Worship Thresholds

Denver, the city that I “allegedly” live in according to Twitter, holds a small collection of old Victorian mansions, carriage houses and the like. Granted, in our city’s plebian newness, our version of “old” tends to be laughable in the face of centuries-long standing architecture that our brothers and sisters to the east (and even farther) can boast of in their cities. Still, the snapshots of our beginnings – of an industrial cow town trying to be a big city, a luxe city – stand around as monuments to our beginnings and aspirations. Being a complete and total history nerd, I love every opportunity to walk through the old buildings, though most of them have been converted to offices, B&B’s or just odd reliquaries of the past.

My favorite part of the old architecture: vestibules. Thresholds. In-between spaces that usher you from one place to another. Our modern and contemporary architecture doesn’t possess this same value. Trust me, I love how my little 1950’s bungalow flows – all the space bleeding into each other, the layout designed for openness; but I have a longing for the front entry of the old houses and that past value on in-between-ness, on taking a moment to pause, orient yourself and prepare for whatever was waiting on the other side, what was happening on the inside.

If I was forced to sum up my role as a worship curator, this is the picture I would use. I’m a threshold designer. I admit frankly, I get a little creeped out by worship leaders who say that their job is to give people an encounter with GOD, to create it. The experience of GOD cannot be manufactured or “created,” boxed or invoked – that’s what experience and those older and wiser have taught me. And certainly, within my human limitations and small speech, I don’t even know if it can be named without robbing it of the power.

Stephen Mitchell, a linguist and scholar, interprets some of the names for GOD to be Unnameable One, Unknowable One, Deep Well of Mystery. (Mitchell’s book, A Book of Psalms – selections adapted from the Hebrew, is a dog-eared, marked up go-to resource for me in my planning and praying.) In the Merriam-Webster, “Eucharist” is actually listed as one of the definitions for mystery. My own anecdotal experience has taught me that the longer I live and the more I know, the less I actually understand. This is the Cloud of Unknowing.

My caution for worship leaders: the notion that we can within our own power create an experience or encounter of mystery is arrogant or at least very, very naive. What we can do – with integrity and beauty and a tremendous amount of imaginative intentionality – is to create thresholds, liminal spaces, where people can enter into mystery. The great author Henry Miller said, “Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery.” Our philosophy has given us actions that lead us to and from places of action – whether it’s in the natural world, in the compassionate work of relationships, or in the prescribed ritual of communion. It seems to me that, if we embrace the piece of our philosophy that calls us to worship the Unnameable One, the Deep Well of Mystery, that each of these actions would bring us back to wonder. Back each time to wonder: the vestibule of mystery.

As we contemplate the thresholds we’ve passed through to discover mystery on the other side, I invite you, I urge you to consider how we create thresholds with our spaces, our words, our images, and our deep intentions. How do we practice wonder? How do you do this in your worship? How do you do this in your home? Or relationships? I would love to hear your practices.

Image © iStockphoto

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Ghosts of Power Versus the Spirit of Community

This post was written by Steve Collins.

Architecture is always an embodiment of power relations, and church architecture, somehow, acutely so; perhaps because it deals directly with the relationship of a community to itself, its leaders, the world and God. Consider, for example:

• a schoolroom layout – for those who want to teach
• an auditorium with a stage and big screen – for those who want to spectate
• the in-the-round mass of a modern Roman Catholic church
• chair circles for small groups
• the post-Reformation preaching box, to teach you to sit up straight and not be idolatrous
• the plastic stacking chairs and demountable stage for fellowship in the local school hall

In the days of the Constantinian settlement, the newly established church took the Roman basilica as the model for its now-public buildings, rather than the house [one suspects, the dining room] that had been its previous abode. The basilica was a law court, and the Christians swapped the magistrate’s throne for an altar and sat the elders in the tribune behind it, thus imaging God as both judge and Emperor, surrounded by His government. We have been haunted by that decision ever since. We still build our churches with an important end, where the leaders are and God is implied to be, faced by everyone else. Our buildings tell us that the people at that end are more important than the people at the other, have a greater right to speak and be heard, are more representative of God. To make a church look like ‘a church’ is to impose a set of implied power relationships on our community that may not be desirable or in their best interests.

There have been other models. After the second Vatican Council the Roman Catholic church promoted the centralised layout, putting altar and Mass at the centre of the circling community. Emerging churches have created spaces with no front or centre, all points and directions equal. However, despite our best intentions meta-structures reveal themselves. The centralised layout puts the priest at the centre, not just the Mass. The no-front layout exposes the tension between an assumption of no hierarchy and the reality of a team in charge [where shall we put the microphone?].

We mostly worship in the vacated shells of other people’s spirituality. Our forebears often built as if they had found the final form, but finality sits uncomfortably with us. How shall we deal with change – material, societal, theological? More certain ages left us layouts that resist any change of church structure, pews and pulpits that are last defenders against heresy. Sometimes church communities get stuck in their communal life, not because of any will-to-power on the part of the leaders but because their buildings frustrate alternative relationships.

And then somebody invented the folding partition, and the stackable chair. And washable beige vinyl wallcovering, and the overhead projector. The community was set free. The sanctuary could be used as a schoolroom tomorrow, and a cake sale the day after, and no-one would guess that it had been a sanctuary, or a schoolroom, or a cake sale. They would be least likely to guess that it had been a sanctuary, and when it was it would still feel like a schoolroom or a cake sale. If the washable vinyl wallcovering, and the folding partition, had been printed with icons, maybe all the flexible events would feel like they were in heaven, amid a cloud of saintly witnesses. But the church is the people not the building, we say, and worship with our eyes closed.

But why try to do everything in one space anyway? Why assume the need to plan for big gatherings and single-point teaching? How about having church without a big, central church? Just numerous small gathering places. Different flavours, such as a teaching place, a party place, a meditation place, not in the same place. In my father’s house are many mansions.

Consider St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. It isn’t a single space, but nine separate churches sharing a platform. It’s a multi-space not a multi-purpose space. So could we take St. Basil’s as a model for our decentred, networked communities? Not one big space where we change the contents to do different things, but many small spaces with different contents and uses, and we move around? What liturgical game governs how and when we move from one space and action to the next? Do the spaces of this game need to be in the same place? Who is in charge, and how?

Words and Image © Steve Collins


Steve Collins is a member of Grace alternative worship community in London. He is an architect specialising in corporate interiors, and works for a large practice in central London near Tate Modern. His websites include a photographic archive for alternative worship events; his personal site; and the directory site. He blogs at Small Ritual.

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Building: a Ritual

There is an interesting TED talk by David Byrne (yep, the one from Talking Heads) about architecture and music. No, it is not just about acoustics – although this science definitely plays a part in what he shares. Byrne shares about the connection between the physical characteristics of a space and the effect these have on the kind of music we compose to be played in them. Take a few minutes to watch this interesting video here.

Clearly, there is a strong correlation between the size and shape of our performance spaces and the content and volume of our musical compositions. This can be observed historically, as Byrne has shown. Architecture doesn’t just have an effect on our music. It also affects our worship. How do the structures in which we convene for worship define our worship practices? What do the venues we choose for ritual contribute to the kind of rituals we choose and create for use in them?

Historically, we can draw some conclusions about the correlation between the shape of buildings and the shape of worship.

The Early Church (33-400) worshiped in homes and caves. Actually, the EARLY early Church worshiped in synagogues. However, once the Jews that followed Jesus became a little too fond of their Lord (according to the non-Jesus Jews) they were ejected from the Jewish gatherings. So, Christians then opted to meet in private homes. In times of persecution (on and off for the first 300 years), Christians also descended into the catacombs for worship.

What happens to worship when it is in a house or a subterranean cave? Both homes and catacombs are small. This limited the number of worshipers that could get together. Limited size enhances intimacy and participation. It is also much easier to cook for a small group. Homes are particularly well-suited for eating. There is a kitchen. There is a dining area. There are spaces to digest after the meal.

Caves are not really well-suited for anything except for burying and hiding. However, the Christians managed to bring these “dead” spaces back to life with artistically painted images, which undoubtedly inspired worship in all who viewed them. Perhaps the stone walls in the Catacombs were also well-suited for singing. Singing walls? No, silly. I mean, a little natural echo transforms the simplest song into a mystical, spiritual sound. I am guessing that the religious images on the walls combined with the aural ambiance of the space birthed some of the first ever creedal odes to Christ.

The Church of the Middle Ages (400-1500) worshiped in cathedrals. What happens when worshipers gather in a Cathedral? Cathedrals are high-ceilinged with lots of windows. This is intentional, meant to provide a sense of the heavenly realm and light. The enormous space of some cathedrals meant that literally hundreds of worshipers could be present at the same time. In a cathedral, congregational intimacy becomes anonymous celebration. There is a value in these numbers, though. The excitement of being in the presence of so many, gathered expectantly for the same purpose is palpable. Imagining Heaven includes the expectation that it will be FULL of people instead of like a small group. Still, the sheer number of worshipers restricts the kind of acts that can be practiced.

Physical participation was drastically reduced in the Middle Ages. Other aspects progressed. The cathedral space played a role in the evolution of devotional song. As Byrne notes, particularly reverberant spaces invite musicians to write simple, slow, non-rhythmic music. Thus, chant (sung only by the professionals) flourished during the Middle Ages.

Early on, the Church of the Reformation era (1500-1750) utilized converted, ex-Roman Catholic cathedrals where relatively little changes were made, save removing theologically offensive images. As the era progressed and churches were built exclusively for the emerging Protestant worship, worship spaces shrank and became simpler in many respects. Images were limited further. Artistic ornamentation was reserved for the pulpit from which the Word was delivered to the people. Some churches maintained numbers of well-placed windows, allowing for natural light to become one of the primary visual “symbols”. Lowered ceilings and smaller buildings meant less reverb, which also meant that composers like the Wesley brothers would be inspired to write hymns with full harmonies and varied rhythmic meters. And they did.

It was during this period that worshipers first began closing their eyes during worship. Why leave eyes open if there is nothing to look at? Well, for one, there’s the people. However, unlike the seating arrangement in cathedrals that allowed for many worshipers to easily view one another, the rows of pews in Protestant churches were aligned for maximum aural reception from the lips of the preacher. This discouraged visual engagement with friends and family. Although, this arrangement would have been peachy for studying the shape and condition of the backs of peoples’ heads. Uncle Phineas is developing quite a bald-spot. On second thought, closing eyes was a good idea.

The Modern era was a time once again for increasing the size of our meeting spaces. Charles Finney was one of the first to rent secular theaters for worship in the 19th century. A little later, in 1923, Aimee Semple McPherson built the first 2,500 seat auditorium of its kind made for gathered worship. This theater in Echo Park, California had everything a large secular theater had: vaulted ceiling, balconies, fixed seating, and a stage. Though theater spaces were large like cathedrals, they were also built with acoustics in mind. Carpeting and acoustical engineering led to large spaces that invited loud music. McPherson’s church, Angelus Temple, was also one of the first to have an electric sound system installed. McPherson employed an orchestra to fill her church with music, but it would only be a matter of 50 years before the then non-existent “rock-n-roll” would makes its way onto many a church stage.

Certainly, the bulk of musicians who lead worship today are truly humble. Right? However, this humility can appear awkward and incongruent when forced onto stage, under the hot, spot-lights. The proscenium stage, popular in late 19th century secular theatrical realism became the model for early church theaters. Realism’s approach which separated actors and audience with the erection of an invisible “fourth wall” managed to sneak its way into modern worship. Evidence of this is that the “performance vs. worship” conversation is a popular one in churches of the late 20th and early 21st centuries.

Still, there is one lingering question: What came first, the ritual or the building? In other words, do we develop our practices first and then build our structures to suit them, or do we build first the house of worship and then allow it to shape our worship?

The answer is: yes.

This post originally appeared on Creative Worship Tour, June 30, 2010.

Image © iStockphoto

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Shaping the Spaces That Shape Us

When I was small, if I ever couldn’t sleep, I’d squeeze my eyes shut and imagine I was in a different place. Within five minutes my little bed could pop in to visit a cave, a palace, an igloo, my Grandma’s house. And the moment I believed that a new place was awaiting on the other side of my eyelids was the exact moment I felt a change in my mood. When I was “in” a cave, my heart trembled, but “at” Grandma’s I was suddenly warm and secure. It’s amazing the power that space (even imagined space) has to transform atmospheres and moods.

What does your worship space say about you? About God? What opportunities does architecture hold for worship curation?

Look at your existing worship space. What strengths does it have?

Consider the following:
How are light and darkness used?
Is it larger-than-life or on a human scale?
Does it have “warm” or “cold” textures (i.e. wood and fabric or glass and steel)?
How is the seating arranged? What is communicated by the direction it faces?
How is color used?
Does it feel humanly constructed or does it invite nature in? (Even if only in the form of light or glimpses of the sky.)
Does it reach out or feel like a closed space?
How can you maximize the strengths?

What inspiring spaces in your city could you use for worship? (Don’t limit yourself to churches – consider cafes, museums, university buildings, libraries, park shelters, etc.)

How could even the work of building be a worship experience? Drawing inspiration from Nehemiah’s stories of rebuilding the walls or the building of the temple in 1 Kings 6, create your own timmerdorp. Many Dutch towns host a timmerdorp every Summer – a carpentry day camp where kids, over the course of a week, create villages out of donated building materials. (Google “timmerdorp” for images.) And, Amish Barn Raising also has a spiritual dimension. Could you gather a group to worship with hammers and saws in your local community? Habitat for Humanity uses volunteer labor to build homes for families in need.

Even tents have a spiritual history: The Jewish Feast of Tabernacles (also called Sukkot or “Feast of Booths”) was a thanksgiving festival and involved living in a tent (sukkah) for a week to remember the time of wandering in the desert (Leviticus 23:34-44). Dust off your old tent or, if you’re a purist, here’s a helpful video on how to build a traditional sukkah. (Interestingly, the most important part about the structure seems to be creating a roof which allows you to see the stars.)

A few inspiring spaces to visit (literally or virtually):

Religious space is dynamic space… Indeed, church buildings are dynamic agents in the construction, development, and persistence of Christianity itself.

Jeanne Halgren Kilde, Sacred Power, Sacred Space: An Introduction to Christian Architecture and Worship.

Does your space shape your worship opportunities? What is your fondest memory of a time architecture drew you to God?

Image of Timmerdorp © Ard Hesselink

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What is the best and worst feature of your worship space?

Church is church. It really doesn’t matter where we worship. We can worship in a building, outside, at home, on vacation, anywhere. This is what Jesus seemed to be saying when he said, “… a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem… the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks.” (John 4:21 ff.) Location for worship does not matter.

But. It does.

It matters because humans are aesthetic creatures. Colors, textures, width and depth of space, the height of a ceiling, number of windows and therefore amount or lack of light – all of these factors and more influence the kinds of experiences we have when we gather in a particular space to contemplate Trinity.

Our aesthetic nature is coupled with our physical nature. Though God is spirit, we are still both spirit and flesh. The sort of structure in which we choose to meet has a strong bearing on the way our physical selves move and live and pray. And, our physical experiences impact our souls.

What does your worship space “do” for your worship? Are there features of the place you meet that really facilitate connection with Trinity? Are there features of your space that often make connection with God seem difficult? (If you need a little more discussion before your answer, check out Kevin Callahan’s guest post here.)

Share some words about your place of worship in the comments section of this post. Also, take a moment to cast your vote in this week’s poll.

Complete this sentence: Our church meets in...

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