liturgy

Integrating Dance in the Liturgy

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This article offers a rationale for incorporating dance in worship as well as guidance for understanding the purpose of various types of movement.

If dance is to become an acceptable feature within a church service, then it must be integrated with and not just added to the celebration of the liturgy. If it is a mere decoration that neither deepens nor focuses devotion at the point where it takes place, then it should be excluded, since the accusation of gimmickry would be justified. In other words, liturgical dance must be protected from becoming the intruder that ballet once was in opera—when the pace seemed to be dropping and interest possibly flagging, a dancer or a troupe was introduced to enliven the proceedings; this added nothing to the opera and was a prostitution of ballet itself. This is certainly not what is needed in the church. Dancing will be integrated with the Eucharist only when and if it corresponds with the nature of worship itself.

When dance is an act of praise or witness, then it is not a filler that brings the course of the liturgy to a halt. An inadequate relationship between dance and worship has been fostered if members of a congregation are prompted to think: Now the service proper has to be stopped for a few minutes in order to experience this particular art form. No doubt it will proceed shortly (Environment and Art in Catholic Worship; G. Huck, ed., The Liturgy Documents. A Parish Resource, Liturgy Training Program, Archdiocese of Chicago, Chicago, 1980). To avoid this, dance has to serve the ritual action; it has to be an enrichment of the whole cultic act. It has indeed to manifest grace, using that term in the sense defined by Martha Graham: “Grace in dancers is not just a decorative thing. Grace is your relationship to the world, your attitude to the people with whom and for whom you are dancing.”

She, of course, was speaking as an individual dancer, but she was perfectly well aware that a solo in the course of a service when legitimate is or should not be a performance. In this respect Judith Rock’s view is very opposite: “An effective religious dance is an effective dance which springs from someone else’s relationship with God and the world, to illumine my own relationship with God and the world” (J. Rock, Theology in the Shape of Dance [Austin, Tex.: Sharing Co., 1978]).

This means that when dancing in a church, he or she must be aware that they are being invited to contribute to an event in which God is encountered, not to execute a program seeking applause. Here is hallowed ground—not in the sense that some ecclesiastical formula has been uttered over it, but of a place where God can be met; if the dancing aids that meeting, its integration with worship has been achieved. The reference here is of course to dance which in itself is an act of devotion, but this statement has to be freed from ambiguity by defining precisely what kind of dance is in mind since there are many varieties, not all of which could be identified in this way with worship.

The old distinction within dance, which has previously been given some attention when seeking to outline modern developments, is that between storytelling and movement. The liturgical viability of the former is not difficult to discern.

1. Narrative dance can accompany biblical readings, both illustrating and supplementing them. When a scriptural passage recounts an event, such as the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday, this can be represented in dance. In this way, one of dance’s major uses by the world religions will be recovered for Christianity, namely, the function of reenacting the sacred history that is the foundation of the faith. When the lection itself consists of a story, e.g., the parable of the Pharisee and the publican, this story can obviously be mimed. Teaching, e.g., some verses from a prophetic book, frequently cast in concrete images, can be supplemented by dance.

2. Narrative dance can replace a sermon, not simply of the didactic but also of the kerygmatic type, i.e., through a dance, the proclamation of the gospel may take place. One should not only preach one’s religion but dance it; one should not just pay verbal testimony to one’s faith but incarnate it. Athenaeus, writing c. a.d. 200, could refer to a particular person as “a philosopher-dancer” on the grounds that “he explains the nature of the Pythagorean system, expounding in silent mimicry all its doctrines to us more clearly than they who profess to teach eloquence” (Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae). If philosophy can be danced, so can theology.

3. Narrative dance in a dramatic form can be used to accompany and be a commentary upon spoken prayers, as well as hymns and carols, and also psalms. Psalm 68, to give an illustration, is a reenactment of God’s conquest of chaos and it included, and can still include today, dancing and singing (J. Eaton, “Dancing in the Old Testament,” in Davies [II. G. 9], 4-15).

4. In narrative dance the meaning of the stories can be explored physically. We are apt to think that understanding is something we achieve through mental processes alone; in fact, a group that has danced, say, the parable of the Talents may come to a deeper perception of responsibility than that which a verbal analysis alone can achieve. Or to dance the tension between Mary Magdalen and Jesus, the former attracted to and yet inadequate before the figure of Christ is to become more sensitive to personal interaction. This exploration may also be related to the prophetic character of dance. Prophecy, to use a familiar cliché, is not so much foretelling as forth-telling. It calls things into question—actions, policies, behavior, preconceived ideas. It has an iconoclastic aspect, breaking down barriers to new understanding. It witnesses to reality deep down in things, brings awareness, witnesses to the possibility of the new. Prophecy summons us beyond the now and encourages hope in the future, i.e., it deals with the present in the light of what is to come. Dance too can assist us to find the ultimate in the immediate by transcending the present and opening it up to eschatological possibilities. Prophetic dance does not simply mirror the present nor depict solely the historical context of an original story; it points beyond that which is to what may be. It can awaken responsibility and lead to an appreciation of values rooted in actual living.

5. Narrative dance fosters identification. To identify through dance with the Samaritan woman in John 5 is to share her initial doubts about Jesus and so discern and feel some of the problems that his challenge presents—problems such as we ourselves have in the shape of our own individual doubts. Indeed we cannot appreciate our own faith without being conscious of and living with the questions that continually rise against it—faith and doubt are the sides of a single coin. To identify with Christ himself through dance is to take a step towards greater Christlikeness. Mimesis arouses the sentiments imitated (see Aristotle’s Politics), and here may be found some of the ethical and educative value of liturgical dance of the narrative kind. The dancer has to use imagination and make an image of that which may be more beautiful and more sublime than he or she really is: this promotes identification with the image—in Christian terms—with the image of God.

We turn next to the other main category of dance—movement. This may be understood as that which either expresses something or is simply a kinetic flow that does not “mean” anything; the former is the general understanding of modern dance and the latter of what may be called post-modern dance. In either case, movement can have a liturgical relationship. As an expression, dance, e.g., after the act of Communion, would give bodily shape to gratitude—we respond in dance and dance our thanks in celebration of the goodness and bounty of God, experienced through partaking of the bread and wine. As a movement, it may consist of the creation of abstract patterns: this too can be at home in the liturgy if the dancers are intending to weave patterns to the glory of God, i.e., offering in his honor the best of which they are capable. The dances of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers could have belonged to this category; they did not mean anything; they did not express anything, but they can be liturgically related in terms of the exercise of their creative gifts before him who bestowed them. However, these particular dances may be included in another variety, namely, the spectacular: this introduces a different typology, not simply one of narrative and movement, but one which embraces, in addition to the spectacular, the recreational, with the expressive coming in again as a third variety.

The spectacular itself can also be subdivided into the mimetic and the abstract—and no more need be said about these two. The recreational on the other hand comprises dances from the minuet to rock and roll, from ballrooms to discotheques. On the face of it, it might appear that there is little to be learned from this category that might be applicable to liturgical dance since its very title suggests a mere pastime, a relaxation of not very profound significance. However, the origins of folk dance are often to be found in rituals, e.g., in marriage ceremonies or in the celebration of the seasons. It is essentially communal and its purpose is not to entertain an audience, but to involve the participants in a group activity. In this sense, it can be very suitable for corporate worship, and especially for the Eucharist, one of whose essential thrusts is towards unity so that the members of the community may become progressively one in Christ—a round dance, for example, is an effective symbol of such togetherness. This is to affirm that this kind of dance can have practical results, which is how many religious dances in the past have been understood—a hunting dance was believed to lead to success in running down a quarry, and so on. Of course, when dance is regarded as an art, there is a tendency, under the lingering influence of the slogan “art for art’s sake,” to deny that it can have any effect. Yet this primitive way of interpreting it cannot be ruled out; liturgical dance may be properly understood in terms of cause and effect, in this instance the circular dance is the cause and a greater sense of fellowship is the effect.

Of the expressive or expressional dance something has already been said, but it does demand further brief consideration. Expressive dance, as it has been understood by Balanchine, is nonmimetic and nonrepresentational. The movement itself is held to be self-explanatory so that the expressiveness is perceived to be intrinsic to it (J. Highwater, Dance, Ritual of Experience [New York: A & W Publishers, 1978]). Without repeating previous statements, it should perhaps be emphasized here how the expression of, for example, sorrow in a penitential dance is inseparable from the dance itself, which in its turn is indistinguishable from the dancer who is the instrument of his or her own art. The dance is the penance.

If this is difficult for those unfamiliar with dance to grasp, some help may be forthcoming from Barbara Mettler. She describes what it is to dance fire. It does not mean pretending to be fire; what is necessary is to sense in the muscles the quality of fire movement and then to move as fire itself moves (B. Mettler, Materials of Dance as a Creative Art Activity [Tucson, Ariz.: Mettler Studios, 1979]). Let us apply this to the expression of sorrow in a penitential dance. This does not mean pretending to be sad or mimicking how we think a mourning person may behave. On the contrary, it is to experience sorrow bodily and then to move accordingly. The dance then is the penitence. Similarly, in a dance of praise to express gratitude, the dance is the praise.

William of Malmesbury, the twelfth-century historian, showed his appreciation of this in his life of Aldhelm, when he described the saint’s return from Rome c. 701. He was welcomed by monks with songs and incense, while “a part of the laity danced, stamping with the feet (pedibus plaudunt choreas); and a part expressed their inner joy with diverse bodily gestures” (William of Malmesbury, de Gestis Pontificum Anglorum [Rolls Series, ed. N.E.S.A. Hamilton, Longman; Trubner; Parker, Oxford; Macmillan, Cambridge, 1870], 373f.). The Latin verb plaudere in its intransitive form means to applaud, to give signs of approval, to praise, so the burden of the report is that Aldhelm was praised in the dance with the feet—this is a practical application of the psalmist’s “Praise him with dance” (Ps. 150.4).

When dance is integrated with worship, then there is a gain in three respects. Diversity is increased, creativity is encouraged, and participation is intensified. A glance at Paul’s account of worship at Corinth reveals a great variety within every service. A Shaker recipe for the liturgy provides a charming comment on this.

Sing a little, dance a little, exhort a little, preach a little, pray a little and a good many littles will make a great deal. (D. W. Patterson, The Shaker Spirituals [Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1979])

Paul was also concerned that every member of a congregation should play a part: “When you come together, each one has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation” (1 Cor. 14.26). The parts played were determined by the Holy Spirit who revealed his presence through his gifts: teaching, prophecy, and so on. When and if these gifts are suppressed or not given expression, inevitably there is a quenching of the Spirit (1 Thess. 5.19), leading to a decay of the charismata. What then of those whose gift it is to dance? Are they to be ruled out of a liturgical celebration? Is the divine source of their unique gift to be denied by neglect? Are talents to be unused and their exercise inhibited, thus incurring condemnation? (Matt. 25:14–30). If music and singing and sculpture and painting—all the arts—have a place in the Christian cultus or its setting, why not dance? “All words and art forms,” say the North American Roman Catholic bishops, “can be used to praise God in the liturgical assembly” (Environment and Art in Catholic Worship, 215–243]). This is applicable to those individual artists who can and wish to worship God by dancing. To deny them the opportunity is to subject them to an almost intolerable restraint that those responsible for leading worship need to understand sympathetically. Ruth St. Denis tells of an occasion in a St. Louis restaurant when the orchestra began to play.

The music went through me like a shock. I did not have the audacity to spring up then and begin to dance … I sat still and suffered, every fiber of me responding to the rhythm, every nerve stiffening in my effort to stay in my chair. (Ruth St. Denis, An Unfinished Life [New York: AMS Press, 1991; reprint of 1939 ed.)

This reaction could be identified at a church service where there is no freedom to exercise one’s gift. Indeed this applies to all gifts and not only to that of dance. In the early days of Miss St. Denis’s career, such liberty was little known.

Intuitively I tried to restate man’s primitive use of the dance as an instrument of worship, and the result was a profound evolution in myself but no answer to the question, What temples will receive these dances? (Ruth St. Denis, An Unfinished Life)

At the level of individual devotion, as distinct from that of a body of corporate worshipers, there is also a problem. When visiting a famous cathedral, such as that at Canterbury, we are usually exhorted to kneel and pray. Suppose, however, we have the gift of dance: why should we not dance before the altar, quietly so that our form of devotion does not interfere with others of the more cerebral kind?

In stressing the importance of removing barriers to liturgical dance, it is necessary to recognize that there is a risk involved. Religious dance can be like saccharine, sweet but lacking any real substance. It can neglect, to its detriment, the dark side of human existence. It can become sentimental, superficial, and anything but a fitting rendering of glory to God. But once the expert, who does not readily give way to these temptations, is allowed into the church, the result is likely to be disturbing. Creativity does not fashion a safe haven: it challenges. This can upset members of a congregation, many of whom will be conservative and, even if prepared to tolerate dance, will want it to be inoffensive. This could be to impose shackles on creativity and it has called forth this heartfelt complaint from another dancer, Judy Bennett.

Everything is peaches and cream kind of dance.… Only trouble is, life’s not always pretty, and I want to dance about life and offer that dance to God, but it’s hard to do that in the church: there’s no market there for dances with guts.… I won’t, as a dancer, compromise what I know to be worthy and true just to pacify church ladies with “body-hangups.” (Carlynn Reed, And We Have Danced. A History of the Sacred Dance Guild, 1968–1978 [Austin, Tex.: The Sharing Company, 1978])

Of course, not every Christian has a gift to enable him or her to be a solo dancer of distinction and originality or a choreographer of stature. Nevertheless, some worshipers may have powers unknown to themselves which can come into play if there is the possibility of bodying forth their aspirations (M. N. H’Doubler, The Dance and Its Place in Education [New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1925]). Moreover it was a Shaker conviction, and one that all Christians can share, that “dance is the greatest gift of God that ever was made for the purification of the soul” (Patterson, The Shaker Spirituals)—something then for all, even if most will fall short of perfection.

Because it is for all, dance can be integrated with worship to increase participation. It may further this in several ways. First, it reduces the threshold of shyness and so promotes corporateness. Second, it draws people out of isolation since the movements are visible, the emotions and rhythm are common and the enjoyment of God becomes the shared activity of a fellowship. Third, dance enables each one to become part of a totality that is greater than him- or herself. Fourth, through dance each person can have an active role in the service—such was the case with the mystery religions contemporary with the birth of Christianity and in part accounted for their popularity since the adherents were able to feel involved (G.-P. Wetter, ‘La danse rituelle dans l’eglise ancienne’ Rev. d’hist.et de lit. relig. 8 [1928]: 254-75). Fifth, the Eucharist is a celebration of love; this relatedness (for that is what love is) is possible because of our common bodiliness which itself may come into play through dance. Finally, the Eucharist concerns not only bread and wine but people, and what they do should be a sign of that unity which it is one of the purposes of Communion to advance: an effective symbol of this is the dance, especially in its ring form. Such dancing corresponds to a change in the art that has accompanied the development of democratic ideals. In the past, prima ballerinas and subservient corps de ballet corresponded to kings and queens and their courtiers. Today it is the group, where there is a relationship of equals, that is to the fore. In a congregation where a hierarchic concept predominates, the dancing group will be less welcome than in one where fellowship is the ideal (Doris Humphrey, The Art of Making Dances [New York: Rinehart, 1959]). But the Eucharist is not only about oneness, it is about liberation, and with this the question of the interpretation of dance, which has already emerged at several points, must become the prime object of attention.

The Significance of Icons in Orthodox Worship

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The Eastern church has long valued the significance of icons as sources of revelation in worship. With insights from the Eastern Orthodox churches, the theological rationale and traditional practice of iconography are described here in terms of its role in worship.

Windows on the Holy

There is an old story about a child in a Sunday School class who is asked by her teacher, “And who are the saints?” Thinking of the elaborate stained-glass windows lining the nave of the church, the child responds, “They’re the people that the light shines through.”

In a certain sense, that is the task of the liturgy: to be, like the saints (or the stained-glass windows), a means through which God’s light might shine, might reach us. And that has always been the primary role of iconography as well: to be a window, a doorway, a glimpse of the light of God’s kingdom.

Yet to Western eyes, icons can often seem dark, sad, primitive. Icons without interpretation are meaningless: flat paintings, mysterious, and filled with the unknown. They can touch us only when we learn to use their language; for while Western Christianity tends to be rational, icons speak directly to one’s intuition, to one’s heart.

Icons are not only illustrations of biblical stories but also are the embodiment of an ancient practice of meditation on these stories. The Western Christian’s experience of icons is similar to entering into a church where an unfamiliar liturgy is being celebrated: until the language has been learned until the meaning behind the words and the gestures has been absorbed, then indeed the observer is in foreign territory. One has to be educated, through usage and experience and love, until finally, the intrinsic values become meaningful; then one can fully participate.

But for both liturgy and iconography, once their meanings have been assimilated and internalized, they are transformed into gateways, new ways of expression, new ways of reaching out to God—and, for many, new ways in which God might touch us.

The Encounter

The icon is an encounter, a moment in time and space where everyday life connects with the holy. Entering an Orthodox church gives one, immediately, the impression of having entered into a different world. Strange and intricate metal lamps hang from the ceiling. The nave of the church is separated from the altar area by a high screen, called the iconostasis, covered with icons. Incense drifts about on the air. The dome overhead is painted with yet another icon, an image of Christ looking down from on high, raising a hand in blessing. Pillars that support the church are painted with images of the apostles, pillars of the church in a less literal sense. Nothing is gratuitous; nothing is superficial. The sense of being in a different world is intentional, for an Orthodox church is decorated to represent the kingdom of heaven. There is no disorder, but instead a sense of heavenly peace, order, and grace.

The Orthodox church is an important environment for the icons, for they too are meant to emphasize something much more profound than that which immediately meets the eyes. There is no sense of “looking at” icons in the same way that one might normally approach art. If anything, we do not look at the icons, but they instead look out at us. Icons are considered to be as much a medium of revelation as the spoken or printed Word. The grace and truth of God is not limited to the intellect; it can enter the soul through the eyes and the heart as well.

The liturgy, too, is a medium of revelation, a moment of encounter between the soul and God. There is a sense, almost, of being involved in a dance with the holy, a movement, a meeting, an experience.

The iconostasis separating the nave from the altar existed in Christian churches from very early times, as can be seen from some of the writings of St. Gregory the Theologian and St. John Chrysostom; it is thought by many that they were originally an adaptation of the curtain covering the ark of the covenant in Jewish temples. Although it is easy to construe the separation as representing elitism on the part of the clergy, who alone may be on the altar side of the screen, it is more in keeping with the Orthodox mind to see the screen as emphasizing the mystery of God. It divides the human world from the divine but also unites those worlds into one image in which all separation is overcome and reconciliation is found.

In the center of the iconostasis is a door, called the holy door, with a figured top; this is the entrance into the altar area. Only the clergy may enter, but, significantly, they may go through only at specific moments, as required by the liturgy. So we see the clergy not as a privileged class, but as the servants of the liturgy, the servants of God, the servants of mystery.

Immediately above the door is an icon of the Last Supper (often called the mystical supper), separating out the sacerdotal office of Christ expressed in his action as a priest. It brings the faithful into the mystery of the Eucharist, the primordial liturgical action, by providing an image for the action and a space in which that action takes place.

It is also significant that the screen can be seen as being punctured by the door: the smooth progression of icons is interrupted by this entrance into the altar area. It is not an incidental feature of the iconostasis, for it is important to see the many ways in which our lives and our world are punctured by the presence of God reaching through and getting involved with us. That too is the role of the liturgy: a particular, sanctified space in our lives where God can reach through and touch us.

An Expression of the Faith Community

The liturgy is composed of people playing different roles. The assembly, including the celebrant or officiant, the choir, the deacon, the director of music, the lectors, the preacher, the chalicists, all have specific, assigned roles within the liturgy which make it a complete, whole act. Each role is different, yet each role is vital to the whole. Without any single one, it becomes unbalanced, askew, diffused.

In the same way, many people take part in the creation and use of an icon. The icon begins with the idea, the need, the commission; centered and grounded in prayer, the concept for an icon is given birth. The parish priest, a parishioner, or the community of faith may decide that the need for an icon is present. The icon-painter, or iconographer (for icons are said to be written, not painted), is then engaged to take on a work of spiritual expression. This is a strictly liturgical art, combining all parts of the liturgy into a theology at a different level than that which is written and appeals primarily to the mind of the worshiper.

Just as the icon is seen as a means to an end, so too is the iconographer, fulfilling the work of externalizing a spiritual reality. The iconographer is the servant of God, the Orthodox liturgical tradition, and the sacred legacy of prayer that lies at the heart of the Orthodox church. Therefore the iconographer enters into a period of prayer and fasting, a time of preparation, before beginning work on an icon; for divine inspiration is necessary in order to produce something that will be inspirational.

The iconographer is not free to express his or her own thoughts or ideas; icons are part of a given tradition and must follow the rhythms of that tradition. The methods for painting the icons have been elaborated over centuries of practice; the gestures, the symbols, the faces themselves follow a prescribed pattern that does not allow for deviation. What is being depicted is not the power and mastery of the artist, but the traditional teachings of the church.

Similarly, the liturgy contains certain moments that allow for individual expression, but the liturgist, in general, is held to prescribed patterns, rhythms, cadences. The liturgy expresses the teachings of the church, not the dynamism of the celebrant. Christians are formed by the ways in which they pray: if prayer (and the liturgies and icons that flow from prayer) is sloppy, haphazard, or capricious, then so too will be people’s lives and their theology. Just as the community of faith has a right to know what to expect when entering into the worship of God in the church, so too does the community have a right to know what to expect when using icons in prayer and worship.

These patterns are a clue to the icons’ meaning and give us the key to touching and entering into their mystery. Holiness is depicted as it cannot be in earthly life, where saints pass by us daily without our knowing—by halos and bright colors. There is no source of light in an icon, for there are no shadows in the kingdom of God. Icons have no reflections, no point of view, no dramatic shafts of illumination. Iconographers call “light” the background of the icon and make it gold. Eyes are large and luminous, for they have seen God’s glory. The nose is narrow, the mouth small because there is less need for physical satisfactions. Figures are elongated, purposely, to prevent idolatry; they are clearly representations and not graven images. The Christ child is always shown as being larger than life, for he is not a helpless baby, but a crowned king.

The teachings of the church occur, again and again, in simple additions to the icons. After the Council of Nicaea, the Greek letters alpha and omega were added to icons of Christ in order to stress the teachings on his divinity. In the same way, Athanasius is always portrayed as holding the Scriptures which he fought so long and hard to preserve.

The liturgy, rhythmically and in simplicity, also upholds these teachings. The Nicene Creed is part of many liturgies. Versicles and responses contain Scripture passages, repeated week after week until they become intrinsic to the life of the worshiper. The Eucharist celebrates a belief held in common by the community of faith, and burial rites reflect the church’s teachings concerning eternal life.

So it is that liturgy and iconography weave together the story of the church, the story of the community of faith, held in common and repeated over the centuries in time-honored rituals. And all people—iconographers, liturgists, worshipers—have equal and important parts in them.

Glimpses of Truth

Icon comes from a Greek word that means “image.” This is the same word used in Genesis to describe God’s creation of humankind in God’s own image. It is the same word used by the Pauline author of the letter to the Colossians when speaking of Christ: “He is the image of the invisible God” (Col. 1:15). An image is an imprint, a shadow, a reflection of something that cannot be duplicated. An icon is an image, the image of something greater than can be understood in human terms.

If the icon can be seen as liturgy, then the liturgy too can be seen as an icon. Both tell us who we are in relation to God and the community of faith; both give us a point of reference. And when they “work,” when they are beautiful, haunting, and filled with a longing for God, then there is a crowning on the whole effort, the seal of conformity of image to prototype, of symbol to what it represents: closeness with God.

Neither liturgy nor iconography pretends to be anything other than an image; neither seeks to duplicate the splendor and majesty of the kingdom of God. Both give us glimpses of it; both give a space in which to reenact it; both hold out the tantalizing promise and assurance of God’s love here and now. Neither the icon nor the liturgy promises to be perfect, but both promise to be truthful. In a sense, the liturgy itself is an icon of God’s presence in the world, reflected back through our humanity, imperfectly, but always truthfully.

The Icon in Liturgy

Just as the liturgy can be seen as an icon, so too can the icon be seen as a participant in the liturgy, drawing the faithful, through its images, into closer union with God.

The people portrayed in icons do not gesticulate; there is nothing disorderly or chaotic about their movements. Rather, they officiate; there is always a liturgical character to movement in an icon.

They can be seen, therefore, in a real sense, as officiants at a liturgy, leading the community of faith into a closer, deeper relationship with the triune God. The icons fill the ache for beauty, for holiness, for grace, that is in all of us; and they do so by imparting the grace of the Holy Spirit, the holiness of God, the beauty of Christ. The icon is the way and the means; it is the prayer itself. Not surprisingly, therefore, icons are used in conjunction with meditative or contemplative prayer, complementing the prayer of the liturgy with the prayer of the heart.

There is the key. There is no reason why God cannot touch us in many different ways: through our minds, hearts, and senses. Just as the meaning of the gospels is hidden in symbolism, so too is the meaning of the icons understood only through the heart that takes them into itself. As Westerners, we have been taught that science and logic will explain everything. It is difficult for us to conceive that the language of intuition can lead to eternal truths. Yet this is the language touched on by the icons and the liturgy: the language that speaks directly to the soul.

As the various liturgies take place in the Orthodox church, the community of faith finds its eyes drawn to the iconostasis, to the images that glow with the light of God. It is all one whole: words, incense, music, icons. It is the soul speaking to God in a language that the intellect cannot hear.

If liturgy begins in worship, then it must continue in the world. For liturgy is not only an encounter in which God is revealed to God’s people, but also a response to that encounter: the people of God carrying out God’s work in the world.

Nor do the icons stay in church. A visitor to the home of any Orthodox family is struck immediately by the role of the icons in everyday family life: they adorn the walls, they are significant people who have special meaning in this particular household. A china cupboard, its doors flung open, holds icons and candles, a point of reference for the family’s prayer life. Small children run to it and bring out their favorite icons for the visitor’s inspection: this is my name-saint, one will say, and launch into a description of that saint’s life and attributes. I like St. Nicholas because I am engaged, and he was kind to young brides, shyly adds an older sibling. They are a familiar and almost cozy part of the household, and they serve to teach the children about the church.

Indeed, no one can visit an Orthodox church and look at all of the icons without coming away with a strong sense of that church’s beliefs. Gospel scenes are depicted. Parables are portrayed. Judas and the devil alone have their faces averted; all others are shown directly, glowing with the light that they have touched. Gentleness and strength shine through. It is an educational experience, and a humbling one.

The places in which we worship are important. As Christians, we can never divorce ourselves from our setting, since our theology is essentially an incarnational theology. This concreteness—we worship a God who became human—has always been a part of established Christianity. Just as we are challenged by the Incarnation, so too should we be challenged by the spaces that we choose for our liturgies, by our surroundings.

The icons are part of those surroundings, and they are part of that incarnational theology. God’s love is shown for us in our stories, our beliefs, and the lives of people around us: icons, images of who God wants us to be. They are not always comforting or comfortable, just as liturgy is not always comforting nor comfortable.

Icons and the liturgy are all doorways into stillness, into closeness with God. If we involve ourselves with them, we too can enter into that stillness. If we participate wholly, with our hearts and intuition, we just may discern the voice of God.

Evaluating the Place of the Altar or Table

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This article argues that the altar should serve as a focal point in the worship space. It discusses both the theological rationale for this idea and how it can be achieved through spatial arrangements and seating patterns. It is presented from a Roman Catholic perspective but introduces ideas that can inform discussions in many worshiping traditions.

Liturgy documents, rituals, and commentaries published since the Second Vatican Council clearly indicate that the altar table is to be a focal point in worship spaces and that it is to be central to the gathered assembly. These sources paint a striking picture of the whole assembly gathered about the altar table. Why then is the altar table in most Catholic places of worship still located at one end of the room?

One answer has to do with how a community understands the different roles required for the eucharistic liturgy. Another answer is found in the research that deals with the psychology of space, e.g., territoriality and seating factors. Both answers affect the location of the community table. The case studies depicted in this article show that it is possible to return the Table to the community.

Assembly as Celebrant

Does the worship space say that the assembly is the celebrant of the eucharistic liturgy? Or does it say that the priest presents the liturgy to the assembly? In a technical sense, liturgy is shaped by different roles and actions. A community that understands this principle can identify appropriate architectural settings for various liturgical ministries and movements. These spaces are then specifically designed according to the needs of each ministry.

For example, choirs and musicians are ideally arranged together in a flexible, elevated area in view of the rest of the assembly. Hard surfaces and finishes, adequate light, and acoustical equipment are essential to this ministry. The same consideration should be given to all other ministries including the assembly. (Here some readers will have different opinions regarding the ministerial nature of the assembly during the liturgical act. To be involved in a ministry requires a commitment and willingness to learn how to carry out the ministry in an exemplary fashion. One wonders if assemblies are ready for this kind of involvement.) Nevertheless, we must remember: Liturgical services are not private functions, but are celebrations of the Church, which is the “sacrament of unity,” namely, the holy people united and ordered under their bishops.

Therefore liturgical services pertain to the whole body of the Church; they manifest it and have effects upon it; but they concern the individual members of the Church in different ways, according to their differing rank, office, and actual participation. (Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, 26)

Although many communities have worked hard to improve liturgical ministries, the arrangement of the worship setting, in many cases, works against the efforts of liturgy planners to involve the assembly. Long straight rows of seats, bolted to the floor, facing the priest who presides from an elevated platform at one end of the room, creates a divided environment for worship that renders the assembly passive. This type of setting does not foster the bonding of the assembly.

The place of worship can help the assembly in its liturgical role by gathering participants around focal points (e.g., the Table) and not dispersing them. The environmental needs of the assembly include:

  • Ample, barrier-free spaces for gatherings and processions
  • Unobstructed and well-spaced seats
  • Good sightlines
  • Good acoustics
  • Comfortable temperature
  • Appropriate color schemes
  • Accessible focal points

This last factor means the assembly is arranged in such a manner that it has visual, acoustical, physical, and psychological accessibility to the major furnishings used for worship (font, ambo, Table).

If the Table is located in a space that says, “KEEP OUT!” the worshiper will sense “the Table does not belong to me” and “the Eucharist celebrated on that Table does not belong to me—it belongs to the priest who gives it to me.” This is perhaps why some people have resisted extraordinary eucharistic ministers. In their minds only the priest has the power to do the eucharistic act which traditionally took place in a special part (sanctuary) of the room where only the priest was once allowed. Here power and space are connected. Poor, powerless people do not own vast amounts of territory. People with power have lots of space.

Spatial Arrangements

In most worship places the architectural settings for the presider’s chair, the ambo, and the Table are still remote and distant from the assembly. These furnishings are usually found in the territory traditionally set aside for the ordained. Although the Roman Catholic church requires an ordained priest to preside at the eucharistic liturgy, the placement of the Table should not suggest that the Mass is an action delivered by the priest to the assembly.

However, the usually remote location of the Table should not surprise us. Robert Sommer, who has researched the behavioral basis of design, wrote, “Because social and spatial orders serve similar functions, it is not surprising to find spatial correlates of status levels and, conversely, social correlates of spatial positions.” (Personal Space [Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1969]). In this sense, one can see how certain Catholic ritual conventions have created spatial hierarchies that are difficult to change. Furthermore, Sommer says “the ancients placed great value on chairs and thrones in which their political and religious leaders sat.… The seating position is an important part of diplomatic protocol with people often seated according to a complicated formula of rank and status.”

The traditional hieratic arrangement of Catholic worship spaces (the sanctuary for the priests and the nave for the laity) can be analogous to the barnyard pecking order alluded to in Sommer’s work. In the barnyard, the top fowl (i.e., roosters) can roam where they please while the lower birds are restricted to small areas. Rails may have been taken down, but the distance factors in many houses of worship sustain the division and outline territories for different castes. There does not seem to be any significant or theological reason for maintaining a spatial pecking order in places of worship. In fact, the only reason for elevated platforms is to provide adequate sightlines.

Moving the Community Table, the ambo, and the presider’s chair into the midst of the assembly can help erase any semblance of division, territoriality, and ranking during the eucharistic liturgy. The centralized setting will affirm that all worshipers (priests and people) are the celebrants and that every person present has a particular role to carry out. It says that the Table belongs to all. Further, reducing the distance between the assembly and the Table (often by as much as 50 percent) will provide better sightlines, eliminating the need for very high and inaccessible platforms.

Seating Patterns

The arrangement of seats in a place of worship can affect the “performance” of the participants in the liturgy. Humphrey Osmond, in his classic 1950s study on airports, prisons, and hospitals (in C. Goshen, Psychiatric Architecture, 1959) made the distinction between sociofugal and sociopetal settings (see figure below). Quite simply, the sociofugal arrangement—straight rows of seats—discourages interaction among people and drives them to the edge of the room. We find such arrangements in airports, theaters, and churches. Ever notice how people will occupy the end of a pew while the middle of the row remains empty? These people are choosing the optimum seating location, suggesting they are probably not comfortable in that space. (The need for privacy, another important environmental factor, is not discussed in this article.)

Irwin Altman wrote that “strangers who expect to deal with one another are likely to seek an optimum interaction distance; deviations from this distance (much closer or much farther) are unsatisfactory. This is in relationships between strangers in which there is an explicit expectation of interaction” (The Environment and Social Behavior [Pacific Grove, Calif.: Brooks/Cole, 1975]). Could it be that most Catholic worshipers are not comfortable with the expectations placed on them during the eucharistic liturgy? Perhaps, over a period of time, a more inviting spatial arrangement could foster a gentle understanding of the liturgical act?

A Sociofugal Setting

A sociopetal pattern, seats arranged in circular typesetting, encourages interaction, focuses people on the center of the room, and brings them together. We find this arrangement at the dining room table where family and guests eat and drink as friends. A worshiping community striving for energetic involvement in the liturgical event will discover that a more sociopetal arrangement of seats will begin to shape the participatory behavior of the assembly. However, communities with worshipers who do not like to look at each other while praying have to solve the societal problem before addressing the liturgical problem. Such shy people will naturally move to the optimum rows.

A Sociopetal Setting

Placing the Table in the midst of the worship setting will help the assembly bond over time and focus its undivided attention on the actions taking place at the Table. Restoring the Table to the worshipers is an important part of the renewal of the liturgy and can no longer be overlooked.

An Environment of Worship that Fosters Devout Attendance and Active Participation

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This article argues for an environment of worship that encourages the full participation of the people and complements the symbolic meaning of the actions of worship, particularly the sacraments. It is written in the context of Roman Catholic worship but reflects the concerns of nearly all highly liturgical traditions. Many of these have been emphasized throughout the Christian church, given the recent phenomenon of liturgical convergence.

We are all aware that today’s liturgy requires a different kind of space than the liturgy of yesterday. But different in what ways? Just what adjustments are required? It may be helpful to reflect on some of the differences between past and present needs. Both new buildings and remodeling require attention to them.

Before Vatican II, the church building was, above all else, a place for devoutly attending Mass. Mass was celebrated as a drama in the sanctuary to be watched by those attending. The primary mode of communication was visual, signaled in architecture by the central, elevated, and normally very large high altar, and signaled in a rite by the dramatic elevations of the host and chalice at the peak moments in the Mass. Any number of secondary elements served that visual concentration: precision movement by celebrant and ministers, symmetrical side altars and candles, deep sanctuaries drawing the eye forward and upward. Virtually everything else was subordinated to that central function of the church building as a place for devoutly attending Mass. Devotional services outside Mass took place before the altar and normally culminated in benediction. Other services either took place outside of church (e.g., anointing of the sick) or were carried out in relative privacy in corners with a bare minimum of ceremony (e.g., penance, baptism).

Today’s liturgy is the result of a reform that sought to replace devout attendance with active participation. Today’s ideal worshiper is not a spectator, but one who is part of what is taking place. The people in the pew concelebrate the liturgy with the ministers in the sanctuary (see #54 of the Instruction of the Roman Missal for the strongest possible statement of this understanding of the people’s role at the liturgy). This displaces the visual as the primary mode of communication. To be sure, watching is an indispensable element of participation in any public act. But watching is not the only element in active participation. People are expected to sing, respond vocally, listen, and, above all, to feel as a real part of what is taking place.

The absolute centrality of the altar has also been displaced by the restoration of the importance of the proclamation of the Word and the communal celebration of sacraments other than the Eucharist. Respect for the presence of Christ on the altar has been balanced by respect for his presence in proclaimed word and worshiped assembly and for his action in all the sacraments.

The arrangement of the church building requires that these enrichments of the Catholic perspective be taken fully into account. Many experts now prefer to speak of the environment for worship rather than speaking of church buildings and furnishings. The term is indeed appropriate. Liturgy is an activity that communicates on many levels and in diverse ways, and it is only when all of these various modes of communication (hearing, feeling, seeing, smelling, tasting, sensing movement) are integrated and work together that the liturgy can work well. There is a genuine ecology of worship that should unite Word and sacrament, people and ministers, Christ and church.

When that ecology is neglected, we have to cope with a liturgy that is confusing and distracting, because it does not clearly signal what we are doing. For example, any number of recently built or recently remodeled churches have a large altar in the center of the sanctuary, flanked on either side by a lectern and music stand. This says, and says loudly, that the Word is only a mere appendage to the sacrament, on more or less equal par with commentary, announcements of parish schedule, and the songs of the liturgy. It is not enough to reduce the size of the music stand. The prominence of the Liturgy of the Word, not only for Mass but also for the other sacraments and for common prayer, requires that we rethink the proportion between altar and lectern. If our worship is to signal the importance of the Word, then the place of proclaiming the Word will have to look important. One of the ways to make it look important is to scale down the size of the altar. As long as the altar is located in the dead center of the sanctuary and is as large as it normally is at present, the altar will be perceived as the only important focus of attention. The conventional elongated altar is an inheritance from the medieval Mass-with-back-to-people and is totally unnecessary now that it can be seen in front of the celebrant.

In fact, our oversized altars confuse the kind of sign that the altar is supposed to be. The point of turning the altar around was not simply to make it visible, but to make it visible as the Lord’s Table around which we gather. But our very large altars inevitably mean that the gifts are swamped in a sea of linen and unnecessary decorations. The average large altar makes the Eucharist look more like starvation rations with window dressing than the banquet of the kingdom. A smaller altar, say four feet wide, would force the removal of flowers and candles to other places where they belong and allow the gifts to look more like a generous banquet.

The height of the floor on which the altar stands is an equally critical matter. The point of turning the altar around and moving it forward is to create a sense of unity with the congregation. That sense is destroyed when the altar stands in an excessively elevated sanctuary or when it stands on steps that are too high. In contemporary liturgy, dramatic elevation of the altar is a distraction. An altar is easily visible without seeming remote if the floor beneath it is elevated six inches for every thirty feet of distance between altar and people. In other words, an altar that stands a hundred feet from the back pew should stand on a floor twenty inches higher than the floor of the nave. If it stands higher, the congregation senses distance and remoteness from the altar.

Scaling down the altar and placing it lower than it once was is a real departure from the practice of the past, and some may see this as demeaning the altar. Emotions aside, it must be observed that the altar does have a different function now than it did in the past. In the old liturgy, it was the liturgical center. Now, the importance accorded to work, to the congregation, to the communal celebration of the other sacraments means that it is a liturgical center, functioning in relation to the lectern and to the people gathered around it.

Also, the primary mode of according a sense of importance to the altar in the old liturgy was its dramatic visibility. Now, the importance of the altar can be dramatized ritually with the shift of ministers from the lectern to the altar after the liturgy of the Word, with the offertory procession, with the visibility of the gifts on the altar, with speaking aloud the eucharistic prayer. We no longer need to rely so exclusively on elevation and size to make the altar appear as a thing of importance. Some new churches are being built with the altar to one side of the sanctuary.

This solves several problems at once. The lectern can come into its own, suggesting the importance of Word as well as a sacrament. The vexing problem of the celebrant’s chair is also solved. When the chair is at the side, its use makes the celebrant seem to be in temporary retirement from the celebration. When it is placed directly behind the altar, the chair either has to look like a throne or the congregation must live with looking over the top of the altar at a bodiless head. In this plan, the chair requires no pedestal or only a very low one, and the celebrant can be readily seen by most of the congregation. The greatest advantage of this plan is that chair, lectern, and altar together constitute a strong focus of visual attention. Credence tables, music stands, and devotional appointments can be readily seen as the secondary items that they are. Radical as this plan may look at first sight, it is also the one that most readily accommodates either a statue or a tabernacle at the side without distracting attention from the liturgical action itself.

Contemporary liturgy requires a larger and lower sanctuary than we normally had in the past, and not only because there are more ministers running around the sanctuary than there used to be. The ministers represent the church at the altar, and so the sanctuary should be experienced as an extension of the place where the people are. In some older churches, this is an architectural, financial, or emotional impossibility. In such cases, some kind of makeshift will be inevitable. But in other churches, the only barrier is imagination.

Another acid test of liturgical ecology is the placement of the font. There is a general awareness that baptism should be celebrated as much as possible as an action of the entire assembled church. It is often indicated by placing the font somewhere at the head of the nave or in the sanctuary. Placing the font at the front does mean that people can see more readily, and there is much to be said for this concern. But there are requirements beyond mere frontal visibility. One of the most important is room for candidates (or parents), sponsors, and ministers around the font. Not all sanctuaries readily provide this sort of room. The font should also be visible to the eye as a thing of importance and dignity. This does not necessarily require that it be of immense size. But when the font draws no more attention to itself than a music stand or credence Table or is rivaled by the tabernacle, it does not have the proper place of importance in the sanctuary.

There is still something to be said for having the font at the back of the church, near the entrance. There is nothing to be said for its being kept in the small and generally invisible baptisteries of the past. If the main aisle is wide enough, the font should stand there. Placing the font in the back suggests in a dramatic way that baptism is an entry into the church, especially if it can be used for holy water, instead of the conventional little bowl. There is an almost superstitious fear of having people touch the font or the water in it, a curious inversion of piety that makes the water more important than those who are baptized. This should be firmly resisted. The real difficulty with the font in the back is not that people cannot see, but that they generally cannot turn around comfortably during a baptism. If pews had a little more space between them, it would be possible to turn around without peril to nylons and knee bones. It should also be noticed that the word font means “fountain” or “pool,” not the sink suggested by the style of the average font. Indoor plumbing has been around for a while, and it is time that the church makes use of this convenience. Priests and catechists deplore the fact that most ordinary Catholics are so tied to the baptismal symbol of washing that everything else escapes them. A real fountain with moving water would suggest life, movement, celebration, as no font without running water can.

Active participation demands that processions play an important role in the liturgy. There is nothing like a parade to get people involved in a civic event, and the procession is the religious counterpart of a parade. A generous aisle that cuts through the midst of the assembly is a must, as is generous space between pews and sanctuary. Almost every rite of the church, to say nothing of the need for room for such necessities as wheelchairs and bassinets (this writer does not approve of the leprosarium called a “cry room”), demands that there be free room for movement.

Closely related to the processional space is the entrance and exit space. A truly appropriate entry to a church would say loudly and clearly that this is a place of significance and a place that gives welcome. Outside, even a small patio entrance would do this. Inside, there should be room for conversation, informal greetings, and real entrance rites. It is not surprising that priests are often reluctant to begin a wedding, a funeral, or a baptism at the entrance to the church. Many of them are not places where most of us would care to linger, much less pray in! Some newer or remodeled churches have the sacristy near the door. Then, not only the space, but also the ministers give welcome to the people, who have come to pray with them. Places used for genuine social occasions, like theaters and good restaurants, have just such generous entrance spaces. Places that have a more utilitarian purpose (like supermarkets and take-home eateries) allow you to move as quickly as possible from the parking lot to the counter. The question is, do we want the church to seem like a spiritual supermarket or a place that houses a serious social occasion?

Many people complain that new or remodeled churches are “cold,” and the complaint is genuine. Some are cold because of insufficient attention to lighting and color or because of poor arrangement. Some are cold because of puritan housecleaning that removes all touches of the past. With careful planning, such things as statues and vigil lights can be placed where they are still accessible for devotion, but not a distraction from communal worship. Some innovations are utterly tasteless—like tabernacles resembling microwave ovens or the refusal to use old and perfectly serviceable pieces of furniture that do not match the new decor. Any room that has all new furniture has certain sterility and flatness because it conveys no sense that this is a room whose users have a common past.

But it should also be realized that the newer church building is much more suitable for public, communal celebration than it is for private devotion. Nothing is colder than an amusement park in the winter or a good restaurant in the early morning, because those are places meant to be filled with people socializing. The more a space is functional for public gatherings and communal celebration, the less it is apt to be a pleasant place for solitude. Our newer churches probably require devotional chapels or corners that invite private prayer and reflection. This would be a far happier solution than the compromises that now afflict our churches—old high altars left in place for the reservation of the blessed sacrament, vigil lights burning before abstract Madonnas, and all the rest. Compromise is an excellent political principle, but it is liturgically disastrous. Good liturgy calls for wholehearted affirmation, and a church that is neither here nor there is anything but a strong affirmation of what we are about.

If a parish does not have a sense that certain things from the past are liturgical distractions, then perhaps its liturgical sensibilities need further education. Improvement of the celebration and understanding of the liturgy may be more necessary than remodeling the building. Better, perhaps, to make a few absolutely necessary changes and to live with a makeshift for a while, than to do a full-scale remodeling that will saddle the next four generations with the problems of their grandparents. Remodeling ought to be done with an eye to further and later improvements. If compromise is inevitable, and sometimes it is, then it should be carried out in such a way that those who are able to make further improvements will not have to undo everything that has been done in the present remodeling.

Symbols as the Language of Art and Liturgy

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Symbols are a primary means by which the truth of the gospel is communicated. They communicate to us through all our senses and on many levels, to our thinking and our feeling, our memory, and our imagination. Further, symbolic language serves to unite Christians, giving them a common reference point and experience that transcends divisions within the Christian community.

Artists Are Primary Communicators

We can’t do anything right in the work of reform and renewal of the church if we do not first realize its importance. We are not decorators to a reality that is essentially abstract and cerebral. We are, in fact, primary communicators, ministers, and evangelists, since our work is in and with and for the Sunday assembly where the faith community celebrates its identity as church and shares its nourishment—where humans are formed, not merely brains informed. We are communicating the gospel at a level that precedes, and is fundamental to, all theologizing and all administration.

What is the symbol language of our “primary and indispensable source,” the liturgy, and how are the environment and arts part of it? By the terms symbol and symbol-language I mean primarily the stories of the Bible proclaimed in the Sunday assembly and the actions we call sacraments done by the Sunday assembly. The environment is the skin, the space, the enabling scene of that assembly, that proclamation, that action. Its arts are the skills of music, rhetoric, movement and gesture, design and craft in the making and using of all things necessary for sacramental worship (from architecture and images to vessels, vesture, utensils, and books, and so on).

Communication among human beings, including what Jews and Christians believe is God’s revelation, puts the environment (its shapes, colors, textures, smells, flavors, tones) and all the imagining and skills we call the arts right at the center of the enterprise. So when poor, deluded creatures dismiss environment and art considerations in any of the ways with which we are so depressingly familiar, what they are really doing is dismissing the way God touches us, loves us, the way God reveals the divine design and will, the way in which we are invited to share the vision of God’s reign, justice, and peace for all, liberation and reconciliation for all, and therefore the way we are to know ourselves as a church and our mission in the world. There is nothing luxurious or precious about these concerns.

Symbol-Language Appeals to All Our Human Levels and Faculties

Unlike our prose discourse and our verbal formulas, so terribly limited by their vocabulary as well as by the time and place in which they are conceived, the symbol-language of liturgy is comprehensive, classic, and seminal.

Since we believe the biblical covenant and the paschal mystery are God’s invitation to a new way of life, a new orientation of our lives, and not merely to an oath of allegiance or a set of ideas or a party line, symbol language is its favorite as well as its most adequate communication. Symbol-language appeals comprehensively to all of our human levels and faculties and to the whole species in all of its variety. Its types are deeply embedded in our common human roots, escaping the Babel of our different languages, customs, ways. It engages not merely the listening and idea mechanism but the entire person, through song and speech and silence, through gestures and other forms of movement, through touch and taste and smell and sight and hearing, through its evoking of memory, recollection, fantasy, imagination—acting out in liturgy (rather, enabling the Sunday assembly to act out) the liberating and reconciling deeds of God in living rite, as the commitment of the baptized.

From the liberating bath of immersion into baptism’s newness to the reconciling meal, where we share equally one holy bread, drinking from one holy cup, in the Eucharist’s solidarity—in every rite of public worship, this multidimensional symbol-language admits the inadequacy of our feeble words, respects the terrible mystery of God, excludes no means that might, however obliquely, penetrate our defenses with vision and with hope.

But this can’t be unless we take it seriously unless we play hard at it unless we give our ears and our hearts to those biblical stories, our minds and our bodies and our imaginations to those sacramental actions and gestures. When the liturgy thus becomes ours, our very own, we can begin to catch the vision of God’s reign, of what we and our world must become—liberation and reconciliation.

And the stories and the actions and the gestures will not grab us in this way until we learn to absorb them fully, with no abbreviations and no shortcuts: space—not constructed on the model of the auditorium but made for liturgical action; the baptismal bath—immersion, done to the full; the Lord’s Supper—bready bread, broken, shared; real wine—poured out and drunk from common cups. Significado causant. The sacraments have their effects through what they signify—our experience of them. We have been positively ingenious in depriving and robbing the sacraments of their signification: by our “practicality”; by our desire for convenience; by our aversion to work. Our liturgical world has been verbal—anything else is incidental. Opening up the nonverbal to signification and experience is a revolution that has hardly begun.

Symbol-Language Unifies Us on a Biblical and Sacramental Level

Symbol-language is catholic, universal, not only in its comprehensiveness but also in its classic character. It is a great gift to have covenant sources that reveal God’s design and make us partners in its realization—and do it in a classic way, a way that applies to all times and all places. No blueprints. No party line. No concrete instructions for exactly what must be done right now in our lives, in our political and economic organization, in our other cultural and social affairs. Those things God trusts us to work out with the talents we have been given and in concert with the rest of the human family. Only the direction, the orientation, the goal is clear in the Word of God who is liberator and reconciler—justice and peace. Everything is to be measured in that direction. And it is that direction in our sources, as well as their ambiguity about our concrete steps today, that invites a multitude of different insights and interpretations … and with all of these joined in the church, we make a bit of progress toward consensus. That’s why at our best (and we are rarely at our best) we are so loath to stifle controversy. Because we are all so limited individually (none of us being the whole Christ), it is through our sharing of different interpretations about what to do that we may eventually arrive at some common interpretations as the body of Christ.

That classic, catholic character makes a lot of people nervous. What it wants to do is challenge us to respect each other and be open to learning from each other, recognizing our need for each other, to be, as church, the body of Christ. If we have a deep unity on this symbolic biblical and sacramental level, then we can trust each other to grow up and bring our own consciences and human gifts to a common solution of problems. But if we have lost that deep and classic oneness, then there is nothing left but a sect, a party line, forced and literal conformity on a relatively superficial level.

Reform and Renewal Are the Very Nature of the Church’s Existence

Another characteristic of the symbol-language I am discussing is its seminal, unfinished, evolving, developing nature. God’s revelation itself is progressive, as the Bible, Judaism, and Christianity prove, and indicates a living tradition, a continuous creative process, by which God draws human history inch by inch toward a fuller realization of the freedom and oneness God has already given us in faith. That is why reform and renewal are the very nature of the church’s existence and not merely an era or a diversion in its story.

What a relief! Who could abide the church if we thought it was a finished, completed, perfected reality? Any more than we could abide ourselves as individuals, if we thought we had no possibilities of change, of growth, of development! Our understanding and living of the Good News is always in process, conditioned by our time, our place, our culture. All that is in God is dynamic, moving (not standing still and not retreating) toward God’s reign of justice and peace. We imagine and experience in rite and bring to our work and world possibilities of greater justice, firmer peace, more freedom from oppressors or addictions, more oneness in diversity for all God’s children.

Art always sees nature, the world, and humanity not as inert, static, fully developed accomplishments of the past, but as en route, on a journey, full of promise and of as yet unrealized possibilities. True art will have nothing to do with a static, rear-guard, the-old-times-were-the-good-times conception of life or of the church. In art, we bring our human intent, our express desire, our will, and our commitment to a work of creation. Not resting in what has been but increasing the good, the true, and the beautiful, drawing what is to be out of what is with our imaginations and our work.

In this seminal character, this openness to growth and development, the arts are like the gospel itself. No wonder they are so bound up with its symbol-language and that their ministry is so indispensable to its proclamation and celebration.

How Do We Go about Our Project?

Now to a few remarks about the means we use for our project. How do we prepare an environment that enables and enlists the arts that serve this critical symbol-language of our rites? Power corrupts, as we all know. To approach our function in these matters without reflection on that fact of human experience would be foolish indeed. Clericalism and what was for a time considered clerical power are fading—not rapidly enough, but fading nonetheless.

One of the great gifts of the reform efforts thus far since the Second Vatican Council has been stemming of our perennial drift toward idolatry, a purification of our notion of God, the holy otherness of God, that has, as its complement, the rediscovery that we are all creatures, no matter what hats we wear or what offices we occupy. All of us are gifted in different ways, yet all of us are limited. Relating again the clergy and any other specialized ministries to their basis in the common ministry of the community of the baptized has shattered the long-tolerated illusions about exclusive clerical connections with the divine. Slowly we regain a healthy notion of church, including recognition of our need for specialized ministries—a need that does not require pretension.

We must not be apologetic about this development, as if this health were somehow a weakening of ministry or offices of leadership. It is their strength, and this conciliar era is a gift of God. This moment of reaction is merely another instance of our well-proven resistance to repentance.

Now that we are beginning to move from what had become autocratic to a more communitarian and consensual sort of decision making, we have to remember that the new committee, although it is more representative of the community than the old autocrat, is no more than the autocrat a source or guarantee of competence. The committee has to do the same searching for artists, architects, designers, craftspeople as the autocrat had to do. When the autocrat did not do this searching and finding and freeing of appropriately competent artists, and instead assumed that because he had the job he had the gifts, we witnessed the environmental and artistic mess of our recent past. If the new committee is going to act in the same way, the results will be just as disastrous.

Committees and collegial structures of all sorts are necessary and important developments in the church. But we must not confuse their function with any of the particular competencies that environment and art require. A liturgy committee, for example, should have a basic understanding of the faith community and of the full, conscious, active participation of all its members required by its liturgy and of what the rites require in terms of personnel and equipment. But when it comes to the ministry of reader, the committee has to search for that particular trained talent of public proclamation. The old autocrat who understood human limits (many did not) searched out, employed, and paid individuals with appropriate training and talent for the job to be done. The new committee must do the same and should be able to do it more effectively, given its representative character and its presumed knowledge of the community and its resources. It is a tragedy when the new committee simply inherits the old autocrat’s power, without any feeling of responsibility for seeking and hiring those highly individual and particular competencies and charisms. One of the marks of the church, as a community whose common ministry is liberation and reconciliation, should be a deep respect and reverence and gratitude for the gifts of others and a feeling of need for them. We recognize this when we are dealing with tasks of plumbing or bricklaying. We tend to forget it when we are dealing with building or renovation, with design and the arts in worship.

Conclusion

We pray and think and talk about how our faith communities and local churches can create environments and solicit arts that will not only embody but also encourage and enable the kind of human experience through symbolic communication we call liturgy. We are given the thankless task of being goads, prodders, gadflies, stingers of consciences (including our own). We get tired. We’d like to have somebody pat us on the head and say “Thanks … thanks!” But if we are serious about where we are or are coming from, our job is to struggle against human nature’s preference for the misery it knows, its fear of the new and different. But when the job is done and space begins to form the faith community that worships in it and with it, encouraging and enabling with its awe-inspiring beauty and its warm human scale and hospitality, the full, conscious, active participation of the entire Sunday assembly—then, if we are still alive, we can bask in the glory. For now, however, it is all uphill.