Sarx

We continue with our serialised posting of Rick Fabian’s Worship at St Gregory’s, by permission of the author and the publisher.

The symbols at our church entrance reflect Gregory Nyssen’s distinctive teaching. His last book, The Life of Moses, presented Moses as an ideal for all to imitate, in becoming God’s friend. Our entry mosaic depicts Moses and Gregory praying before the burning bush: a symbol, said Gregory, of God’s incarnation in Jesus, transforming human nature without destroying any human quality — and yet more deeply, of the divine fire that is in all things, only we do not see it. (The Life of Moses,II.20f) This comment inspired a traditional icon called “the Burning Bush”. The tall red entry doors below show a myriad creatures from every geological epoch, rising in rivers toward the center; and overhead, words from Gregory Nyssen’s friend Gregory Nazianzen proclaim:

On a stand just inside the doors, an icon of Christ (or of the feast we are celebrating) awaits worshippers, who may kiss it in affectionate greeting as they arrive. People bring their offerings of bread and wine for the eucharistic meal, sweets and snacks for coffee hour, and canned food and clothing for the poor—all to the pantry and side tables, where they will wait until we bring each to the altar table in turn with thanks for what God has given us, and so join our offerings with Christ’s offering. This practice follows Jewish and Byzantine custom, and probably Roman custom as well. (*)

The Altar
Standing in a broad open space immediately beyond, the eucharistic table is Jesus’ own chosen symbol of incorporation into God’s Kingdom. Our table is wooden, and D-shaped as dinner tables were in Jesus’ time. The D-shaped altar table derives from ancient dinner tables, round with one flat side, and we have chosen it for practical reasons. Instead of using the flat side for serving, as the ancients did, we stand the Presider there: this arrangement allows vessels to sit naturally in the center of the table, yet within easy reach (something that never works with round altars), and makes people feel comfortable gathering around the table (something that never works with rectangular altars). Already vested with a colorful cloth, the table represents Christ among his people: this symbol has been called the earliest Christian icon, and focusses our gathering throughout the liturgy and the coffee hour afterward. Moreover, with the doors open nearby during most of the service, the table suggests a further focus beyond the church: the world where Christ is just as truly present, and where we will serve him after our worship has ended.

The table’s flat side is the liturgical “west” side: thus the Presider faces the same way throughout the service, at bêma and table alike, effectively orientating the whole gathering in the same direction as the service progresses from “west to east.” L. Bouyer, in Liturgy and Architecture (1967) argues that Jews and early Christians orientated their worship spaces toward a focus beyond the building—facing the temple sacrifices or the rising sun, just as mosques, which derive from Jewish and Christian buildings, face Mecca—and that orientation is crucial for liturgical action and design. Bouyer opposes the current fashion for standing the Presider beyond the table, facing the people (versus populum or “westward” celebration) as a misinformed historical fancy that wrecks the orientation of ancient worship. Since adopting our present “eastward” arrangement, I notice that “westward” arrangements elsewhere do not kill orientation, but rather focus it disconcertingly on the president’s person—as indeed apsidal thrones were meant to do, when the military governor or magistrate sat there. By contrast, our plan puts the clergy among the people, to lead rather than confront them, and orientates the whole assembly toward the chief symbols in the building.

The Altar Inscriptions
Two gilt inscriptions below express Christ’s welcome plainly. On one pedestal are Greek words from Luke 15:2—originally an insult directed at Jesus, and so our surest historical evidence about him:

And on the other pedestal, a like quotation from the seventh century mystic Isaac of Nineveh:

“Did not Our Lord share his table with tax collectors and harlots? So then — do not distinguish between the worthy and unworthy. All must be equal for you to love and to serve.”

The Baptismal Font
Across the altar table from the entry doors, matching portals reveal a monumental sculptured rock emerging from a cliff. Water cascades down the rock: here we baptize those we have welcomed into our eucharistic community, equipping them for Christ’s service in the world. St Paul’s words carved overhead teach the ageless work of baptizing people into God’s mission: “Our forebears were all baptized into Moses in the cloud and in the sea, and all ate the same spiritual food, and all drank the same spiritual drink…from the Rock that accompanied them, and that Rock was Christ.” (1 Cor. 10)

Our innovative baptistry architecture draws on scriptural symbols to solve a practical problem. Current liturgical fashion, inspired by some Pauline language, conceives of baptism as a dying and rising experience for the candidates, who share Christ’s death in the font: hence some recent churches boast grand fonts fit for drowning. But drownable tanks cross with California accessibility law; indeed, a few tragic negligence lawsuits will make them intolerably expensive elsewhere. Probably contrary to their builders’ intentions, they cross with tradition, too. Early Christian baptismal sermons ignore Paul’s talk of dying with Christ, and argue instead that the candidates share Jesus’ own baptism and lively mission. Moreover, early Christian fonts were small and shallow, evoking the practical symbolism of washing—the explicit context of Jewish ritual baths. (Anyone who has watched populations bathing in rivers, as in India today, knows that the motions of washing and drowning differ utterly!) Avoiding the liabilities of drowning fonts, we have chosen a different Pauline symbol, one that evokes the candidates’ sharing Christ’s mission—and indeed the mission of God’s people from the Exodus onward. Gregory of Nyssa’s last book, The Life of Moses, presented Moses as the ideal for every human to imitate, in becoming God’s friend. No symbol could be more appropriate, therefore, for the baptistry at St Gregory’s Church.

Some modern designers place the baptismal font at the entrance of the church, indicating that baptism serves as a gateway to the eucharist. But Biblical critics argue Jesus abandoned baptismal washing, and instead chose table fellowship as his prophetic sign for incorporation into the Kingdom. (Unfortunately, most liturgical reformers have yet to embrace the revolution which New Testament critics have accomplished in our understanding of Jesus, and its implications for Christian worship: a consequence of the general fragmentation of modern scholarship. Both the New Testament and later tradition provide arguments for baptism by Jesus’ followers; nevertheless, traditional church buildings have always given Jesus’ chosen symbol pre-eminence — usually exclusive pre-eminence — both visually and functionally. Baptistries were built outside church buildings, or in adjoining rooms; by contrast, baptismal furniture within the liturgical space itself, and indeed baptismal ritual within the eucharistic celebration, are twentieth century innovations. (The antiquity of baptism within the Easter Vigil has also been challenged: see P. Bradshaw, North American Academy of Liturgy working paper and discussion, 1987.)

The Icons
Icons representing the liturgy underway became common after the fall of iconoclasm in the east, as prayers addressed to Christ filled the services, and icons likewise depicted the saints praying to Christ.(*) Western worship retained the older style of prayers, typically addressed to the Father through the Son in the unity of the Spirit: a style we keep at St Gregory’s. Therefore we represent the spiritual truth of our worship by other images drawn chiefly from Gregory’s writings.

Circles of saints dance above our altar under another text from The Life of Moses: “The one thing truly worthwhile is becoming God’s friend.” (II. 320.) Gregory held that the image of God appears not in one human being, but in all humanity. Therefore we have chosen saints from all humanity and many faiths, who exemplify Jesus’ pattern of life and Gregory’s teaching. These have spanned human divisions, often at their own cost; their lives prove the creative miracle of conversion and limitless progress toward God; and if some of them bore God’s image unconventionally, and unrecognized for a time, it shines there now for us to love and follow. Composers and artists whose gifts enrich our worship join the chorus; and we worshippers too will spiral beneath them, as the risen Christ, Lord of the Dance, leads us all.

Gregory’s writings inspire still another icon, rising behind the presidents’ chair. This is the marriage of Christ and the Soul, taken from Gregory’s commentary on the Song of Songs, a work underlying much classical Christian spiritual writing. The dark-skinned bride in scripture stands for every human being. Her mother-in- law extends loving arms to bless the marriage, while below, Gregory teaches the scene’s deeper meaning, and tells us that this loving mother-in-law represents God, who is not bound to either human gender. Behind these figures looms our new church building with a canopy flying overhead: a traditional sign that this spiritual wedding, and indeed all these wonders, actually happen during our liturgy in our church. Like Moses, we turn aside here and see God in human flesh; ours is the soul Christ marries; we are the guests fed at his wedding banquet; we are the dancers linking with all humanity in God’s image; we are the baptizers and the people baptized for God’s mission; and one with the saints circling above, we are becoming God’s friends.