On Sitting In Church, Squirming

I sat last Sunday in my seat at church looking for some way to feel comfortable. It was not the first time I've struggled to find even a semblance of peace for my body while sitting in a church, but it was the first time since I began attending -- about 4 months ago -- the local evangelical church that I was afflicted with the squirms and twitches.

In front of me sat a married couple I've known -- only casually -- for nearly twenty years. They were guests this particular Sunday morning, that much I knew, but it was what they said to me at the beginning of the service that set me on edge: they announced they were members of the Churches of Christ. This is not in any way a bad thing. In fact, it is as far as I know a good thing. But what makes the Churches of Christ unique is that they do not use musical instruments in any part of their worship or liturgical services. "We sing everything a cappella," the couple affirmed as we prepared for worship. The lovely couple also affirmed that their children -- all of whom I had known -- were indeed off and married, having graduated from Church of Christ colleges like Harding University (where their eldest son attended).

Now, trust me when I say this idea of "a cappella" singing attracts me to no end; trust me too when I say that the church in which we were seated was about as far from a cappella as one might get. There are on any given Sunday morning at least a dozen microphones on the stage in my current church, with amplifiers and keyboards and drums and guitars and flutes and cellos all raring to go. This network of electrified instruments and voices is what is known as the Praise Team; the team includes a Praise Leader who cues us as we sing a prolonged series of praise songs. As many of you know, this is fairly common stuff in evangelical churches these days; many of you also know that what my friends in front of me were about to explore was not going to be anything short of a G-rated rock concert. And for this Episcopalian-in-exile, as I call myself, I had been quite content adjusting myself to the Praise Team's rambunctious musicality, content right up until last Sunday morning when the a cappella couple sat in front of me.

Seriously, my first reaction was to want to apologize; my second was to look for two sets of earplugs. And my third reaction, honestly, was to pray for a power outage. But I mortified my flesh and chose option four: I squirmed and stewed and even left the sanctuary during the offertory. It was all rather juvenile of me.

But you see, the presence of this couple suddenly made me very self-conscious (or at least overly conscious of them). My pride and vanity were partly brought to the fore: I wanted to let everyone know that I was not overly given to this sort of exuberance in worship (which is quite true). And I was suddenly obsessing about hospitality; I was like a fool rushing around his house declaiming before his guests that his domicile was "not usually this messy." But I was a mute fool, unable to issue apologies because my guests were distracted by everything else, including their own courtesies.

And my obsession did not rest. I noted that it seemed the congregation was standing too long, singing too much. I noticed that the husband before me leaned on the back of the chair in front of him. "Oh, no! Is he tired?" I wondered. I noted how he and his wife looked around as others more familiar with protocol fell to their knees or sat down to pray while the Praise Band wound its way through another chorus. I swear the couple was asking, "Should we sit down? Should we kneel? When can we sit? When should we stand?" I wanted to be their own personal and certified Worship Guide: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith? How nice to meet you. This morning I will be your personal guide as we wend our way through worship. As you may have already seen, there is no bulletin or outline or form of liturgy here; after all, we must not thwart the Spirit. We are a country without maps where each of us citizens nevertheless moves about quite ably. I do hope you will enjoy this time with us. Now, if you will put in these earplugs and follow me, I will lead you safely away from this place."

OK. I would not have led them away. But I did feel a compulsion to intervene.

On top of all this I noticed that the Praise Band seemed unusually loud, unusually repetitive, and unusually and intolerably off-key. It was this last quality that forced me from my seat; I took refuge in the corner of the church kitchen as the offertory began. And believe it or not, as I stood in the corner with my forehead pressed against an overhead cabinet, a church elder came in to see if I was OK. (I am not lying about this.) I smiled, shrugged my shoulders, and simply said, "You know, K., how I struggle with things." I then made my way back to my seat.

The Churches of Christ folks I know have told me that part of the reason musical instruments are not included in worship services is that instruments can be a distraction. I should think my incessant squirming proves their point. But maybe it only proves that I am at times prone to spasmodic fits and catatonia, symptomatic, I am sure, of underlying mental illness.

Or are my fits consistent with hospitality: that people are freer when there is a set, prescribed and known order? Is it loving for a church to have its visitors guessing what worship -- or the structure and discipline of it -- is all about? Is it hospitable to have guests guess? Is it polite to give them no guidance, no frame of reference or sense of time? Would a dinner party be fun if no one knew what to wear, what to expect, what to say or when to say it; would it be fun if no one knew when the party might end?

When I think of the times I dined as a child at my neighbors' homes, I was never relaxed at those homes where I was unsure of the rules, of the protocols. Those families who patiently and kindly taught me their forms and rituals were always my favorite families with whom I would dine; where there was no guidance, I was adrift and often unsure whether the snickers and glances at table were directed at me. And in those homes where meals were served so informally there was no predictability at all, such homes were not one whit comfortable, as chaos and turmoil and even hell seemed just one misstep away.

I guess I will simply have to let go of it all when it comes to church. Besides, to my surprise, the couple in front of me did not sprint out once the benediction was given. Instead, they lingered for the better part of an hour, meeting people and plunging into conversations with a few folks they knew from outside the church's walls. To be honest, it is a very loving and comfortable church; there is much, very much, that commends it. I know this very well, and that is why I attend services there. So there were many good reasons for my friends to have lingered.

I, on other hand, ended worship in a struggle to understand my own problems. I am sure some of my issues are rooted in some perverse pride. But I know that there has got to be something to this idea of order and form and even quietude; there seems to be something wise in the ancient forms of hospitality.

All I know is I say these words here a cappella. And I pray that I do not become a distraction. Perhaps I always need to busy myself in the kitchen when surprise guests arrive; maybe squirming is my a cappella call to action, and retreat.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

The Emerging Informality: Christianity's Dire Need, Part I

[If you do not consider yourself a church enthusiast; if church is of no interest to you, then please feel free to click your way to another site. Today I will be discussing worship, Christian worship.]

There has long been much fuss in certain American Christian circles about relevance. By this is meant the relevance of Church to everyday life; the gospel to the spirit of any given age; the Christian worldview to the Sitz-im-Leben, the culture in which it is set. Of course relevance is profoundly important: If the Christian message is nothing more than the Good News that niceties are nice, then perhaps the message is not at all that relevant (or all that good). Relevance of message is everything. Of course, relevance is also psychologically important: Even for many who dwell outside the Church's walls there is perhaps no greater fear than being deemed irrelevant. For artists, writers, philosophers, scientists, architects and engineers, irrelevance is the harshest criticism that could be hurled their way; irrelevance is even far worse than being dismissed as derivative. At least the latter suggests one is part of the game, albeit without originality; the former is akin to being banished to the hinterlands. No one wants to be irrelevant. (And one need not be a genius to predict the longevity of a marriage wherein one spouse feels he or she is irrelevant.)

But let me be more specific: It is the evangelical church, in all its denominational manifestations, that is most apt to perseverate on its relevance. For evangelicalism -- by which I mean the Church's ministry of proclaiming the Gospel -- is constantly reflecting about its effectiveness in witnessing to the world. Evangelical Catholics, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Presbyterians -- it matters not which denomination -- each of these wonders about relevance, adapting a variety of church ministries to appeal to the broadest possible audience, and to appear au courant, hip and relevant. One might even safely conclude that there is in fact such a thing called the ministry of relevance.

Ironically, the Church's attempts at relevance often mean nothing more than that it has become derivative, imitative, or conformist. From hippie to holy hip-hop Christianity, from Christian coffeehouses to Christian art galleries, from The Hour of Power to the Hour of PowerPoint; evangelical Christianity is little but pastiche, and rife with marketing cliché, imitating the culture in which it exists rather than moving the culture toward something uniquely Christian. In fact, it would be safe to say that Christianity stopped producing culture, even moving culture, for the last few hundred years. Surely common folks are not storming malls to buy the latest hot Christian fad, or raiding bookstores for the newest culture-bending, zeitgeist-shaping tome. Even the enthusiastic embrace of the cinematic adaptation of C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," exciting as it was, was naught more than the celebration of imitation: See! Christians can write too! God forbid there should be a cultural revolution afoot among Christian artists and thinkers, pushing art and letters and music to heights heretofore unseen, unknown, unheard. God forbid that the evangelical church should have another T. S. Eliot push the broader culture toward rarefied heights when instead the Church can imitate the meter of Dave Matthews or the rhyme of Eminem, duly following the culture in the power of relevance.

Perhaps the most obvious trend in the ministry of relevance can be found in Dave Shiflett's essay, "Getting Hip to Religion," in the Friday, February 24 edition of the Wall Street Journal. The subhead to Shiflett's article is telling: "New churches are offering youth a more informal faith." I will spare the reader all the details, though my will is weak, and I must share one detail, namely, that there is a North Carolina church so thoroughly au courant, so cutting edge, that it encourages its parishioners to come to Sunday worship services with their laptop computers. Why? Answer (and I quote): "During worship we recommend you instant message the speaker with questions." I ask, from my laptop, where would we be, as Christians, without that truly innovative Christian idea of informality?

Well, we might be in better churches. For it is not informality that young or even old Christians need. Every person in America is immersed in informality every day of their lives. America by definition (perhaps) could be considered a nation built on informality, on throwing off the trappings of aristocracy, and the pageantry and pace associated with royal formalism. In fact, it might be safely said that Americans have been stereotyped by their European friends as being entirely without form; discourteous, loud, iconoclastic, lacking any formal features of custom and rite. Nay, what is needed is not more informality, but an informed formality. We do not need fewer ritualistic and customary formalities, we need more; and we need to know why we need more. It is not that Christianity needs to be stripped of black tie and tails; it needs to be adorned in black tie and tails precisely because no one knows why formality is needed, or what it even is. Christians today speak of Jesus Christ as King and Lord, royal images all; and yet they pray and sing to that King as if He was as unkingly as the nearest buddy at the bar. We have dressed ourselves and our worship in street clothes, not because we are poor, and thus these are all we have or can do; but because we want to be perceived a certain way by others. It is not about God. It is about us.

What is worship? That's simple. Worship is honesty before God. That's it. Yes, it is that simple: worship is to stand before God and declare what is true about Him, honestly, candidly, and, if possible, in good form. Not that God demands His children speak to Him as subjects addressing a great King at all times. But surely the mature subjects of His kingdom would attempt to bring formalism to their worship. God is God after all. He's not your grandfather down at the local VFW.

Let me put it this way. The purpose of Christian worship in corporate settings, where the Bride of Christ gathers as one to worship the Lord, is to destroy individuality. Corporate worship is like grandiose team play, where one learns that the lone self cannot win the game. In short, corporate worship is where each of us comes to die to self. With 168 hours each week, we set aside one or two of those for worship that is not all about the self; about what the self needs, the self wants, or with what the self is comfortable. The rest of the week's hours are there for the self to indulge. But when Christians come to worship, they should come prepared to die to self, to unite as one body, kneeling at the same time, reciting the same prayers, receiving the same cup and wafer. For this is honest, and true, and, not least, it is formal: it is honest in that we are indeed not in Christ for self-fulfillment, but for the fulfillment of others, including Christ; it is true because it reflects the sacramental realities of Christianity, that Christ is preparing us as His one Bride, adorned with one faith, one baptism, and one voice; and it is formal because it can't be otherwise: unity in Christ is a practice of self-denial, and the collective worship of the expectant Bride must be formal to ensure that the self is not the focus of corporate worship, but the Bridegroom.

This is the reason liturgical churches are structured the way they are: To foster death to self, and to encourage the vivacity of the body corporate. The only deadening thing about liturgical worship that is rejectable is not the formality. It's the ignorance with which people approach formality.

Remember, there are 166 other hours of the week wherein each soul can go about fulfilling itself. But the life of the Church will be neither long nor relevant as long as relevance is nothing more than catering to the self-needs of a very narcissistic age.

Let me conclude with one anecdote and one liturgical lesson.

When I was deeply involved in a fairly mainline evangelical church, I recall once sitting in the back of the 400-member church during "Prayer and Praise," that "relevant" point in much church worship where a praise band leads the congregants through a myriad of (usually self-absorbed) praise choruses, with said choruses projected on a screen for all to see. Well, this particular church was fairly free-spirited, encouraging those who were "moved" by the Holy Ghost to stand up with hands raised if so led; or to even leap into the aisles and, apparently like King David, dance (though not naked) in holy bliss before God. Eventually tamborines and small drums (make a joyful noise) and even banners were clanged, banged and twirled in a dizzying display of expression. Of course, many folks were led to sit still, to stay low.

Well, this one particular day, while sitting with the elderly and handicapped, I noticed a curious thing. Suddenly, one and two rows ahead of us, a group of young men, clearly on holy fire, leapt to their feet, mouths filled with song, hands raised high above their heads. They were indeed enraptured with the Lord, moved by His Spirit to surrender all. Of course, none of them noticed, or heard, that the Lord must've moved them strangely, for now they blocked the view of others behind them: the handicapped and elderly could now no longer see the choruses projected on the screen. And despite the gentle remonstrances which could not be heard over the joyful noise, the young men failed to be moved by God towards what can only be called courtesy. No doubt the young men felt fulfilled in their mighty experience of God's presence.

It is this sort of chaos that liturgical worship deplores and resists. Sort of the way baseball resists the ball-hog, the show-off who needs to be first. For ball-hogs play soccer and basketball or hockey (puck-pigs); they do not play baseball, which is a very formal, even liturgical, sport. Nay, in liturgical worship the ball-hog is rendered silent and still.

When Episcopalians march into church in grand procession, why do they carry a crucifer before them, lifted high, leading the way? Is it mere empty formality? Is it mere show and excess? No, it is neither of those things. For the message is proclaimed on high: we can only approach God through the Cross. That is why, as the crucifer passes, Episcopalians bow and kneel, honestly acknowledging a wondrous fact. Just think that every facet of corporate worship is filled with such significance, with such reason and purpose! Every item and every word is pointed toward one thing: God is King, and we must treat Him as such.

At least for an hour.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

[Part II may be found here.]

(This essay could not have been written without the inspiration drawn from Evangelical Is Not Enough, the truly beautiful book by Thomas Howard.)