The best ecclesiology is a lived one. -Paul
The story goes that after a particular performance, Margot Fonteyn, Britain's foremost ballerina, was asked to explain her dance. To which, Fonteyn is said to have replied, "I explained it when I danced it."
This is, perhaps, a British ballerina's way of saying, "talk is cheap." Often we save those sorts of value-language comments for times when someone is proclaiming their love for us, or perhaps their sorrow at having wronged us. Don't just say you're sorry, show me!
Some things just can't be explained with dictionary-defined, philosophically-precise words. They can only be communicated through performance.
But the story of the dancer gets at something deeper. Fonteyn's response gets to the heart of dance, the purpose of dance—indeed all artistic expression: some things just can't be explained with dictionary-defined, philosophically-precise words. They can only be communicated through performance. As philosopher Jamie Smith has adeptly pointed out, what we think about the world and how we act in it is based, oftentimes, on what has soaked into us unconsciously, without our realization.
Our ideas about life, God, and church become assumed. In the same way that we rarely notice we're breathing air until we're in a port-o-potty at the state fair, or it is cold enough outside that our nose starts bleeding.
Questions, assumptions
This means that for us pastor types, when someone says they're just not that into getting out of bed on a Sunday morning to come sing Christianized Coldplay songs and listen to a lecture for thirty minutes, it's all well and good if we want to write up a blog post, or teach a class or sermon series on what it means for the Church to gather in worship. But we need to be aware that we've already been teaching our people what we think it means for the church to gather in worship from the moment they walk in the door of our gatherings, week in and week out.
We need to be aware that we've already been teaching our people what we think it means for the church to gather in worship from the moment they walk in the door of our gatherings, week in and week out.
I'm not just talking about "keeping your lobby clean so they know you care." And it goes beyond the attractional glitter-bombing spectacles that some think of when we hear the phrase "what you win them with is what you win them to."
While it's good to start with a question like, "Is the sanctuary lit up like a concert venue, with the stage a-glitter and seating area dark?" And respond with something like "there may be some very good reasons for it to be so, but I guess we shouldn't be surprised if our people start to assume they're spectators." But we can't stop there.
We need to ask ourselves more questions. Like—"Do we sing a few songs and then preach for forty minutes with all the flurry of an academic paper reading?" (Fine and good if we do, but let's not be shocked when our people assume that gathered worship is mostly just information transfer.) "Do we use mostly jargon and inside-language on Sundays?" That might be fine, but we shouldn't be upset when our people aren't super welcoming to outsiders (or be confused as to why we have no outsiders). "Does prayer only happen when musicians need to get on or off the stage?" Ok, but now our people have a clear picture in their head of what prayer is for (it's for the guys in the tech booth to change the lighting and sound settings). "Do we only do communion once a quarter?" That might keep the grape juice budget in the black, but our people may end up with a hindered view of unity, to say the least.
Our assumptions about ministry during the weekly gathering create cultural blind spots—areas difficult to detect in ourselves apart from "eye-opening" experiences.
I had one such experience in college. I grew up in a rural Baptist church that placed a heavy emphasis on personal piety and remaining "unstained from the world." There was a sort of blue-collar formality to our services that are familiar to many: an elderly woman playing the piano, worn out hymnals used for singing (sometimes standing, sometimes sitting), a sermon. My church had a time of prayer requests (up 'til about age 8, I thought these were "prairie quests" and was appropriately disappointed), where anyone could speak out and share.
Beyond language
In college, almost on a whim, a friend and I decided to visit a Greek Orthodox Church. I could not have been less prepared. I'm quite sure my face looked exactly like the photo of four year old me at the circus: eyes wide, mouth open, unable to figure out what in the world was going on. The incense, icons, vaulted ceilings covered in ornate woodwork, the choir singing behind and above me. I was overwhelmed, to say the least.
Truth is, I had no clue that I had a particular idea of Jesus until I was met with a different one.
But for the first time, I realized that I'd always pictured Jesus in a white robe and Teva sandals, sitting cross-legged with an acoustic guitar. Suddenly I had a vision that God was majestic, mysterious, terrible. Truth is, I had no clue that I had a particular idea of Jesus until I was met with a different one.
Since then I've spent time in urban, inter-racial churches; small town charismatic churches; suburban mega-churches; even a house church. I'm now a minister in a Reformed, Presbyterian church in an urban, post-Christian setting.
Which puts me in a rather strange place. The tradition in which I now find myself is confessional—emphasizing a well-articulated theology and historical rootedness. We pride ourselves on an intellectually satisfying blend of conservative Christianity. We have a set liturgical form and sing old music. We celebrate communion every week. We have some actions in our liturgy that are performed only by ordained clergy. Many of these things spring from a set of values, but they aren't our only values.
We also want our worship services to be intelligible and compelling to people on the outskirts of faith. We want to embrace the mystery of God in the Sacraments, and the windiness of the Holy Spirit blowing where he will. We want people to understand their place within the larger narrative of Christianity, both historically and theologically. We want our people to understand and embrace their calling as priests in God's kingdom.
Which means that if I'm on top of things, I have to ask myself: Is my sermon written simply to tickle people's brains? Am I articulating Scripture in a way that the Spirit can take and sink into people's bones? Am I actually explaining the rhythms of our liturgy in a way that a non-Christian can make sense of? Or am I just using the same rote language? We sing a lot of lament, but do my people also know how to celebrate?
It goes beyond just language and expressions. I believe that our worship service is designed to flow to the Lord's Supper—that the celebration of the Eucharist is the culmination of everything else we've been doing in worship. But our pulpit is still at center stage, while the Table is off to the side. The sermon is still the longest beat in the entire service, while Communion often feels more like wrap-up music.
So why should I be confused when my people get upset because the sermon wasn't everything they hoped it would be? No matter how many times I say "the sermon is not the most important thing" or even "the sermon is not the only important thing," from the structure of our space and our service, my people have already learned to believe otherwise.
Don't misunderstand. I'm not advocating for one particular liturgical style, though I obviously have opinions. My point is not to sell a certain way of doing church—on the contrary, I believe the variety of traditions within Christianity speaks to us of the complexity of purposes knotted together and then expressed in gathered Christian worship.
I just want to point out that actions speak louder than words. The things we do, and the way in which we do them, forms within ourselves and our people a very je ne sais quoi idea of Church.
Drinking from a deep stream
There are enough books on the purpose of gathered worship, from a variety of perspectives and traditions within Christianity, to fill a library. And there will be many more written, as each generation seeks to clarify the mission of God's church in a particular time and place. Engaging with broad thought is vital, of course. Neither innovation for innovation's sake, or blindly clinging to the status quo is a good idea.
Pick up the biography of any musician: modern, classical, grunge, hip-hop and you'll find that the best have always drunk deeply from the stream flowing toward them. They soak in the classics of their genre. They educate themselves on other forms of music. The result? Fresh expressions of an old tune. Church work is the same. Whatever particular tradition you find yourself downstream from, learn it well. Learn its strengths and overcompensations. Learn from its best advocates … and its best critics. Understand how your tradition fits within the rest of orthodox Christianity, and draw a Venn diagram or something to sum up the richness and beauty and messiness of what the gathered church is and should be.
Do the hard work. Make a new song out of an old form, always asking yourself what your people are actually experiencing, good and bad, on Sunday mornings.
Then, do the hard work. Make a new song out of an old form, always asking yourself what your people are actually experiencing, good and bad, on Sunday mornings. For that is how you'll teach them (and yourself) what it means to gather as the church.
Steve Hall is a pastor in Portland, Oregon.
