Sarx

The Sermon The Presider (or another preacher) preaches seated as Jesus and other rabbis did (Luke 4:20), and as Christian preachers continued to do until liturgical preaching faded in the early middle ages. The scriptures lie open on the preacher’s lap, for ready reference. After the Sermon and a third Silence, the preacher invites the congregation to share their own experiences, as the Sermon may have called these to mind: thus the people complete, rather than discuss, the Sermon. The preacher thanks each speaker and may respond to an experience recounted. Some worshippers prefer to sit silently with their reflections, and we value silence and speech equally here. After ten minutes the Presider thanks everyone and calls for the Alleluias to begin.

This Sermon Conversation took trial and error to refine. We found that when men spoke up first they shared their opinions, and the conversation remained intellectual and didactic; whereas when women spoke up first they shared their experience, and the conversation stayed personal, rarely straying into counter-sermons or disputes. So at first we called on women to start off; but by now a simple reminder of our intentions keeps the conversation on track — provided the preacher has put personal experience into the Sermon in the first place. A time limit also helps newcomers relax and join in, instead of anxiously wondering if they are captives for the day.

The Procession A procession with the Scriptures follows the Sermon Conversation. This is a Jewish synagogue custom, done in Jewish style. After the readings and sermons, synagogue festival services added a festal procession carrying the scrolls back to the ark: this was the Jewish position for the royal ceremonies described above.

To accompany the scrolls’ royal progress, the congregation sang from the Hallel section of the Psalter, that is, Psalms recounting God’s saving victories and featuring “Alleluia” refrains. Christian synagogues abandoned this custom for unexplained reasons (dislike for imperial ritual during persecutions?) but after Constantine Christians in the eastern heartland recovered it, using it for all services including Lent, Good Friday, funerals, and rogations against perils. And unlike Jewish synagogues, fourth century churches sang from the whole Psalter. G. Winkler proposes that this expanded use of Psalms arose during doctrinal controversies, when popular Christian hymn compositions became fighting words, and liturgists needed safe replacements for them. [A paper presented to the North American Academy of Liturgy, 1983] The revived Alleluia procession spread slowly to the outlying west, and like other early practices restored in the east — the Gloria in excelsis, for example — this never quite made it into Lent, the season westerners kept most conservatively. Hence the widespread but mistaken notion that western liturgies “suppress” these chants in Lent — whereas their omission in Lent is merely an anachronism. At St Gregory’s we sing both Gloria and Alleluias year round.

Meanwhile, as church buildings grew larger it became harder for the preacher (often an elderly bishop) to proclaim the Gospel from his throne and preach on it as he read; so a deacon with a powerful voice carried the gospel book up to the ambo and sang from it there, returning it to the preacher for his comments afterward. The same Alleluia chant was borrowed for this little journey as well. Still later the liturgical homily vanished, and the impressive (and original) festal procession after the homily vanished with it — leaving the deacon’s little march up to the ambo as the only movement with chant accompaniment. Hence the queer habit of singing Alleluias only before the Gospel reading: that is today’s Byzantine and western standard; and many modern Jewish synagogues follow the same form. Nestorians, Ethiopians and other far-flung easterners who lost touch with the shifts in Byzantine fashion have continued a double Alleluia procession, before and after the Gospel. At St Gregory’s we return to the older and simpler Jewish order. This has the great advantage of unifying readings and sermon as one unbroken liturgy of the Word, and celebrating God’s Word in all we have heard.

During the procession at St Gregory’s the cantor leads Alleluia refrains and chants Psalm verses from the lectionary — or chosen ad hoc to fit the Sermon and discussion just completed. While the deacon leads carrying a candle, the preacher shoulders the gospel book and carries it among the congregation, allowing everyone to reach out and touch or kiss it, before returning it to the lectern. Colorful Indian and Ethiopian liturgical umbrellas spin above the gospel book, preacher, and presider as the procession moves joyously through the crowd, while drums and bells sometimes accompany the chanting. As the gospel book returns to its throne before the Japanese aumbry shrine, the tower bell rings out the Good News to the city.

This ceremony shows the Jewish genius for adaptation. Unlike the military ceremony of presenting the emperor to an acclaiming crowd, which inspired western and Byzantine gestures with the gospel book, the Jewish version suggests intimacy as well as reverence, more like receiving the emperor’s precious baby heir than the emperor’s warlike self. In 1986, I visited the Ethiopian monastery atop the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and was delighted to see they do the very same thing, even making sure that each person in the church gets a chance to kiss the book.

Liturgical use of the Creed Students of Prayer Book rubrics will note that we do not say the so-called “Nicene” Creed at the main Sunday service-even though our patron, Gregory of Nyssa, was chief theologian at the second council of Constantinople, which actually produced it. This creed was never meant for liturgical recitation. It got put into the liturgy for blatantly schismatic purposes, and modern reformers lament that it interrupts the natural flow of worship and duplicates the credal material in the Great Thanksgiving prayer.

Peter the Fuller was patriarch of Antioch and leader of the monophysite party that had been defeated at the council of Chalcedon in 451. In 473, as a defiant challenge to the (orthodox) majority, he inserted this creed to start the liturgical Preface in his cathedral, implying that he was faithful to the earlier council of Nicaea (325) and the majority were not, and might not share his communion unless they recanted. The majority quickly deposed him, but dared not remove the “Nicene” Creed for fear of lending his charges substance. [G. Dix,The Shape of the Liturgy, 1945.] It has remained there like a massive monument to doctrinal quarrels ever since. Its use was long resisted in the west, especially in England (a country renowned for good liturgy in the middle ages) and only squeaked into Anglican Sunday worship in the 15th century, just in time for Cranmer to preserve it. Donald Schell reckons that it gained popularity among Episcopalians-especially Californians-because under former Prayer Books the “Nicene” Creed was the only place laypeople could affirm something aloud, rather than accusing themselves. By contrast, St Gregory’s liturgy keeps the people busy with affirmations, so that no one complains that the “Nicene” Creed is missing, and only rarely does a newcomer ask why. A growing number of congregations omit it as we do.

Modern parish experience using the “Nicene” Creed suggests that its sectarian sense is intrinsic, and for most people quite conscious. I advise ordinands that if they must use the “Nicene” Creed in their parishes, they might march about waving American and Episcopal Church flags, while their church wardens tear up photographs of the Mormon Tabernacle: these gestures would express the custom’s fundamental spirit, and employ beloved Episcopalian paraphernalia lately fallen into disuse.

The Apostles’ Creed at initiatory services works quite differently, and we use that when baptizing. The American and New Zealand Prayer Books ingeniously incorporate the “Apostle’s” Creed into the Baptismal service, where indeed it may have originated, and where it allows the whole congregation to join the candidates in affirming their faith. This usage is unitive, whereas the customary “Nicene” Creed usage always implies division from other Christians.

Announcements A few parish announcements follow, ending with a welcome to communion for all, as we are all guests at Jesus’ table. The deacon explains that donations for the church’s work are taken up following communion, responding to all the gifts God has given us; newcomers are welcome instead to spend the coming week noticing God’s blessings, and return to make a thanksgiving gift later, because the whole church gives thanks for all the ways God blesses them. The deacon and lay volunteers draw everyone’s attention to opportunities for outreach and service, and printed parish anouncements. Each month sponsors present new Church Members to be welcomed. On baptismal Sundays and the Bishop’s visits, candidates for initiation are introduced and interrogated.

We baptize at the principal service on three Sundays each year, when the appointed readings treat baptism directly: the Baptism of Jesus on the first Sunday after Epiphany; the first Sunday after Pentecost; and the Sunday nearest All Saints’ Day. But most baptisms occur at our Saturday evening service, a more intimate gathering, when the liturgy is designed for adults and children to worship together. In Holy Week we baptize on Maundy Tuesday, not at the Easter Vigil. Whenever the Bishop visits, we present candidates for Confirmation as well. This revisionist initiatory schedule, based on recent research into ancient practice, has proved pastorally more useful than others we have tried. A discussion of the Christian Liturgical Year will come later in this work. Our initiatory rites come from the Prayer Book for New Zealand (1989), often used in our diocese.