Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2054646
Bryan Cones
As Christian assemblies—along with everyone else—now embark on a third year of praying together through a pandemic, the prophet Jeremiah’s promise to the exiled Israelites remains today, as then, a distant hope. Latter-day prophet and Episcopal priest Pauli Murray’s description of hope as a “song in a weary throat” is both literally and liturgically more accurate. Zoom fatigue, absent families, and disagreements within assemblies about how to pray have sapped some of the original energy that accompanied attempts to maintain common prayer online. And the shape of prayer after the pandemic remains unclear, from whether digitally mediated prayer will remain a permanent feature of church life to ihow and whether assemblies may resume sharing from a common loaf of actual bread and a common cup. Yet, weary throats continue to sing—a sign of hope’s endurance reflected both in the resilience of assemblies’ commitment to gathering (as they have been able, given pandemic restrictions) and flexibility in adapting received forms of prayer to online environments. Resilience signals the enduring faith that has sustained communities through disasters greater even than Covid; flexibility is the hallmark of ongoing “traditioning” that adapts what has been handed on to the demands of God’s mission in the present time. Both evoke Aidan Kavanagh’s famous definition of the church’s “primary theology” as the “adjustment to deep change caused in the assembly by its being brought regularly to the brink of chaos in the presence of the living God.” Although both chaos and change have been hallmarks of the pandemic, the adjustments they will yield are not yet fully apparent. For that reason, it seems wise to begin with a note of caution. While I celebrate with many the resilience and flexibility that has emerged in this unusual time, I concur with Gordon Lathrop and others that there is no equivalence between the assembly convened at the same time and place, and the variety of mediated gatherings made possible by interactive digital technology. While these latter have value, and even make possible new forms of gathering, they cannot replace the signification possible only when the assembly is physically and publicly present with one another. Digitally mediated gatherings are always in danger of “context collapse,” identified by Ryan Panzer as “a process of reduction, in which digital environments ‘flatten’ multiple distinct identities into an oversimplified form.” Such collapse, in my view, profoundly undermines liturgy’s fundamentally symbolic mode of communication, with the primary symbol being the assembly itself engaging its liturgical work. As Hannah Lyn Venable writes, “There are certain practices of liturgy that either cannot be reproduced virtually, such as
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2054647
Michelle K. Baker-Wright
My neighbor died recently. His body was discovered in the midst of the severest lock-downs of the pandemic. He died alone, despite the efforts of neighbors to reach out to him, and because of the necessity for social distancing, rumors and misinformation flew up and down our small street. The house sat empty for months and began to take on the reputation of a “haunted house” to the neighborhood’s youth, while adults walked by whispering. In an already fearful climate, the stories that swirled around the house fueled even greater anxiety, uncertainty, and grief. Over texts and phone calls, some of us wrestled with how to support each other in this situation. A simple ritual evolved. One neighbor offered to bring a table to put out on the sidewalk in front of the house. Another offered to bring votive candles. Yet another brought flowers. After getting to know my neighbors better, I wrote a simple, interfaith friendly prayer remembering Eric’s life (not his real name). As people walked by, some of us sat apart on the front lawn, passed out votive candles, and invited people to take them to their own homes, light them at seven o’clock in the evening, and offer a prayer if they wished to do so. We deployed a common time as a unifier for ritual action and remembrance in the hopes that this would help create a sense of shared experience, even as households were separate. We anticipated and hoped that a collective, even if disparate, remembrance would be a comfort to our community. What I didn’t anticipate was the extent to which gathering itself was powerful, even if its focus point was simply that some of us would be present at a flimsy picnic table to dispel misinformation and fear as people walked by. People in the community felt able to ask questions about what had occurred, and we realized how distorted the facts had become, filled in by assumptions and hearsay. We could offer factual information. We could be honest about what we didn’t know. We could create different associations with the space than that of fear. By facilitating a diffuse gathering with a simple liturgy, a deeper public work had begun— one that offered hope in the sense of community and clarity that ameliorated isolation, fear, and half-truths. Leitourgia is often referred to as “the work of the people,” and yet as a number of liturgical scholars have clarified, a more accurate meaning is that of “public work.” Edward Foley offers this observation:
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2054654
Allie Utley
Easter Sunday: The pews are filled end to end. The sanctuary is adorned in gold linens and Easter lilies. Music is loud: full choir, brass, timpani, and organ. Volume and acoustics mean the hymns are a bit slower than usual. Sound fills the space. The procession goes on longer than a typical Sunday. Extra musicians, lay eucharistic ministers, acolytes, and priests (all to accommodate the crowd) create a line of people that far surpasses a Sunday in Ordinary Time. When the procession starts, most people look to their bulletins, but as the song continues, they seem to have lost interest in trying to sing along. They look around the sanctuary, wave to people they recognize. The priest speaks the opening words, “Alleluia, Christ is Risen.” The enthusiasm and volume of the delivery matches the energy of the preceding hymn. The congregation’s response does not match the intensity. It is scattered and lacks the confidence of the musicians and priests. Pauses between pieces of the liturgy are longer than usual. It takes time for so many people to settle. People come and go from the service. Few people sing when the time comes to give a response or participate in a hymn. As the priest begins his sermon, stillness and quiet finally settle into the sanctuary. The sermon declares, boldly, that Jesus is risen and “this changes everything.” It isn’t clear how things change, what changes, or how the change impacts our lives. (I wonder what it is about the sermon delivery or content that impacts the congregation and why and how they seem to be listening so intently.) After the sermon, the congregation mumbles through an affirmation of faith. Again, I feel a disconnect between the energy of the congregation and the clergy; the congregation does not respond with the degree of enthusiasm or confidence that the leaders present. Prayers come next and also have spoken responses. The one-line responses to the prayers are more coordinated and more audible. People are invited to speak prayers out loud. No one ever does. I think it’s against the “rules.” On a typical Sunday, passing the peace takes some time and folks move about the sanctuary, walking down pew lengths to greet the next person, some even filling the aisle. But on Easter, people simply turn in circles and politely great those around them. This is followed by a multitude of announcements. As always, the liturgy culminates in the Eucharistic rite. People fidget and chat during communion. Usually, people kneel after they receive, but on this day, many sit and wait for the next thing.
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063x.2022.2054631
Michelle K. Baker-Wright
Welcome to this issue of Liturgy, themed around liturgy and hope. We are in a time deeply in need of voices that can extend hope that is truthful, clear, and vibrant. Hope has the best chance of being rekindled when pastoral leaders employ their wisdom and skill to shape liturgies where words of hope can be spoken into places that are often vulnerable. Because the words “liturgy” and “hope” both cover a range of concerns and potentialities, my own goal in assembling a thoughtful group of people to consider liturgy and hope is to open up questions about the multifaceted nature of both. How can our worship shape us toward authentic hope versus hope grounded in a false sense of optimism? As liturgical leaders, pastors, and scholars, how do we discern the difference? Hope is often depicted as if it has a persona and agency of its own. Sometimes it is portrayed as in need of awakening or renewing. Sometimes we speak of hope as having died or as having been lost. Perhaps we assign lifelike qualities to hope because it is such a significant driving force in our lives and such a powerful motivator. As the prayer above articulates, sometimes our hope must be revived by the presence of Christ and the words and encouragement of others. Hope has to do with the meaning we ascribe to our past, present, and future, and what we place our hope in impacts what or whom we pursue, what or whom we attend to, and how we inhabit the world. Liturgical scholar Maxwell E. Johnson has some words for us about liturgy and hope.
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2054642
D. Turnbloom
In the First Epistle of Peter, the author exhorts Christians to “always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you ...” (1 Pet 3:15) Giving an account of one’s hope is a challenging task in the best of times. Yet, in moments of tragedy and extreme loss, this task can seem impossible, if not cruel. Demanding expressions of hope can inadvertently (or quite intentionally) shame people in moments of shaken faith. Is doubt in the face of tragedy a moral failure? Are fear and uncertainty manifestations of a weak faith? One might hope that familiarity with the story of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane would suffice to disabuse any Christian of such thoughts. Yet, it is a common occurrence to hear hope juxtaposed to fear and uncertainty as poles in a zero-sum game. It is an unfortunate reality that many Christians have been taught that having hope is synonymous with having certainty. In moments of tragedy, pastors and liturgical ministers are tasked with facilitating liturgies that defend and proclaim Christian hope. The purpose of this essay is to introduce a resource to help those charged with this daunting task. A sermon written by the nineteenth-century Lutheran theologian and pastor, Friedrich Schleiermacher, offers us a provocative example of how to preach hope in the face of tragedy. The sermon was published for the first time in English in 1977 in the Journal of Religion with translation and commentary by Albert Blackwell. This brief sermon can serve as a guide in how to avoid callously imputing emotions and using idolatry as a form of consolation. In what follows, I will show how the sermon deconstructs potentially harmful forms of hope and reconstructs a Christian hope that is pastorally and theologically fruitful. By integrating our pain, fear, and uncertainty into our worldview, we begin to construct a Christian hope that refuses to denigrate this world and commits us to our Christian vocation of divinizing this world.
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2082770
Kristen Daley Mosier, Andrew Wymer
can you sprinkle under [the] circumstances Of you is to a form or a fashion as we locked him into a of we be we tell is the is an outward example of a[n] inward conversion, and that you are through your conversion. in a way that is not patriarchal domineering and, Let think that s really, really hard to sit in that space. But to find a way to do that there s mistrust, and rightly so. What would it be for this congregation to take the lower seat and to be in some kind of partnership with a congregation in one of the neighborhoods?
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/0458063x.2022.2054651
Michelle K. Baker-Wright
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Pub Date : 2022-01-02DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2026176
Oliver Dingwell
The eucharist, the sacrament of Holy Communion, and the Lord ’ s Supper all refer to one of the central acts of our faith –– sharing the bread and the cup with the gathered assembly, remember-ing the meal that Jesus shared with his disciples in an upper room on the night before his cruci-fixion and death. Regardless of whether one believes in transubstantiation, consubstantiation, trans-elementation, or just symbols of something greater than ourselves, the eucharist is a time of celebration, commemoration, discernment, praise, prayer, remembrance, and thanksgiving. 1 It is the culmination of our worshiping life as followers of Jesus Christ: called to remember that his body is broken for each one of us, and his blood is poured out for each one of us, every time we gather together. One
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Pub Date : 2022-01-02DOI: 10.1080/0458063X.2022.2026174
Aziz Halaweh
This essay will present the Jerusalem liturgy in the fourth and fifth centuries, a period of the formation of the liturgies throughout the Christian world. More than all other major centers of the Christian world, Jerusalem has preserved written detailed descriptions of its liturgy since the fourth century. The primary sources on which the description of the Hagiopolite liturgy depend are the Catechesis of St. Cyril of Jerusalem (CE 348 – 386), the narrative of Egeria ’ s pilgrimage (CE 381 – 384), the Armenian Lectionary (CE 430), and the Georgian Lectionary (fifth to eighth centuries). Egeria, in her account, gives us the primary liturgical source that describes the liturgical year and the daily liturgy, but nothing is said to us regarding the texts used. This gap was filled by both the Armenian Lectionary published by British scholar Frederick Cornwallis Conybeare in the famous Rituale Armenorum , and the Lectionary of Jerusalem 121 published by French scholar Athanase (Charles) Renoux and which witnesses to the same content, of the same type around CE 417 – 434, fifty years after the Egeria pilgrimage to Jerusalem. 1 The Georgian Lectionary (GL) is a Georgian translation of the Greek Kanonion of Jerusalem, written during the time of Bishop Juvenal (CE 422 – 458) or later. 2 Some say it can be attributed to hymnographer St. Sophronius of Jerusalem (CE 634 – 638). 3 Before Egeria, already in the third century, the Fathers of the Church testified to the existence of a liturgy known in Jerusalem: the Hierosolimite Liturgy. The main two fathers are Origen in CE 240, and Hesychius of Jerusalem 4 essay, will speak about the main churches where the Liturgy of was cen-tered, then the main characteristic of this liturgy, its major elements, the liturgical language of Palestine, the ministries of religion in Jerusalem at that period, and finally the Jerusalemite Liturgical year.
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Pub Date : 2022-01-02DOI: 10.1080/0458063x.2022.2026171
Swee Hong Lim (林瑞峰)
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