Is It Your Business?

Following the service today, Pastor shared some highlights from his participation in a regional Lutheran ministers' gathering. He said that it seemed a shame to spend so much time indoors when the weather was so beautiful, but he appreciated a four-hour break one afternoon and made the most of it. He visited each of the 38 shops along a tourist strip along the waterfront of this southern town, inquiring of each shop owner -- and any employees or customers present -- whether they had "a personal relationship with Jesus Christ."

Aside from the fact that his choice of activity effectively placed him back indoors on that beautiful afternoon, I marvel, again, at the blindness of religious people. The complete absence of self-reflection or common courtesy. It does not occur to them to consider how it would feel to have someone of a different religion (or none at all) confront them with a question that wrongly assumes a shared point of reference.

To the best of my knowledge, Jesus Christ only approached people who were engaged in behavior that was harmful, unjust or unkind -- to themselves or someone else. It is difficult to imagine him strolling into the shop of woman merely selling her homemade candles and challenging her belief system.

It is ironic how insensitive and invasive the practice of Christianity has become -- Love thy neighbor, indeed...

Satan as Insect

Essentially this blog is place to store observations and questions and opinions about my experience as church pianist for a Lutheran Church in Holly Springs MS. I've only mentioned the blog to two people and, as far as I know, only one of them occasionally stops by. I'm not looking for a fight. This blog, like SITC, should be viewed as an open diary.


Some new notions to record.

The devil is like a fly. As explained in yesterday's sermon, he "buzzes around you looking for a spot on your body that's hard for you to reach and lands there to annoy you." The comparison was interesting because it differs from my experience with flies. In my experience, they either land on my food (and I swat them away) or they land on my leg/arm/face/thigh/etc. (and I swat them away) or they buzz lazily without ever landing and frustrate my attempts to swat them.

I'm the Son of God...mum's the word. In a recent Gospel reading from Matthew 16:13-20, Jesus asks his disciples "Who do people say I am?" After they answer, he breaks it down and tells them who he is and what he plans and then "...he strictly charged the disciples to tell no one that he was the Christ." Why the secrecy? As explained by the pastor, "He knew that if everyone knew who he was and believed in him, he would not be able to follow through with his father's plan for him to die for the World's salvation."

Huh?

Finally, to illustrate how the Holy Spirit moves in the world (in a sermon entitled "Still Cookin'" that talks about the aromas of home cooking), the minister stood front and center with a bottle of Febreeze in his hand. He raised the can and sprayed the air for a few seconds. "Now, some of you can smell it now and some of you won't smell it for a few more seconds. But eventually everyone in the room will be able to smell it."

As it happened, the scent never made it's way to me in the back of the room -- I don't know why -- but what came to mind immediately was the contrast between Unitarian Universalist diligent avoidance of scent in their places of worship and this Lutheran minister's approach.

The Wheat, the Weeds, the Rain

I was second to arrive this morning, after the pastor. He greeted me with his usual joviality and then inquired about my father's recovery. The sequence has become the standard format in the brief conversations I have each week with church members. And although I do not "believe" in prayer as they understand it -- human intercession to the Divine Will -- I must acknowledge the uplift in Daddy's mood each time I mention that they are still praying for him.

Pastor mentioned the recent abundance of rain in the area. "Someone's prayers are being answered," he said. "Well, my lawn is loving it," I added, feeling silly immediately after I said it though Pastor chuckled because it was just the kind of meaningless comment that passes for humor in his reality.

When P___ & B___ arrived a few minutes later, they, too, inquired about my father's recovery and commented on the rain. P____ is friends with the woman who lived in this house before us. She had mentioned last Sunday that the woman would like to stop by and see the old place. I enthusiastically assured her I would welcome a visit and encouraged her to share my telephone number with her friend. Today I told her I was still hoping her friend would get in touch with me as I could use some guidance identifying the myriad varieties of greenery in the yard.

"You'll do okay. Just make sure you're pulling weeds and not flowers," she said. "Which is precisely the problem:  I don't know the difference," I told her. "I know what you mean," she added. "Some weeds sprout such beautiful flowers."

As it turned out, the Gospel reading today was the Parable of the Wheat and the Tares (or "weeds" in the modern day translation) as recounted in the 13th chapter of Matthew. The popular reading understands the parable to say that weeds (non-believers, evil people, etc.) are the result of clandetine activity by Satan/the Devil after the initial sowing of good seed by Christ/God. In the scripture, Jesus explains the parable to inquiring disciples after the public telling and instructs that just as there is no need for the servant workers to pull the weeds because at harvest time, the reapers will pull them, bundle them and burn them, angels of the Son of Man will pull the human weeds "at the close of the age."

During the pastor's exegesis this morning, I thought about the inadequacy of the parable for those who don't have servants. And I thought about the beauty of weeds and the difficulty distinguishing them from other plants. And I thought about the contradiction between the idea that God created everyone and the idea that some of us are "created" by Satan. And I also enjoyed the synchronicity of the parable with my earlier conversation with P__.

Further thematic congruency arose during the sermon (although the central theme of it was "standing in line) when we were told that although Adam and Eve ("Daddy and Mommy") were punished for their transgression in the garden of Eden, we should not view the struggles of our lives as punishment. The suffering and struggles we endure presently are manifestations of the ongoing punishment for the original sin perpetrated by Adam and Eve.

"Because of their disobedience," Pastor explained, "forever after, all women must undergo painful childbirth and men must deal with weeds." He did not say it as a joke but I found the idea amusing.

And I wondered about childless women and women farmers.

Powers of the Collective

And so, just like that, I became the "Music Director" at a Lutheran church.

Following the service today, the minister launched a humorous monologue about today being the birthday of Sarah (the woman who invited me earlier this year to become the church pianist/musician; she also belongs to the founding family of the church, chooses the hymns and writes my check each week, and performs a hundred other tasks to keep the church going) and, again, no treats on hand to commemorate the birthday of a church member.

There ensued a lively open discussion, including a consideration of no one even singing "Happy Birthday." The talk went on....and on....and, at last--I really could not help myself--I raised my voice and began singing. Everyone quickly joined in. Lots of smiling gazes cast toward me in my usual position beside the piano at the rear of the room.

Today was a day of especially acute spiritual clarity for me. I woke up with a compelling sense of having three eyes which persisted for some time after awaking. I am also reading A.S.Byatt's "A Whistling Woman" that chronicles among other things the formation of a religious or spiritual community. With her usual thoroughness, she includes a comprehensive description of the narrative on which the beliefs of the community are based.

As I listened to words uttered by minister and congregation at this Lutheran church today, I observed the commonalities between the fictional community and this one. The Old Testament reading was taken from Genesis 1 which is the complete retelling of how God created the world. In the Nicene Creed, which they stand and recite every week, they affirm the tenets of their faith.

I thought today about the necessity of words to sustain belief. The reiteration and repetition of the ideas that guide and shape it. Patriotism, etiquette, best practices in business and education:  all of them, like religion, require a underlying belief system to exist and persist. Belief is what humans do. It seems belief is an innate aspect of the human condition, no more possible to avoid than laughter or violence or ignorance.

A member with musicianship in her history and I have established rapport. She suffers visibly with ongoing distress in her back and knees. We spoke before service began about my father's upcoming back surgery. She must have mentioned it to the minister because "Alex' father" was among those lifted up during the General Prayer. I was touched by the gesture and noted an absence of annoyance or cynicism. These people, like all people were acting on their belief. Although I do not share the belief system, I perceived no threat in their action. I did not feel outnumbered and their prayer did not feel like intrusion.

The same musical woman approached me after service (and the singing Happy Birthday ritual) to thank and compliment me, as she has on numerous occasions, for my musical contribution to their services. "There is so much sensitivity in your playing," she said. "The music gives the words of the hymns more meaning."

I thanked her for the compliment and commended the generous courage it takes to give me feedback. In the especially clear psychic space of this day, I played with particular sensitivity today. For each of the musical ordinaries* I sought today to make the accompaniment express and enhance the texts. In each verse of the hymns, I suited the accompaniment to precisely fit the meaning and intent of the text.

And I accomplished this by setting aside my skepticism about Christian belief. Yesterday I posted again on FaceBook Buckminster Fuller's quote:

I had no fight with Christian belief today. I am a musician. I build with music. From the volume and the quality of their intonations -- and a few glances toward the back of the church during singing -- I had the distinct sense this morning that the music interrupted the rote singing of these hymns the members had sung for decades. Today they heard what they were singing.

There is no higher purpose to my musicianship than that it serve the awakening of human consciousness. If my musicianship helps bring focus and intention to what people are saying and doing, my work is well done.

Another member asked me today, in my role as the only person of color in the room, if I was familiar with a tradition in "Black churches" to hold up one index finger on occasions when they leave before the service is over. I was not. He said he'd learned of the tradition through an American-African employee this week and done some research. His findings uncovered several possible roots of the practice, one of them being that during slavery in the U.S. slaves were allowed to attend church but the needs of the master overrode this privilege:  a raised index finger indicated the master needed

you, work called, and you had to go.

I suggested that perhaps the practice is only observed in Southern churches and that's why I don't remember it from my childhood church in Indiana.

Although I've never witnessed this practice, it strikes me as possibly another instance of thought-less ritual based on unexamined belief. I see thought-less, unexamined belief as among the most dangerous features of human existence; the basis for war and strife, the root cause of many intractable social problems.

Driving home I chuckled. It is likely they are praying for my father without a conscious awareness that they believe in the power of prayer. In the absence of anything I perceive as definitive proof against group prayer, I will suspend opinionated belief. It may do some good.














*Ordinary
Those parts of the service that remain constant from week to week -- the Kyrie, Gloria in Excelsis, Nicene Creed, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei. Composers have written complete musical settings using these texts. The parts of the service that change from week to week are called the propers.

Pentecost

Last Sunday was Pentecost. To commemorate the event, the pastor staged a reenactment. Before the service began, Sarah set up a card table at the front of the room. After covering it with a white cloth, she placed a very large window fan on the table.

During the hymn the precedes the sermon she took a seat facing the congregation in a chair beside the card table. With Sarah's  relocation only six people remained in the pews but a tiny ripple of "Oh...what's going to happen now?" swept through the assembled group.

The minister was wearing one of those sturdy, tiara-style headbands that little girls wear. He'd attached a piece of card stock to it , cut roughly in the shape of flame and colored red and yellow with felt tip markers. The effect was somewhat comical:  it looked like he was wearing a single feather or a question mark.

In advance of the service, he'd inserted strips of paper, each bearing a unique Bible verse into each Order of Service. After cuing Sarah to turn on the fan, He instructed the people that on his cue they were to stand and read their Bible verses over and over, all at the same time. 

Which they did.

Judging from the looks on their faces, most of them found the exercise silly. One woman looked downright disgusted but still stood and repeated her verse on cue.

A few days later, I took a closer look at the cover of the bulletin. "...lean not unto thine own understanding...he shall direct thy paths." I guess that's why everyone played along. Still, technically speaking, it wasn't God but the minister directing the morning's activities. I did a little research on what exactly is reported to have happened on Pentecost Sunday. The record, such as it exists, suggests the people had their own experience of wind and fire and speech and only after their engagement with the mystery did Peter stand and "interpret" what had happened.

I wonder if any churches have tried "allowing" Spirit to move as it will, unmediated and uninterpreted, FIRST? That sounds like a great way to celebrate and reenact the first Pentecost.

For The Beauty of the Earth

The tune for one of the hymns in recent service was most familiar to me as the Christmas carol, "The Friendly Beasts."

The lyrics as I learned them ran along the lines of 

Jesus our brother, kind and good

Was humbly born in a stable rude

And the friendly beasts around Him stood,

Jesus our brother, kind and good.

"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown,

"I carried His mother up hill and down;

I carried her safely to Bethlehem town."

"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.

"I," said the cow all white and red

"I gave Him my manger for His bed;

I gave him my hay to pillow his head."

"I," said the cow all white and red.

"I," said the sheep with curly horn,

"I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm;

He wore my coat on Christmas morn."

"I," said the sheep with curly horn.

"I," said the dove from the rafters high,

"I cooed Him to sleep so He would not cry;

We cooed him to sleep, my mate and I."

"I," said the dove from the rafters high.

Thus every beast by some good spell,

In the stable dark was glad to tell

Of the gift he gave Immanuel,

The gift he gave Immanuel.

[Note:  My search for the complete lyric revealed the tune's fascinating history. Click here to read it.]

After the customary quick rehearsal of the designated hymns on Saturday morning, the tune stuck with me and I found myself humming it for the rest of the day while flashing on the Christ Child encircled by humming beasts.

Earlier Saturday morning, a friend shared a story with me illustrating the small-town pettiness that is all too common in this God-fearing town. I remarked "How can people behave like that while Spring explodes in such vibrant, generous, creativity all around us? Are they blind to nature?" 

Four people attended the service the next day. To the tune of The Friendly Beasts, they sang



 
Hail the day that sees Him rise,
To His throne above the skies,
Christ, awhile to mortals given,
Reascends His native heaven,

There the glorious triumph waits,
Lift your heads, eternal gates,
Christ hath conquered death and sin,
Take the King of glory in,

Him though highest Heav’n receives,
Still He loves the earth He leaves,
Though returning to His throne,
Still He calls mankind His own,

See! He lifts His hands above,
See! He shows the prints of love,
Hark! His gracious lips bestow,
Blessings on His church below,

Still for us His death He pleads,
Prevalent He intercedes,
Near Himself prepares our place,
Harbinger of human race,

There we shall with Thee remain,
Partners of Thy endless reign,
There Thy face unclouded see,
Find our heaven of heavens in Thee,

and followed the hymn with The Confession of Sins, the kick-off to every Sunday gathering. Almighty God, our Maker and Redeemer, we poor sinners confess unto Thee that we are by nature sinful and unclean..." etc.

The friendly beasts tune and graphic were still on my mind. The mental picture contrasted sharply with that evoked by The Confession. I wondered Do they ever celebrate the endless variety and magnificent expression of creativity of their God? When I got home, I searched the Table of Contents of the hymnal for "For the Beauty of the Earth" or the text to "The Friendly Beasts" and did not find either. 

And it dawned on me:  this tradition is detached from the "natural world" and focuses instead on the wretchedness of humanity and the horror of the crucifixion. 

And that makes a big difference in the people's lives.

The Power of Ritual

 

I am coming to appreciate again the human need for ritual, for "an established, proscribed procedure." What captures my attention presently is the variation in definition and practice of ritual, specifically, comparing and contrasting the Baptist rituals of my childhood with those of the Lutheran church I now serve.

Similarities between the two include:

• the inclusion of music throughout the event
• the use of a printed program listing the elements of the service in chronological order
• the presence of one central personality who acts as intermediary with The Divine
• the absence of child-friendly elements in the proceedings
• selective use of Biblical references, all of them filtered and translated by the central personality
• the ethnic and sociocultural homogeneity of those attending the service
• laxity with regard to advertised starting time and when the ritual actually begins

  Differences include:

• Lutherans sing only the words printed in the hymnal; Baptists sing a mixture of printed lyrics and songs that everyone seems to know already, improvising freely with text, melody and harmony in both contexts
• Lutheran liturgy includes brief sung responses throughout; Baptist does not
• Baptist congregations respond audibly to the central personalities commentary and sermon; Lutherans do not
• Instrumental music is a regular backdrop when minister or other lay leaders are speaking in the Baptist church; there is no strictly instrumental music in the services at this Lutheran church

This Friday is "Good Friday" in both traditions. I have no memory of every gathering at the Baptist church for a Good Friday ritual. The Lutherans here will gather for a Tenebrae Service, the
agenda for which arrived by email last night. It looks to be a highly choreographed and beautifully dramatic service:  the serial extinguishing of candles while highlighting the final words of Jesus Christ with scripture reading and song, the whispering of The Lord's Prayer by all gathered at the end of the service....

It occurred to me last night:  wouldn't it be great to forgo the mindless routine rituals of every Sunday and gather only for the "big" days? Come together for rituals commemorating those events that hold profound and lasting significance in the real lives of the community?

My observations in both traditions suggest that the birth and death of Jesus Christ form the bedrock for both traditions. A handful of other events -- feeding the multitudes with fish and loaves; Christ's recruitment of his assistants, the disciples;  the creation story including Adam and Eve's error; Saul/Paul's conversion; and the story of Moses, to name a few -- contain sufficient relevance or import to inspire countless sermons. But, in the main, these stories do not pack the punch of the birth and death stories. There are no pageants or off-day (not on Sunday) services held in observance or celebration of them.

The reiteration of these secondary stories feels like filler to me, as though weekly meetings are mandatory and these stories provide something to talk about as long as you're gathered...

But as I watch lay leaders go through the motions each week -- laying out the printed Order of Service in the vestibule, lighting the candles, changing the hymn numbers on the display board, filling the communion cups -- as I observe almost-meditative placidity on their faces, I realize that there is more going on here for them than for me. I allow that perhaps Sunday is the only time each week that they experience this level of calm purpose; and perhaps, in the midst of busy lives, we need these temporal respites.

That the rest periods come with indoctrination troubles me; but perhaps for religious people the need for rest outweighs all else; like an overworked slave is grateful for moments of inactivity and a sip of water, even while seated in a dusty field beneath a blistering sun with freedom only a dream....