broken family did their best to insulate me and my siblings from the gangs, drugs, and societal ills that seem to accompany poverty. I was a married adult with children before I really appreciated just how destitute my family was when I was growing up. In fact, I never knew it was odd for someone’s parents to raid their piggy bank for money in order to buy a can of soup so that the family could eat dinner until I was at a private college, rubbing elbows with students fretting about maintaining a 2.0 GPA so that their parents wouldn’t take away their Lexus and $1,000.00 per month spending allowance.
I feel like this is necessary background for appreciating the fact that I have always loved Christmas, always. My family’s inability to lavish me with gifts, vacations, and parties didn’t seem to lessen my appreciation for the cultural juggernaut that is Christmas. The sights, sounds, and spirit of Christmas have always captivated me in spite of poverty (- perhaps, because of poverty?). I am literally like the father played by Matthew Broderick in “Deck the Halls.” I have two Christmas trees, 100 wall feet of lighted garland, 5 wreaths, 48 hours of Christmas music on iTunes, a partridge in a pear tree, etc, etc that I cannot wait to dive into every year (it goes up on Thanksgiving day and stays up until well past January 1 – a fact that drives my brother absolutely insane). I am obnoxiously cheery for 6 weeks before and all the way through Christmas, and then obnoxiously depressed for all of January and February because it’s over. I think it bears repeating, I LOVE CHRISTMAS.
“There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.”
~ Erma Bombeck (1927-1996), American author and humorist.
You can probably imagine, then, the disquietude I felt over something that happened three years ago. Christmas had always been symbolic to me of the good that could still come out of humanity. Being around people who are tying to be the best they can be is intoxicating. I have always loved Christmas, in part, because it represents what humanity can accomplish under the right circumstances. My wife and I had just moved into a new house, had our second child, and I had turned our entire home into a wintery wonderland. Coming from a broken home, I was seriously under the impression that my father’s neglect would be some how atoned for by my own careful fathering. So, one night, late in December of ’06, I was struck by the onset of a harrowing realization that I had lived my life up to that point as an attempt to right my parents’ wrongs, but that such a thing could never be accomplished. Everything was about fixing my broken childhood and, therefore, counterfeit: my love of Christmas, my desire to have a healthy family, my pursuit of education, hell, even my faith seemed counterfeit. There, in my upstairs living room in front of an immaculately decorated Noble Fir that could have been in a display case at Macy’s, I began to sob uncontrollably.
“The earth has grown old with its burden of care
But at Christmas it always is young,
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair
And its soul full of music breaks the air,
When the song of angels is sung.”
~ Phillips Brooks (1835-93), American Episcopal bishop, wrote ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.
My wife came in to check on me and we shared one of those tender moments in a marriage that galvanizes the union between two people (it was far too emotionally intimate and spiritually significant to share here – I hope, though, that anyone reading this knows what I mean from experience). She prayed with and for me, and I began a slow recovery from the shock that I experienced. However, when a year had passed, I found myself manically celebrating Christmas, desperately hoping to revive the wonder and joy that it had given me all of my life. I was pathetic. It was like watching a small child cling to the lifeless body of a parent that was murdered before their innocent eyes. Christmas was dead, and try as I might, it could not be revived in my heart. I put on the right face, I smiled and laughed at the right times, but I spent that entire holiday season in sheer terror that I had forever lost something very special to me.
“Advent is concerned with that very connection between memory and hope which is so necessary to man. Advent’s intention is to awaken the most profound and basic emotional memory within us, namely, the memory of the God who became a child. This is a healing memory; it brings hope. The purpose of the Church’s year is continually to rehearse her great history of memories, to awaken the heart’s memory so that it can discern the star of hope.…It is the beautiful task of Advent to awaken in all of us memories of goodness and thus to open doors of hope.”
~ Pope Benedict XVI (Joseph Ratzinger), Seek That Which Is Above, 1986.
This all happened to coincide with a bevy of church and professional issues that were serving to clarify that God was calling me out of the Assemblies of God. Consequently, in the fall of 2008 I began to brainstorm with my brother-in-law (who was having the same kind of church and professional quandaries) how we were going to rescue Christmas (and our own spirituality) from the clutches of the oblivion known as American consumerism. Then it happened, I latched on to the idea of attending the Episcopal cathedral for Advent services. Having only ever known Pentecostal and Charismatic churches, I thought I would have recognized the leading of the Spirit a little sooner – how’s that for irony, huh? We knew that not only our ideas of Christmas, but also our ideas of “Church” needed a drastic overhaul; and we were searching for something to fill the void. The Advent liturgy seemed like the perfect way to test whether the Church could rescue Christmas. [Allow me to make a quick aside here: the time I spent trying to resuscitate my joy for Christmas was also spent chronically attending church services, church musicals, church pageants, and every other obnoxious derivation thereof. The trite and shallow "Jesus is the reason for the season" mentality that most of those I came in contact with displayed was just as repulsive as the blatant consumerism of the secular crowd. I thought, "My God, this is our freakin' holiday - it's THE CHRISTIAN HOLIDAY and these people can't even do it with any kind of meaningful ceremony or substance. We're all screwed!"] I am pleased to announce that Christ and His Church can indeed rescue Christmas even from the clutches of consumerism.
“The liturgy of Advent…helps us to understand fully the value and meaning of the mystery of Christmas. It is not just about commemorating the historical event, which occurred some 2,000 years ago in a little village of Judea. Instead, it is necessary to understand that the whole of our life must be an ‘advent,’ a vigilant awaiting of the final coming of Christ. To predispose our mind to welcome the Lord who, as we say in the Creed, one day will come to judge the living and the dead, we must learn to recognize him as present in the events of daily life. Therefore, Advent is, so to speak, an intense training that directs us decisively toward him who already came, who will come, and who comes continuously.”
~Pope John Paul II, address delivered December 18, 2002.
Hopefully, you have caught on to the fact that I am a person moved by beauty, ceremony, symbolism, and the like. Thus, I knew it would be necessary for me to attend the high liturgy at the diocesan cathedral (which, luckily, is in Albuquerque). My wife and I chose to attend St. John’s 11:00 am service which uses a full choir, the organ, and the rite II liturgy from the BCP. The choir and congregation sang “O’ Come, O’ Come, Emmanuel” during the procession, and it was the most beautiful service I have ever attended. I still have a hard time explaining the meaning that the Anglican liturgy has for me – my language is still thoroughly charismatic, so I can only tell you that in that Advent service I experienced a “move of the Holy Spirit.” I sobbed, just like I had in my living room when I knew Christmas was dying in my heart – when I knew that my Christian walk had reached one of those pivotal points of change. I sobbed, because I knew that I had found home, because I knew that I had a meaningful way to worship again, because I knew that my family had a place to foster the joy and wonder of Christmas. The Lord, Christ, blessed me with a Christmas miracle.
Rogue Liturgics Vol. 1
October 9, 2009
Dominus Vobiscum
Being a Compendium of Notes and Links
Many of us here at theophiliacs are big fans of Liturgy. One of the reasons I migrated to the Episcopal church was because I was drawn to Liturgy. I believe that Liturgy played a similar role in several of my coleagues’ decision to join the TEC as well. So, from the onset, let it be known that I hold Liturgy very close to my heart, I love it, and find great spiritual efficacy in it. Remember that, no matter how sacrilegious this post gets.
The terms “rogue liturgics” or “rogue liturgists” are rather loosely defined in this context as liturgy created without the sanction of a Church authority, and not necessarily for actual Church use. The term “rogue liturgist” usually describes a Roman Catholic clergy member who refuses/ed to stop chanting the mass in Latin after Vatican II, the term has also been used to describe the St. Louis Jesuits whose folk-pop musical style redefined Catholic liturgy after that same council. It is because of them that many songs in today’s most popular Catholic hymnals draw musical inspiration from the likes of Bob ”His Royal Bobness” Dylan.
Excursus on the Liturgical Importance of Bob Dylan
St. Michael atop NW Tower of Nidaros Cathedral in Norway, modelled after Bob Dylan
Bob Dylan’s influence on the Church does not end there. He is the only living musician to a) win 11 grammies, AND b) win a Pulitzer prize, AND c) sing for the Pope, AND d) influence modern Catholic liturgy (see St. Louis Jesuits article linked above), AND e) be immortalized on the top of a Cathedral Spire (and see picture above). On top of that, thanks to Keith Green and the early Vineyard movement, Bob was a Christian for awhile, and recorded 3 Christian albums–”Slow Train Coming” (1979), “Saved” (1980), and “Shot of Love” (1981). The guy’s practically a saint. St. Bob ora pro nobis. I might go to hell for that one.
Examples of Rogue Liturgics Borrowed from this Site and Elsewhere
Back to Rogue Liturgics. I, for one, am intrigued by creating Liturgy, but since I have no official sanction from any church body, I guess I am, broadly speaking, a rogue liturgist (and an amateur one). I have engaged in a little rogue liturgics on this site (My “Toward a Daily of Office which incorporates a Pipe“). I also included the fantastic “Order for a Solemn Blessing of a New Pipe” by Arthur D. Yunker in my series on Pipes.
I’d also like to draw attention, without permission, to Tony’s Beer prayers:
First, let us pray:
“Hear, O Theophiliac readership, The Stout, The Stout is One. You shall love the Stout your King with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind and strength. You shall also love the Barleywine as yourself – Amen”
—
“Let us bless the Lord - Thanks be to God“
May the Lord of life bless you and keep you and make his face to shine upon you. He is the Creator of all that is, seen and unseen, malted and hopped. The heads of barley are his and the heather of the hills are his also. Having created man he saw that it was not good that he should lack mirth. So in the fullness of time he brought forth brewing. - amen
Both are fine examples of Rogue Liturgics.
Then, of course, there are the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley. These delightfully silly folks have created a whole Liturgical cycle for their religion (?), which is filled with wonderful bits of rogue (and satirical) liturgy, they call it The Beaker Common Prayer. One of my favorites is their : “Litany for the 30th Anniversary of Barcode Usage in Britain.”
Other more serious, and less sacrilegious attempts at rogue liturgy are the various Jazz Masses and Liturgies which have been composed and used in places like San Antonio, Denver, New York, and Minneapolis (Mercy Seat Church in NE Mpls. used to do this, but it appears as though they’ve moved on). Also,on a more devotional level, a great place to find homemade Liturgy and incarnational spirituality is the blog and journal: Everyday Liturgy.
There you have it; Rogue Liturgics Vol. 1. Were you expecting something profound?
Tony Hunt
jstambaugh
Shawn Wamsley
