History of the Posture of Kneeling for Prayer

In addition to formal dance, the postures taken for the various acts of worship are an important aspect of movement in worship. Posture both reflects and shapes the attitudes that we bring to worship. One of the most important postures for many Christians in worship is that of kneeling for prayer. This article traces the history of the use of kneeling in worship and commends this practice to all Christians.

Anglicans traditionally kneel to pray, although worshipers in many parishes are now invited to “sit or kneel,” which suggests a growing uncertainty about what is appropriate. Most Protestants sit; some stand; and many of the Nonconformist traditions object to kneeling on the grounds that it is unacceptably ritualistic or Romish or both. Should we, or should we not kneel to pray, and does it matter?

Here is what Screwtape writes to his young charge in C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters: One of their poets, Coleridge, has recorded that he did not pray “with moving lips and bended knees” but merely “composed his spirit to love” and indulged “a sense of supplication.” That is exactly the sort of prayer we want.… Clever and lazy patients can be taken in by it for quite a long time. At the very least, they can be persuaded that the bodily position makes no difference to their prayers; for they constantly forget, what you must always remember, that they are animals and that whatever their bodies do affects their souls.

The argument here is that since we are bodily, “animal” creatures, our desires and aspirations necessarily find expression in bodily form. When we are joyful or fearful, sad or angry, we will most naturally seek to manifest this in some appropriate outward and physical fashion. For someone hungry or thirsty it is not enough merely to adopt an attitude of eating and drinking. So also the posture we adopt in prayer is an outward and visible expression of our real (and not just inward!) need for God.

For this reason, although it is of course fundamentally a matter of Christian freedom and discretion rather than of absolute right and wrong, we may be well advised to ask what Scripture and tradition have to say about the appropriate posture for prayer.

The Old Testament

The Old Testament views kneeling as a gesture of humility or of prostration before God or even Baal (1 Kings 19:18) or another figure of authority such as a prophet (2 Kings 1:13). The call to worship in Psalm 95 (the Venite of the traditional liturgy) includes the phrase: “O come, let us worship and bow down; let us kneel before the Lord our Maker” (v. 6).

Other, similar forms of prostration are found. Abraham’s servant bows his head in worship after being invited to lodge with Rebekah’s family (Gen. 24:26). Joshua and the elders fall on their faces before the ark after being routed at Ai (Josh. 7:6). Elijah on Mt. Carmel bows down to the ground and puts his face between his knees (1 Kings 18:42). Jehoshaphat (2 Chron. 20:18) and Ezra (Neh. 8:6) each lead the people in bowing their heads to the ground in worship. The exilic hope for redemption included the trust that one day “every knee shall bow” to God, in submission and worship (Isa. 45:23); in the New Testament, Paul takes up this hope and applies it to Jesus (Rom. 11:4; 14:11; Phil. 2:10).

Despite Psalm 95, kneeling specifically for prayer or worship is in fact relatively uncommon in the Old Testament. It does, however, occur in three important stories. Solomon prays his prayer of dedication for the new Temple kneeling and with his hands spread up to heaven (1 Kings 8:54; 2 Chron. 6:13). Ezra offers a prayer of repentance on his knees and with his hands spread out to God, because of Israel’s intermarriage with pagans (Ezra 9:5). And three times a day Daniel kneels down in his upper room with his windows open toward Jerusalem, to pray and give thanks (Dan. 6:10). There are probably just two instances of “sitting before the Lord” in prayer. After the war against the Benjamites, the children of Israel went up to Bethel, wept, fasted, and sat before the Lord all day (Judges 20:26). David went into the sanctuary and “sat before the Lord” and prayed after Nathan had announced to him God’s everlasting covenant with the house of David (2 Sam. 7:18; 1 Chron. 17:16). This shows that sitting in prayer is not entirely unthinkable for the Old Testament; but it may on the other hand be significant that the same expression (“to sit before” someone) is used elsewhere to denote the attitude of attentiveness which disciples have for their master (2 Kings 4:38; Ezek. 33:31; Zech. 3:8). Our two instances of sitting before the Lord both suggest situations of extended, attentive, listening prayer.

The normal prayer posture in Old Testament times was to stand: Hannah stands at the sanctuary to pray for a son (1 Sam. 1:26); the people of Israel stand to confess and repent of their sins, to read from the Law, and to worship God (Neh. 9:1–3, 5); and numerous other texts speak of standing before God in worship (2 Chron. 20:13, 19; Ps. 24:3, 134:1, 135:2; cf. Lev. 9:5; Jer. 7:10). The Levites stand every morning and evening to thank and praise the Lord (1 Chron. 23:30), as indeed in a wider sense they stand ministering before the Lord (e.g., Deut. 10:8, 17:12, 18:5, 7; 1 Kings 8:11; 2 Chron. 5:14; 29:11, 35:5; Ezek. 44:15; Luke 1:11; Heb. 10:11). Similarly, Elijah appeals to the authority of the God of Israel “before whom I stand” (1 Kings 17:1, 18:15; cf. 2 Kings 3:14, 5:16). To “stand before” someone was to serve and recognize that person’s authority (e.g. 1 Kings 1:2, 10:8; 2 Chron. 9:7; cf. Zech. 6:5; Luke 1:19, Rev. 20:12), although we also hear repeatedly that humans are not worthy or able to stand before God (1 Sam. 6:20; Ezra 9:15; Job 41:10, Ps. 76:7; 130:3).

Ancient Judaism

The later Jewish literature from the Second Temple period quite consistently suggests that Jews stood for prayer, facing Jerusalem. Solemn prayers for deliverance and penitential prayers, however, were offered while kneeling. In the Prayer of Manasseh, a little gem of intertestamental spirituality, the penitent king will “bend the knee of my heart,” pleading for God’s kindness and forgiveness (v. 11). Similarly, Simon the High Priest prays on his knees and with outstretched hands for help against the invading enemy, Emperor Ptolemy (3 Macc. 2:1). There are various other examples of prostration or kneeling in prayers of confession or desperate need dating from around the time of Christ.

In the emerging liturgy of the synagogue, the main prayer (the Prayer of Eighteen Petitions) was in fact also known as the Amidah, literally, the “standing prayer.” While the daily Shema (“Hear O Israel,” Deut. 6:4) could be recited while traveling or lying down, the Amidah could only be said while standing.

Rabbinic literature, written after the destruction of the Temple, reflects widely on prayer. Prayer was seen as the true service of God, and greater than sacrifice. It must be engaged in from the heart, with earnest intention and concentration; our prayer is not accepted unless we pray with our heart in our hands. Prayer should never become a mindless routine or be done absent-mindedly.

Among the rabbis, standing for prayer is assumed to be the norm. Simon the Pious (fl. c. 200 b.c.) reputedly taught that in prayer God’s very presence stands before us. Rabbi Eliezer (early second-century a.d.) taught his disciples, “When you pray, know before whom you stand!” (Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot, 28b). Nevertheless, we are told about the famous Rabbi Akiba (second-century a.d.), who while in public prayer was brief but in private given to much kneeling and prostration.

The New Testament

A similar pattern holds true in the Gospels. Standing in prayer is assumed throughout. Jesus teaches, “Whenever you stand praying, forgive if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father also who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses” (Mark 11:25, Mt. 6:25). Even Pharisees and tax collectors stand for prayer in the synagogue (Luke 18:11, 13). The only reference to a kneeling prayer is in Luke’s account of Jesus’ solemn, agonizing struggle with his death in the Garden of Gethsemane (Luke 22:41; in Mark 14:35, Jesus prostrates himself on the ground).

In the Acts of the Apostles, however, there are several interesting examples of praying in the kneeling position. As he is being stoned, Stephen kneels down (perhaps involuntarily?) and asks God not to “hold this sin against” his persecutors (Acts 7:60). Peter kneels to pray in the upper room for Dorcas/ Tabitha to be revived (9:40). After Paul’s farewell speech to the Ephesians elders, they all get down on their knees to pray (20:36); similarly, the disciples at Tyre kneel down on the beach to pray with Paul and his companions, having escorted them out of the city on their way to Jerusalem (21:5). One other relevant New Testament passage about kneeling is Paul’s prayer that God will powerfully strengthen his readers “through his Spirit in the inner man, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith”; for this prayer, Paul says that he bows his knees before the Father (Eph. 3:14–17). The book of Revelation envisions the angels and the saints standing before God in the heavenly worship (7:9, 11; 8:2, cf. 20:12).

In summing up the biblical and intertestamental evidence, it is probably fair to say that standing to pray was normal, although a kneeling position was assumed for particularly solemn, earnest, or penitential prayers. The function of kneeling seems to be to express humility and prostration before God.

Ancient Christianity

The early church witnessed a further refinement of this view. As the biblical precedent suggests, both standing and kneeling in prayer were practiced. There was at first no uniform custom; in fact, several different prayer postures are attested: standing upright or with the head and back bent forward, kneeling, or fully prostrating oneself face down.

In formal settings, kneeling was primarily reserved for penitential occasions, although informally and in private devotion Christians might kneel more frequently. Writing around the year a.d. 96, Clement of Rome encouraged the church at Corinth to put aside strife and disloyalty and instead to “fall down before the Master, and beseech him with tears that he may have mercy upon us” (1 Clement 48:1). Early church tradition reports of the piety of James the Just (the brother of the Lord) that he “used to enter alone into the Temple and be found kneeling and praying for forgiveness for the people”; we are told that in the course of his constant penitential kneeling on behalf of the people his knees become calloused like those of a camel … ! (Hegesippus, c. a.d. 170, quoted by Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 2:23:6). The author of the Shepherd of Hermas (c. a.d. 140) repeatedly kneels to confess his sins during his visions (Vision 1:1:3; 2:1:2; 3:1:5; 4:1:7, v. 1). And Origen (c. 185–254) in fact considered kneeling to be a necessary expression of humility and submission for those wanting to confess their sins and to ask God’s forgiveness (On Prayer, 31:3). For the ancient Christian, to kneel was to give outward expression to his or her unworthiness and humility before God.

Other instances of kneeling prayer occur in the context of earnest entreaties in the face of disaster. Tertullian (c. 160–225) and Eusebius (c. 260–340) refer to efficacious kneeling prayer at times of drought, and supplication on one’s knees was also practiced at the time of death or other serious need.

As for corporate worship, the repeated references to church custom in some early writers seem to suggest that kneeling was very much the norm here, too. But although this may have been the case at certain times and places, it would be misleading to assume that kneeling was in fact universally practiced in worship. It is true that for a while the first part of the liturgy was said kneeling, followed by the rest of the service, for which the communicants stood. Catechumens and those not admitted to Communion for reasons of penance had to leave the service after the reading of the Scripture and the kneeling prayer; for this reason, penitents were sometimes referred to as “kneelers” (genuflectentes).

In time, however, an ecumenical consensus emerged that explicitly restricted the occasions on which kneeling for public prayer was permitted. If kneeling is an appropriate bodily sign of penitence and humility, then times of triumph and joy would seem to call for a different posture. Tracing such a custom to the apostles, Irenaeus (c. 130–200) insisted that kneeling is appropriate during the six weekdays as an expression of sinfulness, but on the Lord’s day not kneeling manifests our rising again by the grace of Christ and being delivered from our sins. Others who agree with Irenaeus but ban kneeling both on Sundays and from Easter to Pentecost include Tertullian, Hilary, Epiphanius, Basil, Jerome, Augustine, and numerous later church fathers and canons. In keeping with this consensus, Canon 20 of the Council of Nicaea (a.d. 325) determines that “since there are some who kneel on the Lord’s Day and even during the days of Pentecost, in order that all things should everywhere be uniformly observed it has seemed right to the Holy Synod that prayers to God should be made standing.”

Conclusion

Following biblical precedent, the ancient Christians knelt and stood for prayer. Kneeling was appropriate for confession and for solemn entreaties at times of need. Corporate public worship on Sundays and during the Easter season, however, was offered standing up. “In fact,” says an acknowledged Anglican authority on the matter, “few customs are more frequently mentioned by early Christian writers than the practice of praying in the standing posture” (V. Staley, “Position and Posture of Minister and People,” in George Harford and Morley Stevenson, eds., The Prayer Book Dictionary [London: Isaac Pitman and Sons, 1925], 596).

At the outset, I quoted C. S. Lewis on the subject of kneeling. A rather similar perspective was offered by St. Augustine. God, he says, does not of course need our outward gestures of kneeling, raising our hands, or prostration in order for our hearts to be open to him. Nevertheless, the outward gesture is of great benefit because it helps motivate us to pray more fervently. And although the decision to pray is of course inward and spiritual, the outward and physical motion curiously reinforces our heart’s commitment:

I do not understand why, although these motions of the body cannot be made without a prior act of the mind, nevertheless by performing the outward and visible motions the inward one which caused them is itself increased. Thus, the heart’s affection which caused the outward motions, is itself increased because they are made.

We may of course pray seated if we must, but in any case, the witness of Scripture and of the ancient church should encourage us to think about what we are expressing with our bodies.

Should we kneel to pray? Yes, by all means, let us kneel to ask earnestly for God’s forgiveness and to implore his help in conflict and adversity. And then let us stand, too, to praise and worship for our liberation.

A Brief History of Dance in Worship

Christian dance has persisted throughout the history of the church, despite many official decrees against it. Christian churches that have incorporated dance and other stylized gestures in worship have benefited from a profound way of expressing their praise and enacting the gospel message. Dance as worship is one manifestation of the Spirit’s ongoing activity in the church.

The New Testament church was not born into a vacuum, but into a Jewish culture filled with heritage and saturated with rich traditions. T. W. Manson has commented: The first disciples were Jews by birth and upbringing, and it is a priori probable that they would bring into the new community some at least of the religious usages to which they had long been accustomed. (T. W. Manson, quoted in Ralph P. Martin, Worship in the Early Church [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974], 19)

Christianity entered into a tradition of already existing patterns of worship, including music and dance, as found recorded in both the Bible and ancient writings.

King David danced exuberantly in God’s presence (2 Sam. 6), while Miriam the prophetess led the women to dance with tambourines in response to their mighty deliverance from the pursuing Egyptian army (Exod. 15). Women are seen dancing in Shiloh at a feast (Judg. 21:21–23) and before David as a response to his military victories (1 Sam. 29:5). Visual images show both the bride and the bridegroom dancing: he leaping in dance (Song 2:8) and she as two dancing companies or armies with banners (Song 6:13). The Psalter commands the dance (Ps. 149:3; Ps. 150:4).

Other writings provide accounts of dancing in Jewish history. The Mishna describes a major ceremony of Sukkot, the seventh and final feast of the Jewish sacred year celebrating God’s rains and the increase of crops. The ritual is called Nissuch Ha-Mayin, in Hebrew meaning the water drawing. “The water-drawing ceremony was a joyous occasion, replete with grand activity and high drama” (Mitch and Zhava Glaeser, The Fall Feasts of Israel [Chicago: Moody Press, 1987], 175). “Levitical priests, worshipers, liturgical flutists, trumpeters, and a crowd carrying lulax (branches) and etrog (fruit) celebrated together in a great display of symbolic activity and festival rejoicing” (Sukkah 5:1). It was probably the viewing of this ceremony to which Jesus makes reference in his great teaching on the outpouring of the Holy Spirit in John 7:37–39.

Another celebration, which occurred on the first night of the feast of Sukkot, was the illumination of the Temple. Enormous golden candlesticks were set up in the court of the women.

The mood was festive. Pious men, members of the Sanhedrin, and heads of the different religious schools would dance well into the night holding burning torches and singing songs of praise to God. (M. and Z. Glaeser, Fall Feasts of Israel, 182)

The Glaesers go on to report: “Not only did they play instruments with fervor, but the Levitical choir stood chanting and singing as the leaders of Israel danced” (M. and Z. Glaeser, Fall Feasts of Israel, 183).

Dr. Sam Sasser writes: Recognized Norwegian scholar Sigmund Mowinckel, in what is believed to be one of the best books written on the Psalms in Israel’s worship, and a standard text in most graduate schools and seminaries, notes in definition: “Together with song and music goes the dance, which is a common way of expressing the encounter with the body. The dance is a spontaneous human expression of the sense of rapture.… At a higher religious level it develops into an expression of the joy at the encounter with the Holy One, an act for the glory of God (2 Sam. 6:20ff). It behooves one to give such a visible and boisterous expression of the joy before Yahweh.” (Sam Sasser, The Priesthood of the Believer [Plano, Tex.: Fountain Gate Publishers], 111)

The church from A.D. 30 to A.D. 70 was undergoing transition. There was a separation from Temple worship, and those elements in the old covenant which would not be continued in the new covenant. The epistles and the book of Acts outline the forms and ceremonies of Judaic worship that would be eliminated in the church. Blood sacrifice (Heb. 9), Levitical priesthood (Heb. 7:11–28), the practice of circumcision (Acts 15:5, 28–29), and the keeping of new moons and Sabbaths (Col. 2:16–23) were to be discontinued. However, there is no commentary about discontinuing the use of musical instruments, singing, and dancing. Nowhere are these condemned or forbidden. On the contrary, the following Scriptures seem to indicate the continuing practice of inherited worship patterns (Col. 3:16; Eph. 5:19–20; Acts 15:13–16; 1 Cor. 5:13, 14:26).

It is noteworthy that historically the book of Psalms has been the basic hymnbook for the church and her worship patterns, as David Chilton describes: When the church sang the Psalms—not just little snatches of them, but comprehensively, through the whole Psalter—she was strong, healthy, aggressive, and could not be stopped. That’s why the devil has sought to keep us from singing the Psalms, to rob us of our inheritance. If we are to recapture the eschatology of dominion, we must reform the church; and a crucial aspect of that reformation should be a return to the singing of Psalms. (David Chilton, Paradise Restored [Tyler, Tex.: Reconstruction Press, 1985], 8-9)

Although Jewish tradition is replete with accounts of dancing, Ecclesiastes 3:1 and 4 states, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven / A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” The New Testament church was soon to experience seasons of mourning and weeping. Lamentations 5:15 says: “The joy of our heart is ceased; our dance is turned to mourning.” Laughing and dancing would again find their season in the church as God brought times of restoration, healing, and revival. Jeremiah 31:4 promises, “Again I will build thee, and thou shalt be built, O virgin of Israel: thou shalt be adorned with thy tabrets, and shall go forth in the dances of them that make merry.”

Separation from Jewish heritage was not the only point of adaptation for the new church. Until the time of Constantine, a.d. 323, the church experienced extreme persecution at the hands of the Roman government. Christians were captured, used as human torches, compelled to fight in gladiatorial combat, and fed to lions in elaborate spectacles called Roman games. The games reflected the immoral decadence, monstrous abuses, unwieldy influence, and imperial sadism into which Rome had fallen. Incorporated into these games was the Roman dance, an art form borrowed from other cultures, mainly Greek, and consigned to slaves.

Christians had seen their friends and fathers martyred in amphitheaters where their agony was merely a prelude to, or an incident in, the shows. That the church Fathers would honestly have denied any desire to employ consciously a trace of taint from Roman spectacle we have no reason to doubt. Church history is full of the courageous and violent denunciations that the early Fathers launched against the shows.

As early as a.d. 300 a council at Elvera decided that no person in any way connected with circus or pantomime could be baptized. In 398, at the Council of Carthage, a rule was established excommunicating anyone who attended the theater on holy days (Lincoln Kirstein, Dance: A Short History of Classic Theatrical Dancing [Little Rock: Revival Press, 1982], 59-60).

Although church history of the first millennium finds the weight of evidence to be in opposition to dance, there are quotes from writings of the church fathers which indicate some trace of dancing remained in the Christian church.

  • “Of those in heaven and those on earth, a unison is made, one General Assembly, one single service of thanksgiving, one single transport of rejoicing, one joyous dance.” Chrysostom (a.d. 386)
  • “Everything is right when it springs from the fear of the Lord. Let’s dance as David did. Let’s not be ashamed to show adoration of God. Dance uplifts the body above the earth into the heavenlies. Dance bound up with faith is a testimony to the living grace of God. He who dances as David dances, dances in grace.” Ambrose (a.d. 390)
  • “To keep the sacred dances, discipline is most severe.” Augustine (a.d. 394)
  • “Could there be anything more blessed than to imitate on earth the dance of angels and saints? To join our voices in prayer and song to glorify the risen creator.” Bishop of Caesarea (a.d. 407)
  • “I see dance as a virtue in harmony with power from above.” Thodoret (a.d. 430)
  • “Dance as David danced.” Bishop of Milan (a.d. 600)
  • “Dance as David to true refreshment of The Ark which I consider to be the approach to God, the swift encircling steps in the manner of mystery.” St. Gregory of Nazianzus (a.d. 600) (all quoted from Debbie Roberts, Rejoice: A Biblical Study of the Dance [Little Rock: Revival Press, 1982], 39-40)

In his book on dance, Lincoln Kirstein records a few examples of dancing in Christian churches: The Abbot Meletius, an Englishman, upon the advice of the first Gregory, permitted dancing in his churches up to 604.… The Jesuit father Menestrier, whose history of dancing published in 1682 is full of valuable data about his own time as well as of curious earlier tales, tells of seeing in certain Parish churches the senior canon leading choirboys in a round dance during the singing of the psalm. The Parish Liturgy reads “Le chanoine ballera au premier psaume.” (“The canon will dance to the first psalm.”) (Kirstein, Dance, 63)

Continuing in this vein, Kirstein records three more examples: Scaliger said the first Roman bishops were called praesuls and they led a sacred “dance” around altars at festivals. Theodosius says that Christians of Antioch danced in church and in front of martyrs’ tombs. Los Seises, the dancing youths of the Cathedral of Seville, whose annual performance on the feasts of Corpus Christi and the Immaculate Conception was connected with the ancient Mozarabic rite, are often described as ritual dancers, though their dance was really an independent votive act, peculiar to the towns of Seville and Toledo. (Ibid.)

The writings of Augustine in the fourth century issue a complaint against dancing: It is preferable to till the soil and to dig ditches on the day of the Lord than to dance a choreic reigen. Oh, how times and manners change! What once was the business of lute players and shameless women only, namely to sing and to play, this is now considered an honor among Christian virgins and matrons who even engage masters in their art to teach them. (Walter Sorell, The Dance through the Ages [New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1967], 36)

On the one hand, condemned and on the other hand embraced, dance seems to have never completely disappeared from church history. Especially in the Mediterranean countries and the Orient, people never gave up dancing. Here, the clergy applied less coercive measures to restrain dance. However, taking the gospel to the north, the clergy had an uphill struggle to uproot the rituals and pagan rites.

With the Christian way of life taking root, the heathen quality was lost, but the people retained what they liked about the old way. How many things in which we still indulge nowadays have their roots in ancient pagan rituals, such as the idea of a June bridge, Halloween, or Yuletide! Or who would think today of the Maypole as a phallic symbol and of the dance around it as a fertility dance? (Ibid., 38)

Although dance was more often condemned by the millennium church than sanctioned, there were exceptions. As Alordyce Nicole writes, in his exhaustive work on the period, had this been actually enforced half of Christendom, including a section of the clergy, would have been out of communion with the church.… From East to West, in Constantinople, in Antioch, in Alexandria, in Rome, the mimic drama flourished, uniting together old pagans and new Christians in the one common enjoyment of pure secularism. (Kirstein, Dance, 60)

Because of the increase in heresy, the leaders desired more centralization of authority and a set pattern of doctrine. A series of traceable events, beyond the scope of this article, gave rise to priestly class and eventually the formation of the Roman Catholic church.

From the scriptural position of the priesthood of all believers there grew up a distinct priestly class.… The early leaders warned against falling from this idea, but soon a priestly class was developed and the priests began to do things for common Christians that, they were told, they could not do for themselves. This was not only a retrogression to Jewish days, but was also a compromise with paganism. If the ministers were to be priests they had to interpret the items of worship in such a way as to give themselves special functions and to justify their position.… Along with these developments was a general increase of ceremonialism. Simple services became ritualistic. (F. W. Mattox, The Eternal Kingdom [Delight, Ark.: Gospel Light Publishing House, 1961], 151)

Combining the practice of asceticism and the sharp cleavage between clergy and laity, this period finds little expression of dance in the church; and what can be found is in the ceremony and service of the priests. Hence, the rise of the Mass. The Mass is based on Christ’s passion. It is called Eucharist or Thanksgiving, since those celebrating give thanks for the bread and wine. The Mass continued to be arranged until it supported “an astonishing exuberance of minute detail, each tiny point related to a central truth of the religion” (Kirstein, Dance, 70).

The expression of one’s beliefs and feelings through movement is the very foundation of dance. Though the worship form of dance was removed from the people and repressed in the priesthood, the basic elements of dance found its expression in the Mass. It is the indirect contribution of the Mass with which we are occupied but even so, there were definite preordained movements and postures for the participants. However, we do not infer nor should we “easily assume that basilicas were sacred opera houses, or the Mass was a holy pantomime” (Ibid., 67). But dancing as a form of worship is not an isolated phenomenon or an ancient relic of our distant Hebraic ancestors. Therefore, we must understand the forms worship may take when it emerges as the dance.

  • Outside the walls of the church, people were still expressing religion in dance, although their belief was more a fear of death than faith in the living God that prompted Israel’s dance.
  • In no other epoch besides the late Middle Ages has the dance been more indicative of social phenomena. It reflected frightening aspects of the plague and the fear of death.
  • At Christian festivals people would suddenly begin to sing and dance in churchyards, disturbing divine service.
  • Hans Christian Anderson tells of little Karen who was cursed to dance without stopping and who could not find rest until the executioner cut off her feet. (Sorell, Dance through the Ages, 40, 42)

The church leaders tried to stamp out these obscene dances, which often began in the churchyard cemetery with people dancing around tombstones then moving through the town attracting more and more people as they went. This dance, also known as the dance macabre, reached a climax as the bubonic plague swept Europe in the fourteenth century. These dances of violent nature occurred everywhere. In Germany, they were called St. Vitus’ dance. In Italy, it was called tarantella and these dances indicated the tenor of life, particularly during the period of the plague (Ibid., 40).

The clergy maintained that the millennium would be the day of reckoning, Judgment Day. When the year 1000 passed without any visible changes, some of the fear subsided.

The Church remained powerful and the spirit of medievalism lingered on, even while man awakened to new inner freedom. From the crudeness of his carnal lust and mortal fear of it, he escaped into chivalry; checking his growing freedom, he forced himself into the straitjacket of ideal codes. (Sorell, Dance through the Ages, 39)

The fourteenth-century introduced more change for the world and the church with the beginning of the Renaissance, the great revival of art and learning in Europe in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. The world was revolting to set the soul and body free.

Above all, Renaissance man had a visual mind, as his accomplishments in printing, sculpture, and architecture prove. The eye became used to seeing in patterns. And it was a geometric design that inspired the first attempts at ballet. (Ibid., 90)

The Renaissance, emphasizing the dignity of the human person, laid the foundation for independence of thought which eventually broke the grip of Catholic theology. A revitalized interest in the study of the Scriptures caused people to be aware that the New Testament church was vastly different from the church in existence in Western Europe.

The religious and moral corruptions now could be effectively combated because of the intellectual freedom which had been encouraged by the Renaissance. Men began to see in the Scripture that the claims of the clergy were unfounded, and with a new intellectual basis for their criticism, ideas of opposition to the hierarchy spread rapidly. (F. W. Mattox, Eternal Kingdom, 240)

The sixteenth-century began the Reformation. Notable leaders sought to eliminate the unscriptural doctrines and practices of the Catholic church and, through reforms, return the church to New Testament patterns. One of the first reformers was Martin Luther (1483–1546). Along with emphasizing justification by faith, Luther stressed the priesthood of all believers. This was a preeminent step to releasing the people to express their worship unto God, which would eventually release all the Davidic expressions of praise, including dance.

John Calvin (1509–1564) was a leader of the Reformation in Switzerland who laid down principles that have influenced a large part of the Protestant world today.

The church of Luther experienced and preached the ideal of renunciation of the world more strongly than the Reformed church, which desires to proclaim the glory of God in all areas of life. The Reformed Churches do not view this world as a vale of tears but as the vineyard of the Lord, which is to be cultivated. They do not shun the world, but meet it, accepting the danger of becoming secularized in order to magnify God’s name within it and by its means. Thus in the last analysis, they subject nothing to a judgment of absolute condemnation. Everything must and can serve to the glorification of God, even art. We may recall the thought of the Neo-Calvinist Abraham Kuyper. Basically, the art of the dance should also be capable of being incorporated into the service of God. (Gerardus Van Der Leeuw, Religion in Essence and Manifestation [Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1986], 51-52)

Writings on the Renaissance and Reformation periods are scattered with accounts of a revitalized interest in dance in the church. Giovanni Boelaccio of the fourteenth century mentioned the carole, a dance in a ring to singing voices, originally performed in May only, but whose popularity grew until the carole was sung and danced throughout the year.

Variations of the carole arose everywhere. The minnesingers in Germany called it Springtang and put into it a great many hops and small leaps.… The people identified the carole—today known only as a Christmas song—with religious images as they appear in many “Last Judgment” paintings of the early Renaissance which show angels in heaven enjoying a carole. (Sorell, Dance through the Ages, 41)

The varied artistic styles of the Renaissance reflect the concept of dancing in the heavens. The works of Leonardo da Vinci pictured the entire cosmic order as dancing. Dante, a famous writer, poet, moral philosopher, and political thinker of his day saw the dance of the saints in heaven.

When those bright suns so gloriously singing
Had circled three items ‘round about us turning,
Like stars which closely ‘round the pole go swinging,
They seemed like women who are not yet willing
To dance, but to the melody stand clinging
While the new rhythm mind and ear is filling.
(Van Der Leeuw, Religion, 30)

The works of Vondel reveal the same visual imagery:

… for the guests so merry
At the wedding, must not rest,
Since their dance is necessary.
Heaven holds no ghost nor quest
Who with holy dance and singing
Does not spend eternity.…
(Van Der Leeuw, Religion, 30)

Vondel also sees how the church dances with God:

As air through many organ pipes is guided
One spirit is to many tongues divided,
In equal time through a field of equal sound,
Where Church and God together dance the sound.
The angel hosts from heaven’s height descending
Dance deeply down, our sacrifice attending,
About Christ’s body on His altar-stone.…
(Van Der Leeuw, Religion, 30)

Apparently, the prevailing philosophy embraced dancing in heaven. “To die on earth as a martyr brings heavenly joy.… In Fra Angelico’s The Last Judgment, the virgins and martyrs dance the heavenly dance” (Van Der Leeuw, Religion, 68). Luther, describing heaven’s garden for his young song, portrays “a small beautiful meadow, which was arrayed for a dance. There hung lutes, pipes, trumpets, and beautiful silver cymbals” (Van Der Leeuw, Religion, 68). Although the church may have somewhat embraced the concept of dancing in heaven, the practice of dancing on earth was, for the most part, shunned if not declared anathema.

No longer under the heavy restraints of the church, Renaissance society was, therefore, dancing. Two opposite poles of dance developed in Europe between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries: the peasants, or the populace at large, stood for the earthiness and crude joy, while the nobility replaced the primary impulses with refinement and polish. “The court dance was subjected more and more to rules. Contributing to this development was, no doubt, the reliance of the nobility on professional entertainers” (Sorrel, Dance through the Ages, 45).

Further refinements and more popularity came to dance because of Catherine de Medici, a daughter of a great house in Italy who came to France to marry Henry II. “She brought with her a company of musicians and dancers from her native city of Florence to supervise her artistic presentations, and highly impressive they were” (John Martin, The Book of Dance [New York: Tudor Publishing Company, 1963], 26). In 1581, with the expertise of Balthasar de Beaujoyeux (an Italian by birth though bearing a French name), Catherine de Medici produced what is considered the first ballet, Ballet Comigue de la Rein.

The populace was also dancing. Folk dances such as the egg dance, the country Thread-the-Needle, and ring-shaped or choral dances grew in popularity. Labyrinth dances signifying resurrection themes were popular in many parts of the world, sometimes even being incorporated into Christian holidays. At Easter, in the province of Twente, in Oatmarsum, the children danced or processed through the entire town in a serpentine motion singing a very old Easter song:

Hallelujah! The happy melody
Is now sung loud and prettily.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

This dance is sluip-door-kruip-door in Dutch, Magdeburger in German, forandole in French, and the cramignon of Limburg. These also had two other names, taken from Biblical antiquity and the classics: Jericho and labyrinth.

From the Reformation period until the present, the church has experienced many spiritual awakenings or revivals, including the restoration of many New Testament truths. The energies of the clergy, theologians, and even whole denominations has been to embrace and preserve the truths that were being revealed. If the loss of truth or the embrace of heresy propelled the church into the dark ages (which is the prevailing philosophy of church historians), then the converse is also true. Embracing truth is responsible for returning the church to her calling, commission, and glory. Scripture compares truth to walls and salvation (Isa. 26:11; 60:18; Ps. 51:18). The rebuilding of truth is analogous to the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem after captivity, defeat, and judgment (Ezra 9:9; Neh. 2:17; Isa. 26:1). In Israel of old, such restoration was the promised season of release, rejoicing, and dance (Jer. 31:1–13; Neh. 7:1; 12:27–30). Likewise, as the church has experienced reforming and rebuilding, rejoicing and dancing have accompanied each season of restoration. (Below you will find quotes from various revival periods and special religious sects that validate this view.)

A unique group called the Shakers was founded in England in 1747. The term Shaker came from the rapid up-and-down movement of their hands, mostly in their wrists. Shaking the hands with the palms turned upward as if to receive a blessing meant they were expressing the open petition, “Come, life Eternal.” Shaking of the hands with the palms turned downward to the floor was a symbolic motion that they were shaking out all that was carnal.

The Shakers believed that by keeping their inner and outer lives in perfect order they were reflecting the perfect order of God’s kingdom. The practicing Shaker was held accountable to his religion when he stepped out of bed, when he dressed, when he ate when he spoke, and when he worked. Worldly lusts were suppressed by rules: carnality was held at bay by a dress code that insured modesty, by a series of orders restricting the body’s movements and appetites, and by architectural designs that segregated the sexes. Unity was enforced by the requirements of obedience—the submission of the individual to the authority of God’s appointed leaders.

On Sundays the Shakers danced to the honor of God. Their worship—in vivid contrast to the restrained order of their weekday lives—was an exuberant spectacle that veered unpredictably through many hours of the day. Formal dances could at any time break off into spontaneous displays of whirling, weeping, and shaking. Scathing or uplifting sermons were delivered extemporaneously by the elders, or by individual worshipers who were suddenly seized by the power of God and compelled to speak. Throngs of spectators—“the world’s people”—packed the little meetinghouses to be entertained, shocked, or inspired. No one who witnessed Shaker worship, whether horrified or enraptured, ever forgot it.

The first ordered dance of the Shakers, the “Square Order Shuffle” was introduced by Joseph Meacham about 1785. In 1820 a variation was introduced, men and women shuffled forward and backward in a series of parallel lines, weaving, in imaginative designs, a fabric of union and love.

A 19th Century American engraving called “Shakers Dancing” can be seen at the Dance Collection, Performing Arts Research Center, The New York Public Library at Lincoln Center. (Amy Stechler Burns and Ken Burns, “The Shakers,” American History Illustrated [Summer 1988], 27)

During the early 1800s in the slave community, dance was an important part of their worship. A syncretism of African and conventional Western religious beliefs, the praise meeting in the quarters was unique in the United States. While whites might be carried away by religious frenzy at occasional “awakenings,” slaves had an even more intense emotional involvement with their God every week. In contrast to most white churches, a meeting in the quarters was the scene of perpetual motion and constant singing. Robert Anderson recalled that in meetings on his plantation there was much singing. He noted, “While singing these songs, the singers and the entire congregation kept time to the music by the swaying of their bodies, or by the patting of the foot or hand. Practically all of their songs were accompanied by a motion of some kind.” A black plantation preacher testified to the uniqueness of the religion in the quarters when he asserted: “The way in which we worshiped is almost indescribable. The singing was accompanied by a certain ecstasy of motion, clapping of hands, tossing of heads, which would continue without cessation about half an hour; one would lead off in a kind of recitative style, others joining in the chorus. The old house partook of the ecstasy; it rang with their jubilant shouts, and shook in all its joints (John W. Blassingame, The Slave Community [New York: Oxford, 1972]: 27). Two outstanding features of the slave community worship were the “ring shout” and the “juba.” H. G. Spaulding gave an excellent description of the “shout” on the Sea Islands in 1863:

After the praise meeting is over, there usually follows the very singular and impressive performance of the “Shout” or religious dance of the negroes. Three or four, standing still, clapping their hands and beating time with their feet, commence singing in unison one of the peculiar shout melodies, while the others walk round in a ring, in single file, joining also in the song. Soon those in the ring leave off their singing, the others keeping it up the while with increased vigor, and strike into the shout step, observing most accurate time with the music. This step is something halfway between a shuffle and a dance, as difficult for an uninitiated person to describe as to imitate. At the end of each stanza of the song the dancers stop short with a slight stamp on the last note, and then, putting the other foot forward, proceed through the next verse.… The shout is a simple outburst and manifestation of religious fervor—a “rejoicing in the Lord”—making a “joyful noise unto the God of their salvation.” (Blassingame, Slave Community, 65–66)

Accompanying their singing was the practice of the “patting juba.”

When slaves had no musical instruments they achieved a high degree of rhythmic complexity by clapping their hands. Solomon Northup, an accomplished slave musician, observed that in juba the clapping involved “striking the hands on the knees, then stroking the hands together, then stroking the right shoulder with one hand, the left with the other—all the while keeping time with the feet, and singing.… ” Often the rhythmic patterns used in juba were little short of amazing. After viewing a performance in Georgia in 1841, a traveler from Rhode Island observed that, while the slaves were patting juba, it was “really astonishing to witness the rapidity of their motions, their accurate time, and the precision of their music and dance.” (Ibid.)

The world was in a period of change. The Industrial Revolution followed the Reformation changing the character of life as people had known it. Likewise, the reformers continued to bring change to the church. The late 1800s produced a church concerned about holiness, some Christians even seeking a second work of grace called sanctification. Holiness evangelist, pastor, and church leader Ambrose Blackman Crumper, a licensed Methodist Episcopal preacher, was determined to establish the holiness message in his native state of North Carolina. “Everywhere he went, people shouted, danced before the Lord, and ‘fell under the Spirit’ when they received the second blessing.”

The Holiness movement spawned the great outpouring of the Holy Spirit at the turn of the century. Pentecostalism was born on Azusa Street, prompted in part by the Great Welsh Revival. Seekers of the baptism of the Holy Spirit would receive the gift of tongues. “Dancing in the spirit” was often a regular happening at their meetings. Dancing in the spirit is physical movement akin to dancing, presumably done while under the influence and control of the Holy Spirit. “Most older Pentecostal believers who have participated in spiritual revivals over a period of years have witnessed what is known as ‘dancing in the spirit’ ” (Stanley M. Burgess and Gary B. McGee, eds., Dictionary of Pentecostal and Charismatic Movements [Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1988], 236). According to the Dictionary of Pentecostal and Charismatic Movements, various phrases applied to the dance movements observed in the Pentecostal believers included: holy roller, orgiastic worship, physical agitation, physically demonstrated praises, orgasmic worship, noisy and expressive worship, holy jumpers, and others.

Dancing is a phenomenon closely tied to the fresh encounters with God found in the message of sanctification, baptism of the Holy Spirit, or healing revivals. One famous woman healing evangelist, Maria Woodworth-Etter, whose meetings journal has many accounts of people dancing, had this to say on the subject:

David danced with all his might before the Lord. The word is full of dancing. Where dancing in the Bible is mentioned, it always signified victory for the Lord’s hosts. It was always done to glorify God. The Lord placed the spirit of power and love of the dance in the Church, and wherever the Scripture speaks of dancing it implies that they danced in inspiration, and were moved by the Spirit, and the Lord was always pleased and smiled His approval, but the devil stole it away and made capital of it. In these last days, when God is pouring out His Spirit in great cloudbursts and tidal waves from the floodgates of Heaven, and the great river of life is flooding our spirit and body, and baptizing us with fire and resurrection life, and divine energy, the Lord is doing His acts, His strange acts, and dancing in the Spirit and speaking in other tongues, and many other operations and gifts. The Holy Ghost is confirming the last message of the coming King, with great signs and wonders, and miracles. If you read carefully what the Scripture says about dancing, you will be surprised and will see that singing, music, and dancing has a humble and holy place in the Lord’s Church.… All the great company was blessed but Michael, and she was stricken with barrenness till the day of her death, so you see she sinned in making light of the power of God in the holy dance (just as some do today), and attributed it to the flesh or the devil. They always lost out, and many are in darkness till death. (Maria Woodworth-Etter, A Diary of Signs and Wonders [Tulsa: Harrison House, 1981], 524-525)

The Pentecostal revival was not limited to the United States, but spread quickly to the European continent, bringing with it the Holy Spirit’s gifts, anointing, and also the dance. Between the two world wars, a revival of Christian drama won wide popularity, especially in Germany.

I shall never forget seeing one of these bands of German young people as they produced a thrilling version of the Totentanz (Dance of Death) before a Chinese student-group in Peking. Being chiefly a dance, with music but no words, it spoke an international language; and the intensity of the emotion among these oriental and largely non-Christian observers aroused by this European and thoroughly Christian play was surprising and extraordinary. (Richard H. Ritter, The Arts of the Church [Boston: The Pilgrim Press, 1947], 97-98)

From that time until the present day, dancing has been incorporated by many evangelistic groups. Currently, two outstanding examples are YWAM (Youth With A Mission), founded by Loren Cunningham, and Toymaker’s Dream by Impact Productions. The year 1948 hosted another outpouring of the Holy Spirit known as the Latter Rain Movement. With a strong emphasis on the gifts of the Holy Spirit, laying on of hands, and prophecy, this visitation, like earlier revivals, hosted manifestations of spiritual dancing. Rev. Charlotte Baker, a modern-day prophet and anointed teacher, comments on that outpouring in her book On Eagle’s Wings: “Dancing is not new to the Christian who is familiar with worship in the realm of Pentecostal churches. Since the outpouring of the Holy Spirit at the turn of the century, dancing in the Spirit has been a part of Pentecostal praise and worship.” However, a shift began to take place in the understanding of teachers such as Charlotte Baker. Although not doubting the validity of dancing while yielded to the Holy Spirit’s influence, she and others also believed dancing as a voluntary act is a true act of worship. She goes on to comment:

It must be noted, however, “dancing in the Spirit,” the term which has been so widely used throughout the years, is not found in God’s Word. Careful study of the Word reveals that the appropriate expression is dancing before the Lord. For example, David danced before the Lord with all his might at the time of the return of the Ark of the Covenant to Israel. “Dancing in the Spirit” suggests that the Holy Spirit takes hold of the Christian, causing him or her to enter into uncontrollable motions and contortions, all supposedly manifestations of the Spirit. “Dancing before the Lord” suggests the worshiper’s strength, training, and expertise as fully under the control of the dancer, who expresses worship and joy in actions and steps which bring pleasure to the heart of God. While it is true that the believer is admonished to “leap for joy,” it is also true that there are many Scriptures that indicate that intricate steps, marches, group dances, twirling, and twisting were part of the expression of the dance. There is a growing conviction among the people of God that He is most pleased when we offer to Him, as an act of worship, all of our ability whether it be in art, in the dance, or in any other creative expression with which the Lord has blessed us. Every activity of life is designed to become an act of worship. In the past five years, we have seen many gifted dancers come to Jesus for salvation and add to the Body of Christ a wonderful ability to express, in an excellent manner, their worship unto Him in dance. Just as there are those who have been given the ability to sing and to edify the Body through excellence in song, so are there those who have been given the ability to pour out to God a similar ministry through the dance. Room should be made within the worship structure of the Church for the full expression of each individual; such expression should always remain within the confines of the Word and under the leadership of the ministries. (Charlotte E. Baker, On Eagle’s Wings [Shippensburg, Pa.: Destiny Image Publishers, 1990], 101-102)

In the 1950s and 60s, a few churches pioneered new territory in choreographed dancing, pageants, dance troupes, and trained artists. Among these was The King’s Temple in Seattle, Washington, pastored by Rev. Charlotte Baker, a disciple of the late Reg. Layzell, and Living Waters Fellowship in Pasadena, California, pastored by Willard and Ione Glaeser.

By the early 1960s, the charismatic renewal movement was building momentum, sweeping people from every denomination into the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. An outstanding feature of the charismatic meetings was the importance placed on singing Psalms and other Scriptures. “The rise of singing psalms and Scripture songs, as well as the rebirth of dance in worship, in the charismatic movement is directly attributed to Old Testament examples” (Burgess and McGee, Dictionary of Pentecostal and Charismatic Movements, 689). Exuberance and freshness marked the worship services: “As in the early days of the Pentecostal revival, it is not unusual to find charismatic worshipers singing, shouting, clapping hands, leaping and even dancing before the Lord as they offer him sincere praise and thanksgiving” (Burgess and McGee, Dictionary of Pentecostal and Charismatic Movements, 693).

In 1978 God raised up four men—Rev. Larry Dempsey, Rev. Barry Griffing, Rev. Steve Griffing, and Rev. David Fisher—to begin a teaching worship conference called the International Worship Symposium. This worship seminar, along with one of its offshoots, and the International Feast of Tabernacles Celebration in Jerusalem have done much to encourage local assemblies to begin creative worship in the area of dance.

Dancing in churches currently ranges from simple folk style steps in which whole congregations participate, to traveling professional artists such as Ballet Magnificat. Liturgical dance, the name having been just recently coined to identify the style of dance, is becoming more common.

Practiced by liturgical artists, dance serves and functions as a conduit from the inner workings of the spirit to the outer expression of today’s worship.… dances for the liturgy change with the seasons: fall, winter, spring, and summer match advent, Christmas/Epiphany, Lent/Easter, and Pentecost. Becoming immersed in the cyclical process, a dancer discovers that he or she has become a student of religion. Dances are designed from personal reflections on the spirituality of the liturgical season. Scripture and prayer, mingled with the urgings of the dancer’s soul, and enriched by the experience of life, are shaped through the medium of dance. (Doug Adams and Diane Apostolos-Cappodona, eds., Dance as Religious Studies [New York: Crossroad, 1990], 153-154)

It appears that there is an inescapable link with restoration and rejoicing, with rebuilding and responding—“going forth in the dances of them that make merry” (Jer. 31:4). Indeed “to everything, there is a season.” The season of weeping over our spiritual captivity has come to an end, for He has “turned our mourning into dancing.”

A Brief History of Scripture Reading

The reading of Scripture has been a significant part of both Jewish and Christian worship, an appropriate liturgical priority for a religion that is based on God’s revelation. This article traces the history of the reading of Scripture in worship throughout the history of the church.

So Moses wrote down this law and gave it to the priests, the sons of Levi, who carried the ark of the covenant of the Lord, and to all the elders of Israel. Then Moses commanded them: “At the end of every seven years … during the Feast of Tabernacles when all Israel comes to appear before the Lord your God at the place he will choose, you shall read this law before them in their hearing. Assemble the people—men, women and children, and the aliens living in your towns—so they can listen and learn to fear the Lord your God.… ” (Deut. 31:9–12)

These verses formally introduce the institution of Scripture reading in the history of Judeo-Christian worship. No longer binding his communication to the ephemeral thunderings on Sinai, the spatially confined burning bush, or the fleeting prophetic pronouncement, God now commands the repetition of a text as his immanent and permanent voice incarnate. Thus, reading the Word of God becomes the very core of worship, affording each hearer an opportunity for a personal encounter with the divine (J. Edward Lantz, Reading the Bible Aloud [New York: Macmillan, 1959], 43).

The homage reserved for presenting God’s recorded Word is evident in the honored position the reading of Scripture has held in the liturgy, doctrine, and history of the Christian church. The verses quoted above from Deuteronomy introduce that portion of its suzerainty structure where the arrangements of the covenant between God and his people are scheduled for public review (R. K. Harrison, “Deuteronomy,” in New Bible Commentary Revised, ed. D. Guthrie and J. A. Motyer [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970], 202; Meredith Kline, “Dynastic Covenant,” The Westminster Theological Journal 23 [1960]: 13, 15). Thus, as early as the writings of the Pentateuch, oral reading of Scripture became a normative worship practice. Because these books laid the foundation for the Jewish concept of covenantal worship, this practice of public reading assumed seminal significance for later developments in Christian worship (Richard G. Moulton, The Literary Study of the Bible [Boston: D. C. Heath, 1906], 268).

As the Jewish worship traditions developed, standards emerged for the habitual reading of various Scriptures in the synagogue. The liturgy essentially consisted of two readings: the first came from the Law (i.e., the books of Moses) and the second from the prophets (see Luke 16:16; Acts 13:15) (Pius Parsch, The Liturgy of the Mass, 3d. ed., trans. H. E. Winstone [St. Louis: B. Herder, 1957], 72).

While Scripture reading was required in synagogue worship, preaching was optional (Luke 4:16–20) (Arthur T. Pierson, How to Read the Word of God Effectively [Chicago: Moody Bible Institute, 1925], 3-4; Lantz, Reading Aloud, 3). Preaching naturally developed in ordinary worship services as an exposition or hortatory application of what was read, but sermons were based on the readings (Edwin C. Dargan, A History of Preaching, vol. 1 [New York: Hodder and Stoughton, 1905], 39). Further, as was demonstrated annually in the Passover observances of individual families, worship of the highest order could always be oriented around the Word and prayer without sermonic exposition (Joseph A. Jungman, The Mass of the Roman Rite, German rev. ed., trans. Francis Brunner [New York: Benzinger Bros., 1950], 8; The Union Hagadah, rev. ed., [New York: the Central Conference of American Rabbis, 1923]). The Christian church did not revoke this aspect of its Jewish worship heritage nor subordinate the importance of Scripture readings. Instead, the readings were expanded.

New Testament worship services echoed the Jewish synagogue patterns for prayers, readings, and exposition; but apostolic writings were added to the canonical materials (cf. 1 Thess. 2:13; J. H. Srawley, The Early History of the Liturgy, The Cambridge Handbooks of Liturgical Study, 2d ed. [Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1958], 188; Dargan, History of Preaching, 39). As the Old Testament prophets arranged for the perpetuation of their message in the readings of the temple, the New Testament messengers created literature for repeated use in the church (Acts 15:23–31; 2 Cor. 3:1–3; 1 Thess. 5:27). In his Colossian letter, Paul commands, “After this letter has been read to you, see that it is also read in the church of the Laodiceans and that you, in turn, read the letter from Laodicea” (Col. 4:16). The Scripture poem of Philippians 2:6–11 is apparently intended for liturgical use, and Paul specifically commands his protege, Timothy, “Devote yourself to the public reading of Scripture, to preaching and to teaching” (1 Tim. 4:13).

Readings of the newer writings did not replace the Old Testament readings but augmented them. That the apostolic writings were being read in the churches along with the ancient Scriptures is apparent from Peter’s commentary on Paul (2 Pet. 3:16), and Paul’s own commands for the continued use of the Psalms (Eph. 5:19; Col. 3:16). Further, the reading of the New Testament gospels and epistles, with their many Old Testament quotations and analogies, would necessarily keep both testaments echoing in the church.

Sensing the continued respect of the apostolic writers for the older Scriptures, the church continued reading publicly from both testaments in the early centuries of the Christian era. By the end of the fourth century, the dominant liturgical pattern included three readings: one from the Old Testament and two from the New—an epistle and a gospel. The last reading was always the gospel, and the people stood during this reading (James D. Robertson, Minister’s Worship Handbook [Grand Rapids: Baker, 1974], 52).

As with most key features of Christian worship, the reading of Scripture has also occasionally been the focus of abuse and controversy. In Elizabethan England, debates boiled between Puritans and the established church over John Whitgift’s rhetorical question, “Is not the word of God as effectual when it is read as when it is preached? Or is not reading preaching?” (Donald J. McGinn, The Admonition Controversy [New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers Univ. Press, 1949], 176. The great debate between Whitgift and Cartwright is conveniently abridged in this most helpful work that topically arranges the original arguments of Cartwright’s Admonition, 1572, Whitgift’s Answere, 1572, Cartwright’s Replie, 1573, Whitgift’s Defense, 1574, and Cartwright’s Second replie, 1575, and The rest of the second replie, 1577). The divergent viewpoints were argued expertly and expansively by Whitgift when he was Bishop of Worcester, and also by the Puritan scholar Thomas Cartwright (Edwin Hall, The Puritans and their Principles, 2d ed. [New York: Baker and Scribner, 1846], 108; McGinn, Admonition Controversy, 145–147).

Whitgift’s insistence on the sufficiency of readings, though argued on theological grounds, was a political necessity. In order to suppress Puritan teachings and provide services in parishes whose ministers had been removed (i.e., defrocked, imprisoned, or executed), a series of approved readings and homilies were prepared for reading in the churches (Hall, Puritans, 110–112). Approved clergymen made the rounds through the rebel churches presenting nothing but these readings (Ibid., 109).

Cartwright argued for the Puritans, “It may be that God doth work faith by reading only, especially where preaching cannot be, and so he doth sometimes without reading by a wonderful work of his Spirit; but the ordinary ways whereby God regenerateth his children is the Word of God which is preached.”

Whitgift adroitly replied, “Did not St. Paul preach to the Romans when he writ to them? … Was not the reading of Deuteronomy to the people a preaching?” (McGinn, Admonition Controversy, 186–187)

The argument progressed with increasing vehemence. Cartwright eventually concluded that “reading [i.e., dictated homilies and Scriptures] is not feeding, but it is as evil as playing upon a stage, and worse too” (Ibid., 189–191). While the harsh words of Cartwright and the harsh measures of Whitgift’s church may tempt the modern reader to take sides in the ancient debate, there are more fruitful conclusions to draw. The fact thrown into historical relief by the Elizabethan controversy is that Scripture reading is an inherent and indispensable feature of Christian worship.

Even when events were so exceptional as to cause the merits of reading Scripture to be weighed against preaching, no one argued for excising Scripture from worship. The Puritan preachers insisted that preaching be an exposition of Scripture (Irvonwy Morgan, The Godly Preachers of the Elizabethan Church [London: Epworth, 1965], 25). While they vigorously opposed “bare readings,” they never argued for bare preaching (i.e., preaching apart from Scripture reading). Cartwright might argue, “The word of God is not so effectual read as preached” (McGinn, Admonition Controversy, 176). But he would conclude, “[M]en’s works ought to be kept in and nothing else but the voice of God and Holy Scriptures, in which only are contained all fullness and sufficiency to decide controversies, must sound in his church.… ” (Ibid., 169) Thus, at the very time in the history of the church when events and passions would seem poised for the denigration of Scripture reading in certain worship traditions, all factions continued to treasure the practice.

Since the Reformation, divergent commitments to fixed forms of worship exemplified in conflicts between English Puritan and established church leaders have influenced Scripture reading practices in Protestantism. Traditions valuing nonprescribed forms of worship tend to deemphasize Scripture “reading,” viewing “interpretation” of the Word in preaching as the focus of worship. Traditions maintaining a high regard for ritual often organize worship around Scripture “readings” in liturgical forms, while giving less attention to formal exposition of those texts.

Recent movements in a number of denominations have sought to unite the strengths of the Word of God, which is promoted both by its reading and preaching. Musical and dramaturgical influences have also added new creativity and power to the way Scripture is “read” in both regular and special services. The force of these movements stems from the ancient ethic—confirmed throughout the church’s liturgy, theology, and history—that the public reading of Scripture is a touchstone of authentic worship.

The History of the Organ in the Christian Church

The honor accorded the pipe organ in Christian worship represents a curious paradox. On the one hand, the Christian church through most of its history has had an abiding antipathy toward instruments; on the other, the organ (together with bells) has, since the late Middle Ages, become so identified with the church that it embodies the very essence of “churchliness.” How could this have happened?

The early church’s rejection of instruments in worship and its mistrust of instrumental music of any kind is well known. In particular, the Roman hydraulis or water organ, a predecessor of the medieval church organ, was linked with pagan rites, games, and the theater. The early church writers had no more use for the organ than for any other pagan instrument. St. Jerome (fourth century) spoke out sharply against the organ, warning that Christian virgins should be deaf to its music (Johannes Quasten, Music and Worship in Pagan and Christian Antiquity, trans. Boniface Ramsey [Washington, D.C.: The Pastoral Press, 1983], 125; 112, n. 128). The Eastern Orthodox churches have never included instruments in their liturgies. In the West, the use of instruments in worship did not become commonplace until the Renaissance, and Roman Catholic ecclesiastical authorities remained somewhat averse to them until well into the twentieth century.

A Gift to Pepin

Yet in spite of its general hostility toward instruments, the Western church accepted the organ into its worship at a relatively early date—perhaps at some point during the tenth century, far in advance of any other instrument except bells. The normal explanation for this paradox begins with the gift of an organ from the Byzantine Emperor Constantine Copronymus to Pepin, king of the Franks, in 757. The gift evoked great curiosity—a fact mentioned in many contemporary chronicles—not only because all knowledge of the organ had died in the West but also because of the organ’s imperial connotations. The instrument played a central role in ceremonial occasions at the Byzantine court; indeed, the organ had become the unmistakable symbol of the emperor’s imperial majesty.

Pepin’s organ was later destroyed, but in 826 there arrived at the court of Louis the Pious (Pepin’s grandson) a Venetian priest, Georgius, who was trained in the art of organ building. At Louis’s behest, Georgius constructed an organ to replace the earlier instrument. A contemporary poem indicates just how significant the organ was to the self-esteem of the Frankish monarchs:

Thus, Louis, do you bring your conquests to Almighty God
And spread your aegis over noble kingdoms.
The realms your forbears could not gain by force of arms
Beg you of their own accord to seize them today.
What neither mighty Rome nor Frankish power could crush,
All this is yours, O Father, in Christ’s name.
Even the organ, never yet seen in France,
Which was the overweening pride of Greece
And which, in Constantinople, was the sole reason
For them to feel superior to Thee—even that is now
In the palace of Aix [the Frankish capital].
This may well be a warning to them, that they
Must submit to the Frankish yoke,
Now that their chief claim to glory is no more.
France, applaud him, and do homage to Louis.

Whose valor affords you so many benefits. (E. Faral, Ermold le Noir (Paris, 1932), 2515–2527, in Jean Perrot, The Organ from Its Invention in the Hellenistic Period to the End of the Thirteenth Century, trans. Norma Deane [London: Oxford University Press, 1971], 213)

It is generally assumed that the adulation accorded a distinguished Eastern court instrument by the more primitive Western court and church led to its eventual admission into the liturgy of the Western church. There may be some truth in this statement, for church and state were much intertwined during the Middle Ages. But the assumption does not suffice to explain why the Western church should so summarily dismiss its centuries-old prejudice against all instruments and so wholeheartedly embrace an instrument with hitherto unmistakably secular connotations—an about-face reflected in the fact that the most recognized early medieval experts in organ building were monks, e.g., Gerbert of Aurillac (later Pope Silvester II, reigned 999-1003) and Constantius of Fleury. Nor does it explain why early medieval accounts place organs in churches but do not link them with liturgical functions.

An Embodiment of Cosmic Harmony

These curious inconsistencies are perhaps best explained by understanding the organ of that time as an embodiment of cosmic harmony and a means of manifesting and teaching basic Neoplatonic doctrines associated with the classical educational curriculum, the quadrivium, and the medieval cosmic worldview.

The traditional Christian worldview, inherited from ancient Greek philosophy—especially from Plato—understood the cosmos as pervaded by harmonia, a quality that caused all things to be related and interconnected, and manifested to humans particularly through music. In his Timaeus, Plato, following Pythagoras, asserted that God constructed the universe according to specific proportions or ratios that were none other than those of the perfect musical intervals: the octave (2:1), the fifth (3:2), and the fourth (4:3). For Plato and for medieval Neoplatonic thinkers following Augustine, music was of divine origin. It was the means by which humans could contact and absorb into their souls the balance and perfection of cosmic harmony.

Platonic teachings on music won Christian support not only because they were embedded in the quadrivium but also because they were sympathetic to the suspicious attitude toward the sensuous enjoyment of music voiced by most of the church writers. That attitude insisted on strict regulation and restraint in musical expression and eventually fostered a “Christian” music with specific characteristics: ascetic severity, subtlety, rhythmic reserve, serene balance, and repose. The Christian cosmic worldview persisted throughout the Middle Ages (indeed, here and there until the eighteenth century), governing and energizing all facets of musical activity.

The evidence for understanding the organ as a symbol of cosmic harmony is scanty and inconclusive, as is much source material from the early Middle Ages; yet we can trace a slender thread of support for this view. The evidence begins with a statement by the early Christian writer Tertullian (third century), proto-Puritan who, it seems, would be least likely to approve a pagan instrument such as the organ.

Look at that very wonderful piece of organic mechanism by Archimedes—I mean his hydraulic organ, with its many limbs, parts, bands, passages for the notes, outlets for their sounds, combinations for their harmony, and the array of its pipes; but yet the whole of these details constitutes only one instrument. In like manner the wind, which breathes throughout this organ, at the impulse of the hydraulic engine, is not divided into separate portions from the fact of its dispersion through the instrument to make it play: it is whole and entire in its substance, although divided in its operation. (Tertullian, De Anima 14; translation and commentary in Robert Skeris, Musicae Sacrae Melethmata 1 [Altötting, W. Ger.: Coppenrath, 1976], 43)

Tertullian goes on to say that precisely like the windblown in the pipes throughout the organ, the soul displays its energies in various ways by means of the senses, being not indeed divided but distributed in the natural order. Behind Tertullian’s words, one can detect not only an assumed Christian monism but also the Greek, Neoplatonic presupposition of a harmonically ordered cosmos.

Some early medieval writers merely hint at this interpretation, as if they take it for granted. Thus St. Aldhelm (ca. 639–709), English poet, scholar, and teacher, wrote:

If a man longs to sate his soul with ardent music,
And spurns the solace of a thin cantilena,
Let him listen to the mighty organs with their thousand breaths,
And lull his hearing with the air-filled bellows,
However much the rest [of it] dazzles with its golden casings
Who can truly fathom the mysteries of such things,
Or unravel the secrets of the all-knowing God?
(De Virginitate; trans. in Perrot, 224)

And in 873 Pope John VIII charged Anno, Bishop of Freising in Bavaria, “to send us, for the purpose of teaching the science of music, an excellent organ together with an organist capable of playing upon it and drawing the maximum amount of music from it” (Monumenta Germania Historica, Epist. Merov. et Karol Aevi. V, anno 873, p. 287; trans. in Perrot, 222).

Baldric, Bishop of Dol, is much less ambiguous in his estimation of the organ. In a letter written to the people of Fécamp sometime between 1114 and 1130, he says:

For myself, I take no great pleasure in the sound of the organ (ego siquidem in modulationibus organicis non multum delector); but it encourages me to reflect that, just as divers pipes, of differing weight and size, sound together in a single melody as a result of the air in them, so men should think the same thoughts, and inspired by the Holy Spirit, unite in a single purpose.… All this I have learned from the organs installed in this church. Are we not organs of the Holy Spirit? And let any man who banishes them from the church likewise banish all-vocal sound, and let him pray, with Moses, through motionless lips.… For ourselves, we speak categorically—because organs are a good thing, we regard them as mysteries and derive from them a spiritual harmony; it is this harmony that the Moderator of all things has instilled in us, by putting together elements entirely discordant in themselves and binding them together by a harmonious rhythm.… As we listen to the organ, let us be drawn together by a two-fold charity. (Patrologiae latinae clxvi, 1177–1178; trans. in Perrot, 220–221)

Even in such a late source as the Syntagma Musicum of 1619, Michael Praetorius implies a similar attitude toward the organ: a respect for the instrument’s paradigmatic perfection, evident above all in its complex and ingenious mechanism:

Almighty God alone can never be given sufficient thanks for having granted to man in His mercy and great goodness such gifts as have enabled him to achieve such a perfect, one might almost say the most perfect, creation and instrument of music as is the organ … in its arrangement and construction; and to play upon it with hands and with feet in such a manner that God in Heaven may be praised, His worship adorned, and man moved and inspired to Christian devotion. (Michael Praetorius, Syntagma Musicum II: De Organographia, trans. W. L. Sumner (Wolfenbüttel: Elias Holwein, 1619), 117–118)

The early appearance of organs in churches, then, may well not have been so much for practical music-making as for symbolic and didactic ends: symbolic in that the instrument was the material embodiment of cosmic harmony, and didactic in that it provided a visible, tangible “sermon” on that harmony. Together with the complex astronomical clocks still extant in some of the medieval cathedrals, organs may have witnessed the divine basis for the quadrivium and its underlying worldview. The clock represented divine order evident in the heavens, while the organ represented it in music; mathematics and geometry, the other disciplines of the quadrivium, were represented by the architecture of the cathedral church itself. (See Otto von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral [New York: Harper & Row, 1962], 43.)

The Later Middle Ages

Organs in the earlier Middle Ages normally consisted of a single rank of pipes. At some point during the later Middle Ages, however, the organ underwent a new development in which each key began to control a number of pipes sounding intervals of fifths and octaves above a fundamental pitch. Thus the instrument became, in effect, a single large mixture—a Blockwerk, to use the proper German term. This development was most likely brought about by the perception of the overtone series on the part of an organ theoretician or builder. Given the medieval preference for theory over practical observation, however, such an advance was probably grounded in a desire to make the organ embody even more perfectly the Pythagorean proof of cosmic harmony.

Had the medieval organ possessed a sensuous, affective tonal quality, no amount of praise for its perfect structure would have won it the church’s approval. Like Bishop Baldric, who was quoted above, the church hierarchy prized the organ not for its sound but for its symbolism. Indeed, the very quality of sound produced by the medieval organ had an affinity to the Christian ideal of cosmic harmony and to the objective, nonaffective music produced by that ideal. The sound had practically no expressive qualities, only the slightest capacity for nuance, little variety in tone, very limited rhythmic capabilities, and no potential for crescendo and diminuendo. The medieval organ was remote in its playing mechanism, remote from its listeners (organs were often set in a balcony or “swallows nest” high up on the church wall), and was situated in a remote, mystic, and awe-inspiring acoustical environment. Its most unique musical characteristic, the ability to hold a tone at a static dynamic level for a theoretically endless period of time, was distinctly superhuman. If one assumes, as the Middle Ages did, that variation and fluctuation belong to the human sphere, while awe, remoteness, and constancy are characteristic of the divine, the mysterious, the holy, then the qualities enumerated above would seem to render the organ a peculiarly hieratic musical instrument.

Whether or not the organ gained entry into the church because it was the embodiment of cosmic harmony, it seems fairly certain that the organ was not brought in at first to aid in the conduct of the liturgy. Again the sources are few and inconclusive, but the gradual incorporation of organ music into liturgical celebrations seems to parallel the rise to prominence of polyphony (see Peter Williams, A New History of the Organ ([Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1980], 47ff.)—a development that may also have gained impetus from Neoplatonic musical speculation. Since the organ’s mechanical advances succeeded in keeping pace with the demands placed on it by musical developments, the instrument became capable of performing intellectual, contrapuntal music as that music evolved in the church. Thus with the support of both speculation and practice, the organ gained a firm foothold. By the thirteenth century, most major churches in Europe—abbeys and secular cathedrals—possessed an organ, and by the fifteenth century, many of them had two: one for solo performance and a smaller one to accompany and support choral singing.

Papal and Conciliar Decrees

By the same conservative process that granted approval to other previously foreign elements after long-established use, the Roman Catholic church hierarchy gradually sanctioned the organ’s official use in the church’s liturgy. This process is best traced through papal and conciliar decrees that include statements on the organ. The only instrument mentioned in the decrees of the Council of Trent is the organ; its playing had to be free from any element that might be considered “lascivious or impure.” Other sixteenth-century ecclesiastical ordinances likewise mention no instrument other than the organ (St. Charles Borromeo, Council of Milan in 1565; Ceremoniale Episcoporum, 1600). By the eighteenth century, the use of the organ in churches was almost universal, yet Pope Benedict XIV was less than enthusiastic about it, a view shared by his successors up through the early twentieth century. As Benedict wrote in the eighteenth century:

Thus the use of the organ and other musical instruments is not yet admitted by all the Christian world. In fact (without speaking of the Ruthenians of the Greek rite, who according to the testimony of Father Le Brun have neither an organ nor any other musical instruments in their churches), all know that Our Pontifical Chapel [the Sistine Chapel], although allowing musical chant on condition that it be serious, decent and devout, has never allowed the organ.… In our days we find in France renowned churches that use neither the organ nor figurative chant [i.e., polyphony] in sacred functions.… (Pope Benedict XIV, Encyclical Annus Qui, February 19, 1749; trans. in Robert F. Hayburn, Papal Legislation on Sacred Music, 95 A.D. to 1977 A.D. [Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 1979, 96])

Benedict’s successors wrote in the nineteenth century: Figured organ music ought generally to be in accord with the grave, harmonious and sustained character of that instrument. The instrumental accompaniment ought decorously to support and not drown the chant. In the preludes and interludes, the organ as well as the other instruments ought always to preserve the sacred character corresponding to the sentiment of the function. (Congregation of Sacred Rites, Encyclical Letter, July 21, 1884; in Hayburn, 141)

And so wrote the three popes who bore the name Pius in the twentieth century:

  • Although the proper music of the Church is only vocal, nevertheless the accompaniment of an organ is allowed. In any special case, within proper limits and with due care, other instruments may be allowed, too, but never without special leave from the Bishop of the Diocese, according to the rule of the Ceremoniale Episcoporum.
  • Since the singing must always be the chief thing, the organ and the instruments may only sustain and never crush it.
  • It is not lawful to introduce the singing with long preludes or to interrupt it with intermezzi.
  • The music of the organ in the accompaniment, preludes, interludes, and so on must be played not only according to the proper character of the instrument but also according to all the rules of real sacred music. (Pope Pius X,Motu proprio tra le sollecitudini, November 22, 1903; in Hayburn, 228–229)

There is one musical instrument, however, which properly and by tradition belongs to the Church, and that is the organ. On account of its grandeur and majesty, it has always been considered worthy to mingle with liturgical rites, whether for accompanying the chant, or, when the choir is silent, for eliciting soft harmonies at fitting times. In this matter also, however, it is necessary to avoid that mixture of sacred and profane which through the initiative of organ builders on one hand, and the fault of certain organists who favor ultramodern music on the other threatens the purity of the holy purpose for which the church organ is intended. While safeguarding the rules of liturgy, We Ourselves declare that whatever pertains to the organ should always make fresh development. But We cannot refrain from lamenting that, just as formerly, in the case of styles of music rightly prohibited by the Church so today again there is a danger lest a profane spirit should invade the House of God through new-fangled musical styles which, should they get a real foothold, the Church would be bound to condemn. Let that organ music alone resound in our churches which expresses the majesty of the place and breathes the sanctity of the rites; for in this way both the art of organ builders and that of the musicians who play the organ will be revived and render good service to the sacred liturgy. (Pope Pius XI, apostolic constitution Divini cultus, December 20, 1928; in Hayburn, 331)

These norms [against exaggerated, bombastic music] must be applied to the use of the organ or other musical instruments. Among the musical instruments that have a place in the church, the organ rightly holds the principal position, since it is especially fitted for the sacred chants and sacred rites. It adds a wonderful splendor and a special magnificence to the ceremonies of the Church. It moves the souls of the faithful by the grandeur and sweetness of its tones. It gives minds an almost heavenly joy and it lifts them powerfully to God and to higher things. (Pope Pius XII, encyclical Musicae sacrae disciplina, December 25, 1955, #58; in Hayburn, 353)

In the Latin Church, the pipe organ is to be held in high esteem, for it is the traditional musical instrument and one that adds a wonderful splendor to the Church’s ceremonies and powerfully lifts up man’s mind to God and to heavenly things. (Pope Pius XII, encyclical Musicae sacrae disciplina, December 25, 1955, #58; in Hayburn, 353)

Changing Tastes

The organ experienced its golden age during the Renaissance. By that time, its mechanism was much refined and improved, and sixteenth-century writings attest to the high proficiency level attained in organ performance. Most of the art from this period is unfortunately lost to us since it was largely improvised—the extant compositions represent only a minute fraction of its glory. There was enormous activity in organ building at this time; ordinary parish churches, as well as prominent ones, acquired organs. By the time of the Reformation, the organ’s place in worship was so well established that its use continued undisturbed among Lutherans and Anglicans, even though Luther and others were in fact less than enthusiastic about it.

Luther rarely mentioned organ playing, but occasionally he did express an opinion against it, reckoning it among the externals of the Roman service; on the other hand, he was also musician enough in this area to appreciate and praise the art of a Protestant organist like Wolff Heintz.… Most Lutheran church regulations, at least in the Reformation period, paid no attention to the organ, a few left it as “adiaphorous” (neither forbidden nor approved) as long as “psalms and sacred songs” rather than “love songs” were played upon it, and as long as the organ playing did not, through its length or autocracy, encroach upon the principal parts of the service. (Friedrich Blume, Protestant Church Music [New York: W. W. Norton, 1974], 107)

The growth of alternatim praxis (chants divided into versets for choir and organ in alternation; the term is also applied to the Lutheran chorale) continued to insure an important role for the organ in worship. By this means the organ was raised to a prominence equal to the pastor or priest, congregation, and choir, since it could “sing” an entire segment of chant or stanza of a chorale, leaving the people to meditate on the text (which they usually knew by heart).

The baroque era witnessed a decline in enthusiasm for the organ in southern Europe. Its mechanical development was arrested, less and less music was written for it (and what was written was of lesser quality), and there were fewer well-known organists. Calvinism stifled organ music in Switzerland, and Puritanism inflicted mortal wounds on it in Great Britain. The Ordinance of 1644 mandated the speedy demolishing of all organs, images, and all matters of superstitious monuments in all Cathedrals, and Collegiate or Parish-churches and Chapels, throughout the Kingdom of England and the Dominion of Wales, the better to accomplish the blessed reformation so happily begun and to remove offenses and things illegal in the worship of God. (1644 Ordinance of Lords and Commons; quoted in William Leslie Sumner, The Organ, Its Evolution, Principles of Construction and Use [London: Macdonald, 1962], 135)

The use of organs in the public worship of God is contrary to the law of the land and to the law and constitution of our Established church [of Scotland]. (Presbytery of Glasgow, Proceedings [1807]; see Ian Crofton and Donald Fraser, A Dictionary of Musical Quotations [New York: Schirmer, 1985], 107:15)

In the early seventeenth century, however, Protestant north Germany found a new purpose for the organ: to accompany congregational singing. Thus the organ continued to be assured a secure place in the church, not only for philosophical or theological reasons but also for practical ones. The instrument reached another mechanical and artistic high point in middle and northern Germany during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, as Michael Praetorius’s enthusiastic affirmation quoted above indicates. More than coincidence explains the fact that the authors who furthered ideas about world harmony during this period are the same ones who showed the greatest interest in the organ: Praetorius, Kircher, Werkmeister. Indeed the organ has flourished wherever the Neoplatonic worldview has been cultivated. The seventeenth-century English poets who eulogize the Neoplatonic concept of world harmony praise the instrument:

Ring out, ye crystal spheres,
Once bless our human ears,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so)
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the Bass of Heav’ns deep Organ blow,
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to th’ Angelick symphony.
(John Milton, “Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” [1645])

But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ’s praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heav’nly ways
To mend the choirs above.
(John Dryden, “A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day” [1687])

When the full organ joins the tuneful choir, Th’immortal Pow’rs incline their ear. (Alexander Pope, “Ode for Musick on St. Cecilia’s Day” [c. 1708])

J. S. Bach’s music represents the final glorious flourish, both for the concept of cosmic harmony in music (see Timothy Smith, “J. S. Bach the Symbolist,” Journal of Church Music 27:7 [September 1985]: 8-13, 46) and for the organ as a vitally important factor in the music world; even during Bach’s lifetime, the organ was being relegated to the fringe, where it has remained. Yet by that composer’s time, the interplay of sacred and secular ideas made paradox the order of the day: it is a measure of Bach’s profound synthesizing genius that he made the organ “dance”; a less likely instrument for dancing can hardly be imagined!

The pressure of the radically new Enlightenment ideas about music, such as the idea that its primary function consisted of expressing human emotion or providing entertainment and relaxation, had an enormous impact on the status of the organ and its music. The latter half of the eighteenth century witnessed a rapid decline and trivialization of the organ and its music, a trend that prevailed through the first half of the nineteenth century. The instrument could not compete with the new intimate, affective gestures, the rapid shifts of mood and emotional range of preclassical and classical symphonies and secular keyboard music (e.g., the works of the Mannheim School, or of C. P. E. Bach and Haydn). Compared with them, “the organ quite naturally was thought of as a clumsy, screeching, dynamically monotonous instrumental monster” (Arnfried Edler, “The Organist in Lutheran Germany,” in Walter Salmen, ed., The Social Status of the Professional Musician from the Middle Ages to the 19th Century [New York: Pendragon, 1983], 89).

If it were to be asked what instrument is capable of affording the greatest effects? I should answer, the Organ.… It is, however, very remote from perfection, as it wants expression, and a more perfect intonation. (Charles Burney, A General History of Music [London, 1776-89], quoted in Dictionary of Musical Quotations, 107–113)

[Organ playing] in France was generally irreverent, although once in a while a significant talent came to my attention within this irreverence. Not rarely is a gay pastorale heard during a church service which turns into a thunderstorm before closing with a sort of operatic grand finale in freestyle. Given that this is untenable from the German religious point of view, it must be admitted that such things are often done quite talentedly. A requiem mass for Lafitte in the church of Saint Roch gave me the opportunity to hear one M. Lefébure-Wély play in a solemn, appropriate manner, whereas he worked up a tremendous gay mood during the mass on Sunday. In response to my astonishment over this, I was told that the clergy, as well as the congregation, expect light-hearted music. (Adolph Hesse, “On organs, their appointment and treatment in Austria, Italy, France and England” [observations on a trip made in 1844], Neue Zeitschrift fr Musik [1853]: 53; trans. in Rollin Smith, “Saint-Saëns and the Organ,” The American Organist 20:4 [April 1986]: 190-191)

In spite of this decline, however, the organ continued to solidify its position as the musical instrument of the church. By the nineteenth century its sound had come to be regarded as the epitome of churchliness; even those church bodies whose Puritan heritage had hitherto rejected the organ now began to embrace it. Yet significant composers of the period between 1750 and 1850 wrote little or nothing of note for the organ, and no organist of this period was accorded the degree of international recognition granted to the premier violinists, pianists, and singers of the time. This held true even until the present day.

The Modern Revival

The mid-nineteenth century marked the beginning of attempts to rescue the organ from neglect and trivialization; for example, the outstanding work of Mendelssohn in Germany; S. S. Wesley in England; Cavaillé Coll, Hesse, and Franck in France. These attempts were essentially within the framework of the church; the corresponding groundswell to restore the organ to a position of prominence in the world of secular music never attained the same degree of intensity. The revival of the organ within the church was bound up almost entirely with efforts toward church renewal after its first disastrous encounter with Enlightenment ideas. Revival was largely fueled by Romantic sentiments, especially those of historicism (e.g., the revival of gothic architecture and the music of Palestrina and Bach) and aestheticism (the devotion to and cultivation of beauty). As neither of these movements had a firm theological basis, the organ’s continued existence in the church came to rest on its practical usefulness as a means of supporting large-group singing and on the increasingly unshakable conviction among the majority of Christian worshipers that the organ is the church’s instrument. (The latter notion has at times created problems for the organ, as well as discomfort for organists, especially those who do not wish to be associated with the church.)

Nineteenth-century attempts to make the organ conform to the new taste and the new “enlightened” worldview included enclosed divisions with swell shades and devices for rapid change of registration. These were quite clumsy, especially when compared with the flexible expressivity of the orchestra or piano, and they were only partially successful. Thus there arose in the early twentieth century a countermovement (the Orgelbewegung or Organ Reform Movement) that did away with the questionable “improvements” and once again built organs that were in greater conformity with older musical ideals—and inevitably with the old worldview. The revival of older organ-building techniques and concepts has only exacerbated the antipathy of those increasingly prevalent forces in the twentieth-century church that promote the ideal of a popular, intimate, and human-scaled church and worship.

The demise of the antique and medieval worldviews has relegated the organ to the fringe of the post-Enlightenment musical scene: to the degree that the modern instrument participates in the characteristics of the medieval organ, it evokes and espouses by the very character of its sound the medieval worldview. The notion that the organ is the church’s proper instrument is still strong in many quarters, but the idea has powerful detractors. The rise of styles of worship that deemphasize or exclude the organ while featuring the use of other instruments underlines the gradual dethronement of the organ as the special instrument of the church.

The Music of the Taizé Community

Taizé is a worship renewal community in France that has developed a style of music and Scripture song for all parts of worship. The article below introduces the community, its worship, and song.

In a tiny village in the south of France lies a religious community that has become a focus of spiritual renewal of the young and a center of reconciliation among Christians. A young Protestant layperson had the vision of a community where one’s denominational identity would not matter. What would matter would be one’s ability to welcome the stranger and pilgrim, no matter who they were, in the name of Christ. Initially, a refuge, sanctuary, and shelter for those burdened with the horrors of World War II, the community under the leadership of Brother Roger nearly half a century ago began welcoming others who would help establish communion amidst division.

Today people come from every corner of the world to irenic Taizé. Three times a day the pilgrims join the brothers in common prayer in order to deepen their inner lives so as to live in solidarity with the whole of humanity. Simple accommodation and food is the venue, with Bible study and questions and answers completing the day’s activities.

A week at Taizé reflects the themes one finds in the celebration of Holy Week—the suffering, passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus. At the foot of the cross, prayers and chants flow for the wounded people and places of the world. The sheer numbers of worshipers and their youthful vitality create a spirit of prayer that brings one in touch with the heart of God.

In such a diverse group—usually in the thousands—it was thought necessary to bring a unity to the worship. Jacques Berthier, a trained musician, and member of the ecumenical order, developed a style of ostinato chant (repetition of a persistent phrase of music and text) that was simple, short, and direct. Various languages are used because the worship is always international. Most often Latin is used as a “common expression and liturgical language.”

The result is a style of sung prayer that can transform and inspire worship. Translated to the local church situation, it is particularly suited for the Communion service. The actual distribution of Holy Communion, whether formally at an altar rail or served in the pew, can be a time of awkward silence or scattered wanderings of mind and eyes. Looking at people coming to the rail or watching deacons collect empty cups hardly makes for a worshipful experience. Rather than dealing with a complete hymn text, choir anthem, or solo, the use of these chants can capture the solemnity and intimacy of meeting the Lord in Holy Communion through their haunting repetition. The use of these Scripture phrases and liturgical prose forms the chants that are sung repeatedly. Using a simple music line (though often four-part harmony), the worshiper can fix his or her heart and mind on such phrases as

Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom
OR
Bless the Lord my soul, and bless his holy name
Bless the Lord my soul, he rescues me from death
OR
O Lord Jesus Christ (O Christe Domine Jesu)
OR
We adore you Lord (Adoremus te Domine)

At Taizé, with its hillside scenery, all join in such sung prayer; it is simple, easy to remember, and lends itself to a focus that is shaped in prayer and meditation rather than complication. It is an acquired taste that can become a powerful expression of prayer in any gathering large or small.

The music is substantive; for most chants there are cantor parts using psalms and canticles for the text set to easy-flowing melodies with parts provided for a host of instruments including oboe, guitar, piano, organ, strings, flute, and brass. Because many classify Taizé music as “modern,” they, in turn, forsake the use of the organ. This is most unfortunate. A well-registered organ can be a perfect way to keep the ostinato going. The initial chant can be sung by a cantor, repeated by the choir, and then joined by all in singing (praying). After the ostinato is firmly established by the assembly, a cantor and/or instruments can augment the prayer with an obligato text, litany, descant, or instrumental embellishments.

There are also chants for the ordinary (unchanging parts) parts of the Eucharist rite, Kyrie (“Lord, have mercy”), Gloria (“Glory to God”), Sanctus (“Holy, Holy, Holy”), and Agnus Dei (“Lamb of God”).

Monks at Taizé come from Anglican, Lutheran, Reformed, and Roman Catholic backgrounds representing twenty nations of the world. Since its founding in the 1940s, popes and archbishops of Canterbury have been among the visitors. The ministries of prayer and reconciliation override the need for strict denominational labels. Brothers also live in North and South America, Africa, and Asia. They live on the income from their work alone; they do not accept donations. Pilgrims from Western countries, by the fees asked for accommodation and board, help pay for visitors from poorer parts of the world. The common prayer of Taizé is one of the gifts the young take home with them wherever they happen to live. Prayer cells and groups are often established at home to maintain a connection with the order.

Each Christmastide an international Taizé gathering is held in a major city, with usually over 50,000 attending. No one Christian tradition can claim this unique musical offering as their own; it belongs to the worshipful Christian willing to use it.