Children in Worship

One of my best memories from early in my ministry is of the Sunday when two little girls decided they wanted to sit in the front row.  Without their parents.

They weren't sisters, they were friends.  Both sets of parents were in the building, sitting discreetly just a few rows behind them.  The opening hymn was from a supplemental hymnal.  If I recall correctly, it was a rousing contemporary song called "We Are the Church."

We all stood up, including these two young girls, and we all opened our supplemental hymnal.  And they held their hymnals high, singing at the top of their lungs:  "I am the church, you are the church, we are the church together".

Yes, we were.

Now granted, this was sort of a special scenario.  This was not "Beautiful Savior" or "A Mighty Fortress is our God" or "Now Thank We All our God."  This was sort of a child-friendly hymn, something we included once in awhile if it fit the theme of the day.  And this was one of those congregations where the children were in worship (all of it, including the sermon) every single week.  This has become rare, for a lot of reasons:  families are busier, and a lot of churches are holding education hour and worship at the same time.  Even more, I hear that there are some churches that hold separate worship services for children and adults.  You walk in, and the children go one direction, for "children's church", and the adults go another direction, for adult worship and teaching.

On one level, I suppose this makes sense. Children and adults need different things.  Children can get bored in an adult-oriented worship service.  And adults can be distracted by the presence of children.  Children don't always behave perfectly.  Sometimes they cry.  Sometimes they fidget.

Yet I think about those two girls, sitting in the front row of their small congregation, singing at the top of their lungs.  And I think about the congregation who was fortunate enough to experience their presence at worship.

It is my conviction that we worship best when we worship together.  And children benefit by being with us.  Even more, we benefit by being with them.

My current congregation went through a long spell when the presence of children in worship was rare.  But in the last two years, a few families with children have arrived, and we have done some things to intentionally involve them in worship.  Some of the children help usher with their parents.  Some of them read a lesson out of a children's Bible.  A few older children help with the Call to Worship.  Occasionally one of the children has provided a drawing to go along with the scripture or sermon theme.  And sometimes we get out a basket of rhythm instruments, and invite the children to play along.  I sometimes feel that I have just scratched the surface of how children can be active participants in worship, and help us remember that we are all active participants in worship.  We do more than sit still and listen.  We sing and we pray, we stand and we sit.  But we do even more than that.

Sometimes, I think, it takes children to help us remember.  One Maundy Thursday I invited people to come up and have their feet washed.  The only people to come forward?  The children.  The next year I decided to make it a little more user friendly, and I invited everyone to come up and have their hands washed instead.  Who came forward?  Again, the children.  And when the children came forward, a few brave adults followed them.

And then there are the unscripted moments that children provide.  These help us remember that although liturgy has a flow and a proper order, it is never JUST proper.  There have been times when a few young girls spontaneously started dancing in the aisle during the final hymn.  And a small child often says, "yay!" at the end of a song she likes.   Once, during a children's message, when I told the children that Jesus was going to die, a little girl gasped!  The news of it broke her heart, and our hearts broke a little, too.

Children also belong in church because they are watching us.  When we worship together, they are finding out what is important to us.  I remember standing next to my dad every week in church.  I still can hear, in my mind, my dad singing harmony on the hymns.  He loved to sing.  I do too.

Some people will tell me that they want children to be in worship so that they will learn to "behave" in church.  But, as for me, I want children to be in worship because they are part of the body of Christ, and their presence enriches me.  I want children to be in worship because they sing loud, say "yay!", share the peace with enthusiasm, and play the rhythm instruments.  I want children to be in worship so that they will know Jesus, and know the people of God, and know that every single one of us, all ages, has a place here.  I want children to be in worship so that they know they belong.   I want children to be in worship because they bring joy, and honesty, and their true selves.

I want children to be in worship because we are not complete without them.   We need all the voices, including theirs.  Especially when they say "Yay!"

Spirit Things

I remember a few things about the day I arrived at college.  My parents drove me down, and I met my roommate and her parents, and our parents talked to each other.  My dad told some silly jokes, which is something he often did.  I found out that both of her parents were pastors, which sort of blew my mind.  I don't remember exactly how the conversation went, but at some point her mom replied to a comment by saying, "That's a spirit thing."

That seemed like a cool, sunglasses-wearing thing to say.  I didn't understand it.  My parents would never say it.

My new roommate turned to me and said, "My mom's into the Holy Spirit."

I had no idea what it meant at that time to be "into" the Holy Spirit.  I was "into" doubt and religious angst, myself.  I really wanted to believe in God, but I found that I had a lot of questions that I didn't know what to do with.  What should I do?  Stuff them in my pockets?  Bury them in the backyard?

I didn't know that later that year, I would also be "into" the Holy Spirit.  I am not sure, but I suspect that my experience might have been somewhat different than my friend's mother's experience.  I took a January-term class (one month long) in the neo-pentecostal movement.  We read books and heard speakers and (on the side) went to some prayer meetings.  Those prayer meetings weren't on the syllabus, but they happened.

At one of those prayer meetings, I happened to speak in tongues.  Afterwards, I stayed up into the middle of the night reading the letters of Paul.  I felt like I understood something about those letters, or at least started to understand.  The Holy Spirit was in them.

I was "into" the Holy Spirit.  In a Big Way.   Me and God were just "like this" (imagine me crossing my fingers together).  For awhile there I was ready to sweep every doubt and every question under the carpet.  The only thing that mattered was that I knew that God was real.

Of course later on the doubts and questions returned.  The experiences dimmed.  Yet I am still "into" the Holy Spirit.  And I love Pentecost.

I have mixed feelings about our yearly celebrations.  I want them to be like Christmas and Easter.  I want everyone to come.  Wearing red is great, but it's not enough for me.  I want everyone in my congregation to experience the Holy Spirit, to know (even with doubts and even with questions) that God is real, even if the realization is ephemeral.

Don't get me wrong:  I love the liturgy, and for me, now, the Holy Spirit dances in those words.  But sometimes I also wish for something unscripted to happen -- a unexpected note, a stranger who testifies, a child who will get up and dance.

On Sunday at least some of us will gather, and it will be Pentecost.  And one more time, the Holy Spirit will make us into the Body of Christ, for the world.  And one more time, we will be sent out, with invisible tongues of fire dancing on our heads.

It's a spirit thing.

The Story of the Quilt

I met my mother for lunch on Wednesday.  It was the anniversary of my father's death, but that wasn't why we were having lunch together.  It just turned out that way.

While we were eating, my mother unfolded an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper and gave it to me.  She said there was something she never told me about the quilt that she had made and given to me a couple of years ago.

My mother has always been good at sewing.  She made most of our clothes, and even a spring jacket for my sister and me.  She made a pants outfit for me once, and matched the plaids so well that people commented on it.  But it is only recently that she had gotten interested in quilting.  It was my grandmother, my mother's mother, that was the quilter.  She was famous for her beautiful hand-stitched quilts.  Everyone tells me that she had an eye for putting together colors.  I have one of her quilts, but I don't remember ever seeing her put one together.  By the time I was born, it hurt her hands and her eyes too much to do the close work necessary.

Recently, though, my mother has begun quilting.  And two years ago she gave me this beautiful lap quilt.  I thought the colors were amazing.  It holds a place of honor in our living room.

But it turns out that I did not know everything about it.

On the piece of paper that my mother gave me, she told me that this quilt was a collaboration, in a way. After my grandmother died, my aunt discovered some pieces that my grandmother had cut out, and a pattern for a quilt square.  She took half of the pieces, and gave my mother the other half.  But neither of them knew what to do with them.  They had a pattern, but were not sure how to put it together.

One day, one of my mother's friends took a look at the pieces and the pattern, and she could figure it out.  Then my mother could begin to make the squares that would form the quilt.

It took a long time; in the process she decided to divide the pieces and make two quilts instead of one; my sister just received the other one.  Until Wednesday, though, I never knew that my grandmother had a hand in the quilt I received from my mother.

I see it differently now.  It is not just a quilt.  It is a story.  It was always a story, but until Wednesday I did not know the language that the quilt was speaking, even though I loved it.

My mother's quilt makes me think of the church these days, what has been passed down to us, what we value, what we know.  I know many of the older people in my congregation value and love liturgy.  They have been singing and praying in a particular way for many years, as it has been passed down to them.  They have learned some new rhythms along the way, it's true, but they still sing and pray the basic pattern, and they find it beautiful, and comforting, even, at times (although a seminarian friend recently scoffed at the idea of comforting religion).

And yet I wonder if we still remember the stories behind the rhythms and the words of liturgy, the ones that change it from a beautiful object into a story about us, about our mothers and our grandmothers and our great-grandmothers.  I wonder if we still remember the stories that speak about love that pursues us through the ages, that pieces us together, that made us by hand.  I wonder if we still remember the stories of why we sing and say and pray the things we do, and if we are even curious.

Eucharistic Prayer for Pentecost 5 Year A

Gracious and Holy God,

Creator of farms and seeds and soil,

You have given us so many things:

Sun and rain, flower and fruit,

All green and growing things,

All animals leaping or swimming,

Crawling or flying.

Let all who have eyes, see

The abundance of your love.

You came among us, in the hands and the eyes

And the feet and the words

Of our friend and savior Jesus,

Who healed the sick

And forgave sinners,

Who welcomed children

And who spoke to us in parables.

Let all who have ears, listen

And hear the story of your love.

We give thanks to you,

For the scattered words,

For the scattered seeds

Of Jesus’ love for us

Poured out for us

And for this whole creation.

Send now your Holy Spirit to us

As we share this meal. 

As we share your life.

Prepare our hearts to receive you.

Open our Hearts to share your extravagance, your life,

Your love.

Amen.  Come Lord Jesus.

(to Words of Institution)

Christmas Day Worship

My congregation has a worship service on Christmas Day.  It was not my idea.  They have held worship services here on Christmas Day for much longer than I have been here.

It's not a large congregation that gathers on Christmas Day, at least not by "Christmas Eve" size standards.  But like Christmas Eve, it's a motley crew, equal parts regular attendees and visitors, people I know well, and people I have never seen before.  Somehow, though, the mix of strangers and visiting family members and regulars seems different on Christmas morning than it does the evening before.

I have no interest in shaming congregations who do not have worship on Christmas Day.  I just do not want to have that conversation.  In fact, I do not remember ever attending a Christmas Day worship service before I became a pastor.  (My first parish also held worship services both on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.)  And it is true, that we have sort of struggled to consider, after the drama of Christmas Eve, what the Christmas morning service is about. It's true, the readings are different, but the theme is really the same:  The Mystery of the Incarnation, the Word Made Flesh.  In the evening, you have the shepherds and the manger and all of the earthy details; in the morning, you have light and life and a more cosmic view -- poetic, but perhaps less compelling for many.  You can't do a Christmas pageant based on John, chapter 1.

 Even so, and though I am tired after the long night before, and even though I too would like to stay home and make breakfast and play with my toys, I love to get up and go to worship on Christmas morning.  Here are some of the reasons why:

1.  At my congregation on Christmas morning, we begin with the traditional Christmas Proclamation.  I know that at some churches this is read at the late service on Christmas eve, but here we read it at the beginning of the service in the morning.  The last two years, the bells have played, softly at first, and then more loudly, under the reading.

2.  There are a few people I see every year; Christmas Day is their service.  I see one family who I love dearly.  We walked with them through their beloved husband and father's long battle with cancer.  They recently joined another church, one with a more conservative theology.  I miss them,  but they still come back on Christmas Day.  It is a great reunion.  Their new church is wonderful, but does not hold a Christmas Day worship service.   "This is when Christmas should be," the mother says, but it doesn't sound like scolding.  It is always good to see them.

3.  This year almost all the hymns at the morning service were "by request."  We opened with "Good Christian Friends, Rejoice," closed with "Go, Tell It On the Mountain" and sang "The Huron Carol" for the hymn of the Day.  Requested hymns included:  "What Child is This", "Silent Night,"  "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear", and "The Bells of Christmas" (the Scandinavian tradition is not dead here).  Normally shy Lutherans were not shy about naming their favorite carols, and the children especially seemed to enjoy it.

4.  When your congregation is small, you get to notice small things:  who is crying during the sermon, the little boy who anticipates loudly the word "Go" on the chorus of "Go Tell it on the Mountain",  two teenagers I had never seen before, a family from India who had just moved here and were attending church for the first time, the deaf woman and her two sons, for whom I copied the sermon and the Christmas proclamation.

On Christmas Eve, there is the mystery of the light in the darkness, the excitement of large crowds, the reunion of families.

In the morning, we are still here.  There are just a few of us, but as it turns out, it is enough.  There are enough of us to sing, to ring bells, to weep, to eat and drink, to remember that we are children of God, full of grace and truth.

The Word made Flesh.  God is still incarnate.  Not just in straw and stables and shepherds.  In us.

The Whole Experience

Every year, in spring, a youth-oriented mission organization hosts training events in our church.  For a week, they train the young adults who will serve as leaders for the high school youth who will be traveling all over the country learning what it means to serve in mission as followers of Jesus.  They sleep in our building, take over all of our classrooms, and sit in corners studying.  They have animated one to one conversations in the chapel.

And they come to worship on Sunday.  At our 8:45 traditional service.

Now I am not sure about this, but I suspect that most of the young people who come to our church for training are not Lutheran.  I suspect that most of them come from somewhat less liturgical traditions than our own.  And our 8:45 traditional service does follow the Lutheran liturgy.  We have chanting.  We sing the Kyrie  and the Sanctus.  We kneel for prayer.  We have communion every Sunday.  We don't offer Sunday School during this service, and it is fair to admit that the participants (with a couple of exceptions) skew toward the older members of the congregation.

So every year we have this invasion of twenty-two and twenty-three year olds at this early service where there are a lot of retired people.  And I will admit that, for me, at least, it suddenly makes liturgy seem a lot different.

Don't get me wrong:  I love liturgy:  the chanting, the prayers, the symbols, the flow of it all.  However, I have also enjoyed a good charismatic prayer service on occasion.  They each have their own integrity.

So this year, the young people worshipped with us again.  During the communion, we offer both individual cups and the common cup.  People were beginning to be ushered forward.  After one young man received the bread, I heard him say to the woman next to me (serving wine), "I want the cup.  I want the whole experience."

The Whole Experience.  Have you ever thought of liturgical worship in this way?

I can't read this young man's mind, of course, but I considered that he was basking in what was, to him, a strange and mysterious form of worship.  But instead of being suspicious and thinking, "These people, with their written prayers and chants and vestments, can't be real Christians," he was open to the Holy Spirit teaching him what it might be about.  He was sure that something or other was there for him, in the words, the gestures, the sounds, the cup.

It made me think that perhaps the problem of liturgy is that we take it for granted.  For those of us who know it, there are comforting words we know by heart.  We have heard so often that liturgy is a barrier to people that we have (perhaps) come to be a little sensitive and defensive about it.  We may even be so comfortable that we don't realize that there are depths here that we have never plumbed, things that we have not yet learned, much less learned to share.  And it certainly is true that we need to re-interpret and re-imagine liturgy for every age and era where we live.  There are new tunes, new rhythms,  to which we will set the ancient story.  But the strangeness and mystery of liturgy can be a gift, not a barrier, if we welcome the stranger, if we have eyes to see, if we too are open to The Whole Experience.

My Lenten Fast From Chanting

So we decided not to chant the communion liturgy this year during Lent, thinking it would be simple and a bit austere, and that, like "Alleluia", we might miss it and long for its return.  It's not a total fast, as we still chant the "Kyrie", although that's usually the choir, not me or the senior pastor.  And of course, at the second service, which is more contemporary, we have less liturgy, and we don't chant anything, although we've had some nice sung responses at the beginning of the service.

So, I'll confess:  I do miss chanting.  I miss chanting The Great Thanksgiving, with its back and forth echoes, but even more, I miss chanting the Preface, with its poetic words and phrases.  I still speak the words, and there is something that makes me sort of pause, because I am speaking words I usually intone.  For me, the chanter, the words sound richer, rounder, with layers underneath them, when I chant them.

I wonder, though, if anyone else is missing it the way I am.  After all, chanting is sort of an unusual activity, something it's hard for us to relate to in our Ordinary Lives.  You don't really have chanting in a worship service with a Praise Band, for example.  For example, the Assemblies of God congregation, which meets in the middle school right behind our church, has a younger crowd at worship than we do, and no chanting, I'll bet.

I think though that a dislike (or at least puzzlement) for chanting is intergenerational. At least, one older member of our congregation once told me that though she prefers traditional worship, we could get rid of the chanting, and it wouldn't bother her one little bit.

Maybe we don't know what chanting is for; everything has to have a use, after all.  I heard that priests began chanting the liturgy in the old cathedrals long ago because it was easier to understand a sung tone than a spoken one.  But we don't need chanting for that reason any more.

Everything has to have a use, after all.  Or does it?

On Easter morning, I will put on the gold chasuble, and I will chant the Great Thanksgiving, and the Easter Preface, and remind the congregation that when we sing God's great Alleluia, we will be singing with Peter and Mary Magdalene, with all the witnesses of the resurrection, with angels and archangels, and with the earth and all its creatures.  And for me, it will be like indulging in a piece of expensive chocolate after a long fast, or like seeing a friend I love but haven't seen in a long time, or like looking into a package and discovering that there was another layer under the tissue paper, something you never saw was there before.

But, I wonder what everyone else will think.  Will they be glad to welcome chanting back into worship?

Incomprehensible and Fascinating

When I lived in Japan, I often went to the movies.

I didn't go to Japanese movies; at my most fluent, I don't think I would have understood what was going on.  But there were many popular American movies showing in Japan, in English with Japanese subtitles.  Sometimes there would even be a double-feature, something that I had heard of but not experienced in my corner of the United States.  There were other cultural differences as well:  I remember being surprised -- no, shocked -- to find out sometimes that I would get a ticket to a movie and not be able to find a seat.  It was standing room only for a popular movie some days.

And then there were the previews of coming attractions.  I don't know if it's just because I am an inordinately curious person, but I started to really like to watch the previews of coming attractions.  These WERE actually Japanese movies, in Japanese, and they were full of color and actions and quick shots and sounds (most of which I did not understand), all of which conspired to make me feel that this movie was going to be the most incredibly experience ever.  What it was about, I had no clear idea.  But I really really wanted to find out.

So these movie previews were incomprehensible to me, for a number of reasons.  There wasn't just the language barrier, but there was also the barrier of just getting the snippets of exciting plot, the little flashes of actions, the hard cuts.  But even though (maybe even because) the previews were incomprehensible, they were also fascinating.  Endlessly fascinating.  There were things I possibly could find out here, and also things I would never, ever know.

This week I spent a little time at a conference called "Worship in a Time of Change."  Conveniently the conference was located in the week right before Transfiguration Sunday, an incomprehensible but fascinating story of Jesus' glowing appearance (with Moses and Elijah) on a mountain.  Not that we don't try to comprehend it, even year -- is it a mis-placed resurrection story?  does it have its roots in Hellenistic mystery religions?  or is it something else?  When have you ever seen someone's face glow, and their clothes turn white?  Even if you've had a mountaintop experience or two, I'll be nothing exactly like THIS has happened to you.

One thing I'm starting to realize, as well, is that for many people, worship is incomprehensible.  What is this?  Why do we do it?  What's going on?  My own niece, who is sort of unchurched, but goes with her grandmother on occasion, says, "I like to go, but I don't know what's going on."  Incomprehensible.  And not fully explainable if it is, indeed (as we say), an encounter with God.

If it is indeed (as we say) an encounter with God, we can even not worry too much if there's some incomprehension in there, as long as there is fascination too.  And if, indeed, Surely God is in this Place (as we say), it ought to be fascinating.  Not necessarily in a faces-glowing sort of way, but in an awe-ful sort of way.  For example -- strange, unexplainable things happen here, like the earthiness of tears and possibility of mercy, like hearing the words, "blood of Christ shed for you" and tasting it.  One of the most incomprehensible and fascinating things about faith is how ordinary things can be so holy, and perhaps there should be more ordinary, earthy things in our worship.

Worship in a time of change should be Incomprehensible and fascinating, because we worship a living God, who does not leave us alone.  Perhaps that's what we are seeking, in a time of change.  A living God, incomprehensible and fascinating, incomprehensibly loving, eternally fascinating, not leaving us alone, speaking words we desperately want to understand.

Maybe.  Maybe the first step to creating a bridge for people to come to worship is to admit that it begins by being incomprehensible.  Not too familiar.  But strange.  And (we hope and pray) fascinating.

Lord, Have Mercy

The summer has brought some changes, big and small, to the congregation where I am a pastor.  Of course, the big one is a new senior pastor.  But there have been a few little ones, including some ways that our worship services have changed.  We're trying a few things in worship, without doing anything major yet:  we want the congregation to be the ones who figure out what our worship identity is, and what our worship should look like.

In the meantime, we have been doing a couple of things differently:  1)  we have moved the announcements to near the end of the service.  We decided to do this right after our "Rally Day" worship, when the beginning of the service was delayed several minutes because people were still coming in the front door.  2)  we begun worship with the "Kyrie."

I have a couple of observations regarding these changes.  One is this:  I should not criticize anyone for finding change difficult, because I'm sort of finding it difficult myself.  Doing the announcements at the end of the service does not come naturally for me, much as I like the idea.  And I'm used to beginning worship either with a song, or with confession and forgiveness, so the flow of worship seems a little odd to me, still.

But I do find myself dwelling on those three word, that most ancient prayer, "Kyrie Eleison."  "Lord, have mercy."  It is a confession and it is an intercession.  It is the cry of a disciple, "Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner."  It reminds me that prayer is not a transaction, but a gift.

This morning I had one of those bad headaches I get every once in awhile.  I haven't had one for a long time, and I forget how they feel until one of them comes along again.  I caught myself praying a sort-of prayer, "God, if you will take away this headache, I promise I will do more of the things you want me to do.  I promise I'll write, I'll use my time wisely, I won't procrastinate...."  I was in the middle of this kind of prayer when I remembered the Kyrie, "Lord, have mercy....."

There's no bargaining, no reminding God that I'm an essentially Good Person, no promising that I will be better.  The only chip I have is the mercy of God.   That's it.  And that is enough.

One of my high school friends, one of a different denominational persuasion, visited a Lutheran worship service one time and reported on her experience.  "First you ask God to forgive you," she reported.  "Then all of a sudden, you are saying, 'Lord, have mercy' again.  What's up with that?  Why don't you just believe you are forgiven and be done with it?"

At the time, I didn't know exactly how to answer her.  Maybe it was true; maybe we did wallow a bit too much in our sinfulness.  But now I am beginning to see a little more clearly:  "Lord Have mercy," is the constant refrain of our lives, of our prayers.  It's not that we are wallowing in our sinfulness, but that the foundation of our life is mercy.

The foundation of our life is mercy.

God is merciful.  That alone is enough to transform our lives.

Call and Response

My congregation charged me with coming up with some liturgical pieces to use outdoors for more informal worship (and so people would not have to have so much "paper" in their bulletin.  Here are two that I came up with.  I taught the congregation (in three sections) the three responses, and alternated with pieces that I wrote.  See what you think:

LITANY OF THANKSGIVING

Responses:
A  The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases
B  God's mercies never come to an end
C  Great is Your Faithfulness, O God.

In the morning and the evening, in the stars and the sun and the rain
A,B,C

In the strm and in the rainbow after a storm, in the song of birds, iin the beauty of flowers bursting with colors
A

In the springtime and in the winter, at harvest and during summer
B

In the wandering in the wilderness, in the manna you provide us, in the waysy ou sustain us throughout our lives
C

In our families and in the strangers who are your gift to us, in our neighbors near or far
A

In good times and in hard times, in joy and in sorrow, for richer, for poorer
A, B

In the water that washes over us, in the name of Jesus who claims us, in the bread and wine that feed us
B,C

In the man of sorrows who was acquainted with grief, who forgave his enemies, and who promised us paradise
A

In the empty tomb and the words, "He is risen,", in the appearances to his disciples, as he promised, "I am with you always"
A,B,C
AMEN

LITANY OF CALL

Responses:
A  Now you are the body of Christ, and individually members of it
B  And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your strength and all your mind (okay, that one was hard, but they rose to the occasion!)
C  And you shall love your neighbor as yourself

God calls our feet "beautiful" and urges us forward to make God's name known in the world.
A,B,C

God has given us eyes so that we can see the beauty in creation, and the beauty in our neighbor
A

God has given us eyes so that we can see the pain in the world, and hands to reach out to give comfort and to work for justice
B,C

God has given us ears to hear God's word of promise and grace, and God has given us ears to hear cries of joy and cries of sorrow
B

God calls us to use our hands to comfort, heal, serve and left each other up
A

God calls us to raise our voices in praise, and to raise our voices to speak up for the powerless
B, C

God calls us to kneel, to run, to stand up, to sit down, to carry each other's burdens, to use our whole bodies to show God's love and care for the world
A,C

God calls our feet "beautiful," and urges us forward to make God's name known in the world.
A,B, C

Liturgy Is Not The Problem

At least, I don't think so.

In some circles, it seems like the word "liturgy" has a connotation somewhat like the word "liberal".  "Liturgy" is a code word for everything that is wrong with the church:  ritual and repetition without meaning, doing the same thing over and over again.  Liturgy is boring and not spontaneous.  It is right up there with organ music and hymns written before 1980.  In many many church growth books out there these days, at least one of the steps is something on the order of "get rid of liturgy".

But, is this really the problem?  All worship has to have an order to it, just like most of us, when we travel, travel on roads.  Sometimes it is exciting to travel on rough terrain in a jeep, and at other times, the most important thing is simply to get there.  Absolutely, the journey is important, but I am not with those who say that the destination doesn't matter.  At the end of the day, the most important thing is that I arrive at home, and not somewhere else.    In the same way, I have been moved and fed by many different kinds of worship services, from high liturgies to Pentecostal praise services.  Liturgy is not rote repetition to me; it contains the richness of art and poetry and beauty.

One of the problems with liturgy, I think, is that those of us who are used to it take it for granted.  We travel this particular road from week to week; we're used to it.  Some of us are aware of why we take this road and the specific scenery to watch out for; others don't know why, and we have never taught them.  We may hold to liturgy too rigidly, using it to keep the presence of God away instead of to draw near.  We may hold to liturgy too loosely, not recognizing the beauty of the structures in the same way we don't always recognize the beauty in a sonnet.

Not everyone has grown up with liturgy, it may be argued.  But not everyone has grown up speaking in tongues, either, and I don't see Pentecostals casting that element of their faith aside, believing it to be odd and a stumbling block. 

Last week, I presided at several funerals.  The first one, on Monday, was for a dear man who had grown quite deaf.  Yet he came to church every Sunday, even though he could not hear one word of the sermon or the music of the songs.

He was fed by the words of the liturgy, which he recited week after week.  He was fed by the words of the Creed, and by participating in the Lord's Supper with his community of faith.

Liturgy may be a barrier for some, but for others, it is a door to the presence of God.  Some day, it may even be so for you.

A Naming Ritual

The word of the Lord came to Jeremiah, saying, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you." The name Jesus was given to the child of Mary, the Son of God, as a sign of salvation for all people. the naming of this child reminds us of God's care for him and helps us remember this child's coming among us.

Then, addressing the parent/s, the leader asks:
What do you name your child?
Parent/s respond: Her/his name is _____________.
Parent/s or others may comment on the significance of the name.


See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God: and that is what we are. The reasons the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God's children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do knowi s this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is. (1 John 3:1-2)

God, our creator, you called into being this fragile life, which had seemed to us so full of promise. Give to __________, whom we commit to your care, abundant life in your presence, and to us who grieve, courage to bear our loss; through jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

Heavenly father, your love for all children is strong and enduring. We were not able to know this child as we hoped. Yet you knew him growing in his mother's womb, and he is not lost to you. In the midst of our sadness, we thank you that ______ is with you now, and with you forever.

Merciful God, you grant children an abundant entrance into your kingdom. In your compassion, comfort those who mourn for _______, and all who mourn the death of children. Be gentle with them in their grief, and reveal to them the wideness of your mercy. Deliver them from all despair and guilt. Grant us grace so that one day, united with _______ and with all your children, we may stand in your presence in the fullness of joy; for the sake of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. AMEN

_______, Child of God, we entrust you to the arms of God's mercy.

Almighty God, who formed us all out of the dust of the earth, receive you in peace.

Christ, the Good Shepherd, enfold you with his tender care.

God the Holy Spirit, our Comforter, bear you to life in God's new creation.

May you dwell forever in the paradise of God. AMEN

(From Evangelical Lutheran Worship, When a Child Dies before or at Birth)

Why I am Crabby and Stressed-Out

... a short post which may be lengthened a little later.

Our seminary intern quit. I found out when I got back from New York.

I knew he had a couple of problems when I left, but I assumed that he would take a little break and be back. But he needs a big break. He won't be back.

I hope he will become a pastor. He has many gifts for ministry. I feel bad for him. I hope you will keep him in your prayers. But (and I hate to say this, but I will) I feel bad for us, too.

This church has had an internship program for a number of years. That means, that there are a number of things that have begun to fall to the intern regularly, both as a matter of his or her training, and also for the working of the congregation.

The most immediate thing I thought of is our Wednesday Advent Service. Our intern is responsible for creating and leading 3 evening services during Advent. Now, the Senior Pastor and I are responsible for them.

That's just the beginning, though. That's just the first thing I thought of.

I'm trying hard not to think of the other things -- yet.

Living Liturgy

I remember once when I was a little girl going to visit my uncle and his family. My uncle was a pastor in a small town somewhere in Iowa -- not a Lutheran pastor, though. He was a pastor in the Evangelical Free church. I remember being very disoriented by the bulletin, which hardly had anything in it. Just a couple of songs, and a sermon (a long sermon, I remember). And there was no place in the book (except for the hymns) where I could follow along, as I was used to doing. No prayers to read together, no "Lord, Have Mercy/Christ, Have Mercy/Lord Have Mercy", no "Gloria Patri", no Apostle's Creed.

It was clear to me on that day that this worship service, anyway, was for adults.

I had no such ideas as a child. I grew up with the Red Lutheran Service Book and Hymnal, Settings One and Two. As for me, I never felt bored by the liturgy, even though I didn't understand everything about it. Even without understanding, I could participate by singing along, by praying along, by chanting along. And as I grew, I began to understand some things. I remember that my dad used to sit by me and help me find my place in the hymnal. I loved hearing him sing the Bass part on the three-fold Amen. And when I discovered, in the back of the hymnal, the index of "First Lines and Common Titles", I thought that I had learned the secret handshake! Whenever the sermon got a little too long, I would look up my favorite hymns.

Maybe I was lucky because I was such a reader. I would read anything, even a hymnal; it fascinated me. I still have the 5th grader Sunday School book where we learned the meanings of all of the parts of the liturgy: Invocation and Confession, Introit and Gloria Patri, Kyrie and Gloria in Excelsis and Collect. And I remember my confirmation pastor talking about the liturgy as a great drama, where we remember the mighty acts of God and become a part of them.

Now, it seems, for many people, that the liturgy has become a part of the problem. Empty ritual, they call it. And it can be. Sometimes it does seem as if people are only going through the motions when they participate in the liturgy every week.

So people think that something "freer" is more genuine, more authentic. There is something better about a pentecostal praise service or about a less liturgical Baptist service. "They don't have liturgy," is the reason. But I'm not sure about that.

I remember being involved in a non-denominational Pentecostal church sometime during college. I would go to a Thursday night prayer meeting, and sing intently with all of the enthusiastic songs, and really feel as if my heart was in it. Somewhere along the line, perhaps after a month of two, I started to realize that the opening song selection always followed a similar pattern. They may not have had a printed liturgy, but they did have an order of worship, and it was designed to get a certain emotional effect. It became clear to me that there was a purpose to their "liturgy", even though it was not printed out.

Perhaps one of the things that is missing these days is the sense of the purpose of the liturgy. What is it for? Why do we do it? Why do we design our worship in a certain way (other than the historic integrity)? It is not simply to get an emotional effect, but there is, or should be, a sense of movement, a sense of purpose.

I have been taken recently with Dorothy Bass' series of books, Practicing our Faith. I believe that at least part of the purpose of worship is ritual practice for an authentic life of faith. So when we kneel, we a practicing humility and servanthood. When we sing, we are practicing praise. When we sit for the sermon, we are practicing for a life of sitting at Jesus' feet and learning from him. And when we receive communion, we are practicing putting out our hands and receiving from God.

In one sense, though, there are many different purposes for worship. But in another sense, worship is a gigantic waste of time. When you are in worship, you are not serving the homeless, earning a living, signing a petition, doing laundry. On one blog earlier this week, the insightful author critiqued the maintenance mode of most churches. She said, most people who want to save the world, don't say "I think I'll join a church." People who want to save the world have better ways to use their time. But on another blog recently, I saw a compelling image of a circle: "Save the World/Save the Liturgy", was printed around the circle.

That's the challenge I think. Our mission is to save the world -- but it's a funny way to save the world, isn't it? Somehow, worship is an integral part of this mission.

A stranger in Japan discovers liturgy

A few people have asked me to post about my time as a missionary and high school teacher (boys) in Japan, from 1981-85. It's hard to know where to start, so I'd like to begin by posting a column I wrote a few years back, in seminary, which was printed in the campus paper. For one year, I had a column, called Expectations and Visions. If people are interested, from time to time, I'll post other items as well.

"My first month in Japan was the hardest. A stranger in a strange land, I felt most of the time like I was on the verge of being lost. Streets were narrow, winding mazes, and I had no nose for direction.

"Signs were not landmarks but cryptic messages mostly undeciphered. Everything was new: the smells of skewered meat being sold on the street, the cries of vendors, the crowds of dark-haired people standing on the train, reading newspapers and magazines incomprehensible to me. Every corner I turned was a place I had not been before, an exiting but fearsome proposition.

"Wherever I got on a train, I wondered where I would end up and what it would look like when I got there. I read the map, all right; that first month I read it microscopically, clutching it like a security blanket, ever alert, unable to relax or let my guard down.

"I had come to Japan to serve god; that was the official reason. But underneath it all was a secret desire to escape the dull routine of my ordinary life in my ordinary office job, a desire to meet God in the kinds of places I had only read about in books before. In Japan even ordinary life became an adventure, and I discovered that constant new experiences were not only stimulated, but wearying.

"Sundays promised a reprieve from all the newness, for every Sunday I would go to church. In the midst of all the strange smells and sights, I entered a familiar-looking western-style building, complete with steeple, and took my place in a wooden pew. In the midst of unfamiliar words and tones, I heard "Amen" and "Alleluia," and "Jesus." No longer was I lost. I knew where I was. I was at home in the midst of the liturgy. Or was I?

"Appearances can be deceiving. Even in church, I couldn't keep up with even one petition of the Lord's prayer in Japanese. I sang the hymns intensely aware of each syllable I was reading, still not knowing what most of it meant. I listened to sermons hoping for a word I could recognize, and never finding one. Worship was more of an effort than it had ever been, and the returns were much diminished. Even getting to church was a lot of work.

"Every Sunday I took a train from my home at Meidaimae to Shibuya, transferred to a train to Hiyoshi, and walked fifteen minutes from the station at Hiyoshi to my church. The whole thing took about one hour fifteen minutes. It was quite a trip. The first week a member of the church met me at the station and we walked together. She carefully explained the way, each twist and turn of the road. I in turn paid close attention to every step, sure that I would lose my way when I would have to walk those narrow unfamiliar streets alone. I remember the first few times feeling immensely relieved when I first caught sight of the church steeple in the distance.

"But after awhile I began to relax, loosen my grip on the train map, look around me, and follow the way my feet had come to know, without even thinking about it. I had the way memorized it. I knew it by heart. It was a routine to me. It was a part of my liturgy in Japan. Imagine being excited by having a routine!

"Suddenly routine took on a new and gracious meaning for me. Rather than just dull and lifeless repetition, my routine could be liturgical. And liturgy too became more gracious. No longer did I think it merely boring routine, words pronounced automatically. Liturgy became instead the place where I could loosen my grip, take off my shoes and feel at home. It became the well-worn road to the place I knew so well. It was the "Amen" and "Alleluia" in the midst of all the cryptic messages that surrounded me. It is in this place, I discovered, and not so much in my adventures, that God comes to meet me.

"Still I seek adventures, but God seeks me, and where I least expect. In the midst of strange places and new experiences, God gives a home, a place where I can let down my guard and listen and learn. Sometimes it is a song from long ago that I have memorized, whose words I finally understand. Sometimes it is a story I have heard so many times, and for the first time now. It is called liturgy, but it doesn't happen only on Sunday morning.

"It happens to all pilgrims and sojourners as we come to recognize our path, and travel it with confidence. It is in the familiar places where our true adventures happen, as gifts of grace, given by God."

P.S. Picture was taken in front of Kyoto Lutheran church. I still know what the sign says: "Jinsei no mokuteki wa?" or "What is the purpose of life?"