I was momentarily caught up in a Facebook post yesterday about the “crisis” of young people leaving the church. The Acts 8 Movement posted a blog to the effect that change (especially fast change) is a bad thing because the author believes young people will return to the church later in life, and when they do, they will want the familiar setting that they grew up in. What I took that to mean is that they will want TRADITION. The consequences of changing the scared liturgy in an attempt to draw people in could backfire, theoretically, by driving others out. The banter around the subject included one person’s adamant insight that “God hates guitar music” which raises a related thread of theological debate, and also helps me focus on my question. Here, then, is the conundrum of the institutional church. Exactly who is it, or perhaps, WHAT is it that we worship?
For a number of years, I directed a spirituality center for my parish. Part of the mission of this center was to provide “teachable moments” for people who were seeking a deeper relationship with the Holy. We offered the run of the mill quiet days and retreats, but we also had a dream group, and offered one-on-one spiritual direction. Most people who come to church want to get “it” right—this worship thing. They, however, do not realize that spirituality is basically one’s faith practice, and that attending church is only a part, at most, of the “works” part of our call to be Christ in the world. We also are called to feed hungry people and visit those who are sick and in prison. Additionally, there will always be a certain number of people in the pews on Sunday who come from a sense of duty or social obligation, though I’d dare say that number is shrinking simply because guilt no longer pervades our society in the same manner it once did.
So what is it that we worship? In my parish, we have a beautiful liturgy that follows Rite II of The Book of Common Prayer. We have a gifted organist/choir master who provides music that is uplifting and inviting. These parts of the church service are merely props, however, to the experience of worship. They are tools that we use to enter the Holy of Holies and to encounter the numinous. In many ways, the liturgy is the backdrop for what happens as our spirits commune with God. It can, though, become just rote words spoken without much conviction if one does not pay attention to the whole dramatic pageant happening in the communion of saints going on in a particular congregational setting.
That sense of communion or belonging is why being attentive during worship is so important (and rewarding). Spirituality does not come “naturally.” The door may be opened at our baptism, and the desire planted by the time we are confirmed, but we must do the work to grow to full spiritual maturity. And just why is it that the Church is so desperate to have a full contingent of young adults? Prodigality in one’s twenties or thirties may not be such a bad thing.
Yet, the liturgy is an important part of what it is we Christians participate in week after week. It is the work we do, and is the heart of our faith. When it moves beyond the mere recitation of creed and allows us to celebrate the mystery of the life of the Christ, it is a transfiguring experience. When we walk in the light spoken of in John’s Gospel, we become luminous just as the prophets did at Christ’s Transfiguration. That’s why the beauty of the liturgy works; it pulls us in like the moon tugging on the ocean tide to the place of glory. This beauty is really only possible when one is swept up in tenderness, awe, goodness, and love.
How, then, does one go about experiencing this moment of holiness? I would argue that it can only be experienced in mysterious silence. How clever is it that God gives this oxymoron, Word and Silence, as the chief means of entering into God’s luminous, holy presence. In his little book, The Silent Roots, K.M. George introduces the idea of iconosophia, the wisdom of the icons. He says, “an openness and Spirit-inspired ability to image God in the infinity of God’s own compassionate love, tenderness, goodness and freedom, and not in the image of our own distorted selves and institutional hierarchies. That God image comes to us in the silence of prayer and worship. As Bonhoeffer said, “The Word comes not to the chatterer but to him who holds his tongue. The stillness of the temple is the sign of the holy presence of God in His Word” (Life Together).
This silence that we seek, the silence that allows us to wait for the coming of God’s Word, comes only through practice. It is a spiritual practice that brings great blessing. Again, Bonhoeffer tells us that “The silence of the Christian is listening silence, humble stillness... It is silence in conjunction with the Word.” The God who meets us in this silence is a God of love and love alone. Br. Roger of Taize put it this way, “Remember this once and for all: God never imposes himself by dictates and threats. Christ never wishes anyone to suffer torment. If, for you, a life in God were to mean being afraid of God, you should think again.” Finally, I believe that Jesus came to transfigure every part of our being and that our life is a pilgrimage toward that transformation. It is in that silent prayer in the silent presence that the Word is born in our heart.
