Experiencing the Eucharist in some settings outside my home parish recently has caused me to ponder ways to get the bread and cup to everyone. I’m pretty comfortable with the familiar model in which people in robes (clergy, LEMs) carry the bread and cup around to the laity, who are kneeling or standing along an altar rail or in a line or arc. But I’m aware that this practice reinforces the message that there are people who are privileged to dispense holy things, and others who are not – even more so if there’s an altar rail separating the hoi polloi from the holy folk. Most days this doesn’t bother me much, but I’m not terribly satisfied with it, either. How else can we do this?

Often churches go to a “stations” model, where the congregation files up to a station where bread and wine are dispensed. This approach seems to get used especially when there are bigger-than-usual crowds – perhaps leaders are concerned that having everyone come to the altar rail will take too long.

I can see the rationale, but I don’t care for stations. This model further dilutes the little sense we have of being fed from a common table, which is pretty important in my understanding of the Eucharist. The folk kneeling at the altar rail, or standing shoulder to shoulder in a row, are momentarily embodying the oneness of the larger community as they gather around the altar. There’s a beauty in the casual closeness of kneeling elbow-to-elbow, even though we go back to our pews to sit a comfortable arm’s length apart. In contrast, walking up to a station is a solitary act – this is your little moment with the bread and cup, just like walking up to the counter when it’s your turn is your little moment with the bank teller.

Then there’s the everybody-pass-the-plate model, wherein the clergy and LEMs cede control and the plate and cup are passed among the community. The symbolism appeals to me. We are all God’s holy people, and we can all handle this holy food and share it with one another. I doubt Jesus handed a little individual bit of bread to each disciple at the Last Supper; he probably handed a chunk to the person on his left and another to the person on his right, and they took some and handed it on. The community is united around the table, AND empowered to feed one another.

So I want to like this model, I really do. But I have yet to see it work. I love the theology, but I’m not convinced it can be translated into good liturgical practice. Here’s the basic problem: People who aren’t used to serving others bread and wine are distracted by having to do so. They have to think about the words, and worry about getting them right. They aren’t sure whether to eat their bread (which means a pause in the action) and then serve the next person, or palm their bread and serve the next person, and then eat the bread surreptitiously once that anxiety-producing plate has moved along. They don’t know whether they should wipe the cup after themselves, or after the next person, or both – and how do you hold that little napkin, exactly? The upshot of this is not an embodied experience of the oneness of the Body of Christ, but a liturgical procedure carried out with a certain amount of fumbling and many uncertain glances.

Maybe these issues would be eased in a community that followed this practice all the time. But I recently attended Eucharist with a community where I believe this is their usual practice, and the awkwardnesses I’ve outlined above still seemed to be present. Has anyone seen differently? I would love to be convinced it can be done.

And what other models are out there that I have yet to encounter?

Recently, while in Boston for the Music that Makes Community conference (see my post about that wonderful experience here on my church blog), I took the opportunity to attend the Crossing – an emergent community based at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and led by the Rev. Stephanie Spellers and an able team of lay associates. This community shares distinctive, well-crafted liturgy – clearly within the Episcopal tradition, but with its own flavor. Having worshipped with them, I offer here my thoughts on a few of the key elements that give their worship its particular feel. 

1. Deep and broad lay participation. Every service at the Crossing includes many lay voices. A layperson gives a short homily most weeks.  After the sermon, other members of the congregation were invited to share brief reflections and responses. There’s also short segment called “Spiritual Practice,” in which, I gather, a member shares about something they’ve done recently to live out their faith – the evening I was there, a young woman told us a little about a recent mission trip. In addition, many of the short liturgical directions (the introduction to the Prayers, for example) are offered by laypeople. They’re clearly scripted (as they should be – scripting is good!), but still contribute to a sense of a community in which leadership is shared broadly. After attending the Crossing, I talked with a friend who is involved with that community and she assured me that this is no liturgical Astroturfing; that the liturgy and life of the Crossing really is shaped by a core group of involved laypeople collaborating with Rev Steph. (I noted that Rev Steph gets her chance to offer a little commentary and exhortation in the course of the improvised Eucharistic prayer and blessing – opportunities she uses gracefully and effectively.)

2. Use of space. The Crossing community gathers in the generous chancel of St. Paul’s nave. The space is arranged to create a sense of intimacy and familiarity. No actual sofas are involved, but there is a rug and cushions on the floor, and floor lamps provide the lighting. Light at a human level goes a long way towards making a big space like that feel cozy. The chairs are arranged choir-style, in two facing arcs, three rows each. Above, the altar, decorated with an icon and many candles; below, the steps down into the unlighted nave. During the service, there were two occasions when we were invited to wander out into the nave – to look at materials set out as part of the “Spiritual Practice” presentation, and to meditate, pray, or make art at a small art station during a 5-minute “Open Space” time following the sermon. So the nave was included as available space, but the focal point was the lighted circle of chairs in the chancel.

3. The music. The Crossing is gifted with some great musicians, who contribute tremendously to the feel of the worship. This evening they had a pianist, bass guitar, and someone playing a hand drum; this may well be the standard core group. The sound was low-key funk/jazz/gospel, and they did it well. The sung music was in keeping with this sound, which was fun, but the fact that the music ran under the rest of the liturgy too is what really gave the worship its feel. During almost the whole service, from the gathering time to the closing, one or more of these musicians was playing – sometimes just a drum beat, sometimes just quiet piano, sometimes drum and bass or piano and drum, sometimes all three. The music made many of the transitions – for example, shifting gradually into the tune for the opening chant, which was then picked up quietly by a couple of singers, which then gently called the community from chatting into singing and preparing for worship. Likewise, the end of the “Open Space” time was marked by the music moving into the key, and then the tune, of the song used to punctuate the Prayers, the next part of the liturgy. If it sounds like this much music would be intrusive, it wasn’t, mainly because the pianist in particular is very good at what he does. In any event, the musical “grooves” are clearly an integral part of Crossing worship. (The music paused for some reason while Rev Steph was gearing up for the blessing, and she called out, “Keep playing! I need a groove to bless by!” So they played, and she blessed.) 

Emergent is such a tricky movement to get a bead on. I’m glad to have had a chance to check out one Episcopal-rooted example. We welcome other accounts (or invitations to observe) Emergent worship, especially well-developed and intentional emergent worship like that of the Crossing. 

“Ideas are not true because they are old, though they may be old because they are true. The paradox is that how long a given idea has been around is of no use in proving its truth, and past staying-power is not cause for something to continue to stay.

Tradition is not self-certifying evidence of truth, but a testament to those who passed along what they believe to be true.

. . . in the long run, the truth itself — the dogma or theory — may remain relatively untouched, but be understood and expressed in new ways. The best and most vital doctrines — the deepest truths — are capable of such costume changes.”

Read the whole thing over on his blog. I’m thinking this over as I contemplate a post on when & why liturgical change should & shouldn’t happen.

My basic parameters: It has to include as many people as possible, while still giving those who really really don’t want to do it a comfortable “out”; and it has to fulfill Jesus’ commandment on the subject: “You also ought to wash one another’s feet” – not, “your clergy…” or “your vestry should wash your feet,” which tends to reinforce hierarchy (through inversion, but still unmistakably) instead of mutuality. Oh, and it can’t be too elaborate or messy… 

What have you seen, or done, that worked well?

The framing in the study results made me suspicious. “Traditional” and “contemporary” are words that can mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people. So probably the first useful piece of context for this study is that LifeWays Research is primarily associated with the Southern Baptist Convention. The next question is, what do they actually mean by “traditional” and “contemporary” and how did they determine these preferences? I dug up the original report, and the slightly more informative powerpoint deck, which you too can get from the LifeWays site. Only don’t, because I’ve already waded through them so that you don’t have to. Which you should thank me for, because the PowerPoint deck is like a case study in how not to present survey data.

Here’s how the survey actually asked about preferences in church architecture:
respondents were presented with 4 pictures and asked,

Please indicate your preference for the designs by allocating 100 points across the four designs giving more points to those you prefer and less (or none) to those you like less.

Now, from a survey design standpoint, this is actually a reasonable approach to take; one could quibble over whether 100 points is a good number to assign across 4 pictures (vs a smaller number, like 10), or whether 4 is the right number of pictures. But that’s not the real problem here. The real problem is the pictures:

Take a good look at each of these.  While you are doing so, I’ll sing “One of these things is not like the other” . . . .

Okay, ready? Did you get it?

If you said “D”, you’re absolutely right! The survey designers appear to have put in 3 pictures of what they consider “contemporary” architecture, and 1 of “traditional” architecture.  This completely breaks the question format they have set up.  There should be an even distribution of analytical categories in the choices presented, i.e., if the underlying question is “do respondents prefer contemporary or traditional architecture”, then there should be equal numbers of contemporary and traditional buildings to choose from.  As it was presented, respondents who prefer contemporary architecture are forced to distribute their points among 3 very similar buildings, while those who prefer traditional architecture have only to pile their points on the one building they do like.

Not only this, but they used very similar pictures of 3 fairly similar buildings for the “contemporary” buildings: they all are landscape orientation, similar amount of sky, all obviously taken from the parking lot, probably all suburban, similar angles on the building. Whereas building D is not only very different architecturally, the picture of it is very different, taken from up close, looking up the steeple, cutting off the bottom, very little sky in the frame, and all in a portrait orientation, making it stand out from the other three even more.  And of course, there are a lot of different examples  and styles–both “contemporary” and “traditional” that could have been offered as choices, but were not. For example, none of the examples look much like the white clapboard churches common across New England, nor are there any examples of some of the more agressively modernist designs coming out of the 1960’s.

And so the survey results are pretty much what you’d expect: building A averaged 18 points, B averaged 19 points, C averaged 16 points, while D averaged 48 points.  Buildings A-C are more or less indistinguishable, while building D clearly stands out.  But that is true regardless of actual preference. While it may be true that respondents really did prefer the traditional architecture, the selection of the pictures includes too many distractions to feel confident in the conclusion.  Maybe the results really mean that respondents don’t like big suburban churches.  Maybe it means they prefer the more interesting picture. Maybe it means that they prefer Roman Catholic churches.

That was the question that led to their headline result.  There were some additional questions in the same format that showed interior pictures, of church foyers and church sanctuaries. These had less dramatic differences in presentation, and less difference in results, too.  The main take away I found was that the survey suggests that unchurched folks prefer churches with a cross up front, or possibly prefer churches that are recognizable as churches, rather than theaters, conference centers, hotels, shopping malls, or coffee shops.  Which I guess is an interesting refutation of the idea that “seeker friendly” churches should try and model themselves around these other secular models, but seems rather removed from the question of what kind of church architecture they prefer.

Which is too bad, because it would be interesting to have some data to support discussions of church architecture as user interface, and what kinds of architectural features make for a building that is accessible to unchurched people.  That survey could be done, but this one isn’t it.

Even if we had that study, there’s also a bigger picture problem: how to interpret the church preferences of people who don’t go to church.  Do they like churches that look like churches because they’re easier to stay away from? Or because they think church should be clearly differentiated from secular activities?  Or does the architectural preference exist because of associations they have with the theology, practices, or social attributes of the denominations that build each type?  Do the unchurched long to feel connected to tradition in a fractured and changing world (and if so, why don’t they join?),  or do they prefer traditional churches because they expect that the congregations there would be more likely to leave them alone?  Knowing the preference without a clear understanding of why that preference exists is of only marginal utility.

“Monday was Russian Orthodox Epiphany, and roughly 30,000 Muscovites lined up to dunk themselves in icy rivers and ponds, city officials said. The annual ritual baptism, which is believed to wash away sins, is enjoying a boisterous revival after being banished to villages during the Soviet era.

This seems like an interesting religious/aesetic version of the same impulse behind the swedish sauna and the tradition of “polar bear clubs” in various cold climates. I’m curious about the origins of this practice, and also generally in the idea that this would be an annual recurring practice.

There also seems to be a increasing level of Russian nationalism associated with the icy plunge:

These days, it is a ritual with high production values. Several sites in Moscow were furnished with no-slip carpeting, heated tents and supervisors with megaphones. Politicians have seized on it as a photo opportunity; the theatrical ultranationalist Vladimir V. Zhirinovsky took his plunge this year at Bottomless Lake, a Moscow River tributary, flanked by 15-foot tubes of fluorescent light.

‘It has become a show — not only that, but a patriotic show,’ said Boris F. Dubin, a sociologist with Moscow’s Levada Center. The immersion ritual satisfies a public hunger, he said, for ‘something that is truly Russian, ancient, real. For what distinguishes us from other people.’ “

Charles Olsen of the Alban Institute offers some suggestions for Ways to Pray in a [Church] Board Meeting. Here’s an excerpt:

Resistance to infusing the work of a board with prayer tends to come from the conviction that “there is a place for everything and everything should be in its place”—that worship belongs to Sunday and sanctuary and prayer belongs to worship. But an inspirational moment in a meeting does wonders in loosening the strings of resistance, and those inspirational moments will come once worshipful work is attempted. Let the only rule be “meetings are worship.” All else will flow to and from that fountain. Then we can drink from its fullness!

Some interesting ideas here. Maybe we should develop an Order for Vestry (and other!) meetings. We could even have a new supplemental book, the Book of Regular Meetings, perhaps? A Worship committee seems like a good place to start. Other ideas?

(Via Episcopal Cafe.)

One of my favorite things about the nave at my church is the “Talitha Cumi” window. Mark’s story of Jesus’ raising a twelve-year-old girl from death is one of my favorite Gospel stories. And this is a wonderful image, presented in deep, rich colors: Jesus stands over the little girl, holding her hand, while her anxious parents kneel at the foot of the bed. I’ve loved this window since my first visit to the church, and I have an excellent view of it from my seat on the deacon side of the front of the church.

This morning, during the sermon, my eyes wandered over to that window. And lo! it was transformed. This particular day, this particular moment, the rising sun was shining right through Jesus. His face was almost too bright to look at. A little of the light shone in the faces of the parents, looking up at him in hope. The little girl’s face was shadowed – the side of the window enclosure kept the early sunlight from her face. Yet that fits the moment shown – Jesus’ hand is raised; he is speaking the words that call her back from death. It’s easy to believe that in a moment, the darkness will pass from her face and she, too, will shine like the sun.

The sermon ends – I introduce the Creed – we move on. I forget to look again until the sermon at the 10am service. Now the day’s light is evenly distributed. The stained-glass image looks like I’ve always seen it before. I can see the details, the colors, the beauty – but that transfiguring light that made it come alive is gone.

This, I think, is one of the ways liturgy works. It’s there all the time, reliably beautiful, like the window. You look at it every Sunday, you think about how meaningful the story is. And then, one day, perhaps when you least expect it, perhaps when you most need it, something lines up. You’re sitting in just the right place, and the light shines through it all of a sudden and hits you. The story comes alive – not just frozen images or words but something that carries light and power and grace.

I won’t see that window the same way, from now on. It’s more than just a pretty picture. I’ve seen what it can do. 

If you hold a liturgy and nobody comes, is it a failure?

My parish has held a Christmas morning service for years. Sometimes one person came; sometimes nobody. This year, as the new Assistant on staff, I offered to take charge of Christmas Day and do something different: a 4pm festal Evening Prayer service, followed by a 5pm community dinner.

At our mission parish in North Carolina, the Episcopal Church of the Advocate, this was our standard Sunday arrangement: worship at 5, dinner afterwards. We chose to follow a similar schedule on Christmas Day and Easter, with the idea of providing a friendly and familial gathering for folks in the congregation who didn’t have local family or other plans. It worked well; we consistently had small but cheerful gatherings for those occasions, and plenty of good food. Our household always participated.

So for Christmas Day at my parish, we put the word out about the new plan. I carefully crafted a cheerful little Evening Prayer service, using some of the wonderful seasonal liturgy resources from Common Worship. And I made vast quantities of lasagna, and a big green salad. And we trooped over to church – my husband, my son, my visiting brother, and I – and waited to see if anyone else would show.

Nobody did.

So we said Evening Prayer ourselves, which was actually quite lovely – we sang and chanted much more than I would have with others present. And we froze most of the lasagna for a future youth group meal.

Now, if this was the old familiar 10am service, I would just think, “Eenh,” and shrug it off. But because it’s something new and something mine, and because I spent a modest amount of the church’s money on lasagna ingredients, I find myself interrogating a bit more whether, and why, it was worthwhile to do this – given that nobody came.

One reason comes to me from monastic spirituality: When it’s time to pray, it’s time to pray, no matter who is or isn’t there. Even if, year after year, we have attendance approximating zero at Christmas Day liturgies, it just doesn’t feel right to me not to honor this high holy day with a liturgy. I recently spent a few days on retreat at the SSJE house in Cambridge. The SSJE brothers gather for prayer five times a day. People from the community attend many of those liturgies, but that’s not the point – the brothers pray the same way with or without an audience. I don’t want to claim a clear understanding of monastic liturgy after a mere three-day exposure, but it seems to me that those daily offices serve purposes, including ordering time and praising God, that have little to do with how many people are present. We don’t do the daily offices at my parish, but Christmas Day seems like a time when the church should be praying, one way or another.

A second reason why it was worthwhile to put in this effort is hospitality. I planned this evening thinking of the kinds of folks who were attracted to such events at the Advocate: individuals and households who, for a variety of reasons, were on their own for the holiday and might yearn for the warmth of gathering around a table, to keep them from feeling lonely and adrift on this family-focused holiday. I knew of a few people in this category at my current parish, and I expected there might be a few more. And, in fact, I heard from a handful of folks, both before and after, who said they were attracted to the idea and thought about coming. Does it make a difference in someone’s evening that they have a church dinner they could go to, even if they don’t? Maybe. In any event, I wanted to be ready for those people, if they came – to have lovingly-crafted liturgy and tasty, homemade food ready to welcome them.

A third half-formed reason: building something new? The liturgy-plus-meal paradigm is new here, but I hope will keep coming around. If nothing else, this was an opportunity to put that idea out there and let people ponder it a little. My brother remarked, “It seems like people might be more attracted to a Christmas evening service with a dinner than to a Christmas morning service, even if they still don’t come.” I think he might be right. And that might matter, in some subtle, long-term way. 

Thoughts? 

I must confess I have long found the widespread use use of individual wafers that bear little or no resemblance to even unleavened bread to be a somewhat strange development in Eucharistic practice, even though I think I understand some of the reasons for that development (among other things, a strict avoidance of leavening, and a theology which made crumbs a serious problem). But this is just getting really peculiar:

The family markets its bread as “untouched by human hands” until they are delivered to parishioners in the Communion line. “You just want to make it as perfect as possible,” said Andy Cavanagh, a member of the family that runs the business.

This is especially strange because the Cavanaghs, and a large part of their clientele, are Roman Catholic, and the Roman Catholic eucharistic prayer includes this passage:

Blessed are you Lord God of all creation
Through your goodness we have this bread to offer
Which earth has given and human hands have made.
It will become or us the bread of life.

But human hands don’t make the Cavanagh wafers. Robots do:

“In huge tubs, about 90 pounds of cake flour is mixed with about 13 gallons of water. The batter is then sent through a tube, where it is piped onto a large metal plate. Another plate clamps on top, and it goes through the oven. Each plate is like a “very large, 500-pound waffle iron,” Dan Cavanagh said.

After coming out of the oven, the wafers spend about 15 minutes in what amounts to a humidifier, so they do not become brittle. When sufficiently moist they roll down a tube and into a spinning cylinder that resembles the ones in bingo halls.

The wafers are then shot to a machine that either puts them in sleeves of 100 or counts them for bags of 250. Then they are boxed.”

The process is designed to meet the requirements of Catholics and others for unleavened, crumb-free wafers. The history of the company, and the evolution of their product, especially in the changes made subsequent to Vatican II, is quite interesting.

I’ll leave it to the Catholic sacramental theologians to sort out the significance of the widespread use of bread made by an automated process. I think I prefer my communion bread made by real human hands, and broken and shared among human hands. As for crumbs: if Jesus can get into the bread, he can get out of the bread again.

Another interesting point from the article: apparently, they have a whole separate manufacturing process to produce communion bread for Southern Baptists, which contains oil and produces small squares. Anyone know anything about this? I’m a little surprised that Baptists have a developed enough sacramental theology to care about that kind of detail, but that’s likely because I just don’t know very much about Baptist theology.

(Via Kottke.)

Addendum: In the Episcopal Church, the phrase “human hands have made” is used in Eucharistic Prayer 3 in Enriching Our Worship, the book of approved supplemental liturgical texts for the Episcopal Church, just after the words of consecration:

And so, remembering all that was done for us:
the cross, the tomb, the resurrection and ascension,
longing for Christ’s coming in glory,
and presenting to you these gifts
your earth has formed and human hands have made,
we acclaim you, O Christ.