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....
 

6 April 2014: Fragile Best

This past Sunday whenever my hands were free I scribbled notes in the margins of an Order of Service template I created last week for my personal use. I am trying to smooth out the remaining rough edges of performance. Each week to date there has been a noticeable "bump" in the service, a moment when an "uh-oh" vibe interrupts the flow. The template is an attempt to identify and correct my part, if any, in the weekly "bump."

The current bog post would have been based on the marginalia if I'd made time to blog immediately after church but something else caught my attention in the meantime.

On Sunday morning, right before service, I asked S________, the woman who first contacted me about this gig and who, along with her brother, sister-in-law and mother, is a cornerstone (or backbone or....something) of the church, to look at my template. Together, we went through it step by step, comparing it to the order as outlined in the front of the hymnal and the order I inherited from the previous pianist, six or seven photocopied pages from an older edition of the hymnal.  We identified two minor discrepancies and I made appropriate notes.

While we talked, the minister sidled up and started his usual jovial, self-centered banter. Although the stated reason for the interruption was a desire to introduce me to his wife and son, both of them in attendance for the first time since I commenced my post, I think really he just wondered what S______ and I were talking about. Harmless meddling like a child who can't help making noise when Mommy is on the phone.

His adult son was in town for the weekend from Texas. Whether striving to impress his family or in response to some other self-consciousness, he worked very hard to stay on script Sunday. There was tension in his voice and posture:  his delivery displayed something less than the usual self-confidence with fewer ad lib anecdotes, frequent hesitations and overly-loud enunciation of cue lines before musical bits.

Yet, even with such strenuous effort toward correctness, he completely skipped a sequence known as "The Collect for the Day." It was not a huge deal for me. I had a few anxious moments anticipating where he would resume the order of service but we found our way and the service resumed, to my mind, with minimal stress.

The next morning, I was awakened by a telephone call from Rev. W_________. He wanted me to

know that he was in the process of creating a detailed table or chart or something to guide him through the liturgy on Sunday mornings. I am still unsure what the call was really about. Maybe he wanted sympathy or praise? Maybe he was trying to voice a complaint with my performance? Maybe he was just having a rough moment and needed a shoulder to cry on?

I wished him well with his creative efforts. He said I could take a look at his table and then perhaps we'll be on the same page on Sunday. I agreed to look it over and added that my opinion mattered little; the main concern is that he create something that puts his own mind at rest. I suggested that if the two of us synchronized our attention to cue lines -- which ever script or table we used -- we'd be OK.

I wondered whether S_______ or someone had talked to him after Sunday's miscue.

He said, "I'm struggling with this because I'm having to suppress my natural urges toward improvising and being more intuitive about things..." And, of course, as an improv artist, I could really "feel him" on that point; but I doubted the benefit of attempting a conversation with him about a joint collaboration to create a framework for the service and then improvising within that framework. I had the feeling he was feeling confused, guilty and frustrated in the moment and consequently not in the most receptive frame of mind for such a conversation.

I will look at whatever he brings on Sunday. S___________ approached me after the service and whispered, "I see what the problem is now. I'll edit the order of service I've been sending you and also make sure I send him the same thing from now on." It will be interesting to see how he

responds next Sunday as he attempts to reconcile his new chart with whatever she gives him....

Each Sunday I leave church with a somewhat heavy heart for a variety of reasons. Including the onerous sense of allegiance folks seem to feel to the service format outlined in the hymnal. I think it lends a deadness to their gatherings and they seem to possess no sense of entitlement or agency to change the format, to make the service what they need it to be. When Rev. W_____________ skipped The Collect, it planted perhaps 20 seconds of silence in the service. Perhaps people were disturbed, as people often are, by the silence; but is silence really such an ugly or scary thing?

For a moment, the congregation found themselves unguided, alone with their own thoughts. In retrospect, the lapse reminded me of my sadness that congregants do not voice their own prayers: instead, they confer with the minister right before service begins, informing him of who needs prayers and he includes their requests in the General Prayers segment of the service, during which he stands with his back to the people, facing a cross mounted on the wall behind the pulpit, and intones prayers...for the health and well being of politicians, for solace for families who lost loved ones in the recent Malaysian airlines tragedy, for a change of heart among local non-believers that will lead to them to begin attending church....

It feels like so much Fear to me:  fear of silence, fear of having no guidance, fear of the clamor of personal thoughts in the absence of specific instruction about where to place your attention, fear of living in community with people who don't think like you...

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I hear that Barbara Ehrenreich has a new book:  Living with a Wild God: A Nonbeliever's Search for the Truth About Everything.  I'm going to try to get it on e-book...something to read during the sermon.