The dangerous work of worship
January 12, 2025 - March 2, 2025
Liturgy comes from leitourgia, an old Greek term that refers to work, or service, performed by the wealthy on behalf of “the people” or the state. It could also refer to the work of the priest on behalf of the people. But it has come to mean, colloquially, that liturgy is “the work of the people,” meaning that the congregation has a stake in worship, a part to play; their engagement is necessary for worship to... “work.” It can, then, feel very internal to the church’s life – something we do in here, with each other, not for public consumption. But what we do in here has radical implications for our way of being out there. In worship, through liturgy, we are telling and recapitulating God’s own story, and our story of with-God-ness, through word and motion and music and connection and ritual. And the church’s story is at odds with other stories the culture is telling. It’s subversive, radical, and even dangerous to tell our story just this way.
Arrive. King David, having recovered the Ark of the Covenant, dances his way home. He is essentially bringing God’s Presence back to Israel, and his enthusiastic showing-up dance is unnerving to some (his wife!) who wish for more decorum, more “demure”, in worship. But it matters how we arrive for worship – do we bring our whole (exposed) selves, or do we hold back? Additionally, there are many “Psalms of Ascent” in Israel’s hymnal, designated for climbing the temple mount in Jerusalem – meaning that our ancestors gave some thought to how we gather for worship. As do we. (parts of worship: video prologue, welcome, query)
Pray. Bowing our head, bending our knee, pledging our allegiance – this is the subversive work of prayer. Corporate prayer in worship is a stay against idolatry. We remember again that our time here is for the re-ordering of our lives: “God is God, and we are not. (And nothing else is God, either.)” The counter-narratives say that our lives depend on capitalism, work, the military, government, our own capacities. Even the simplicity of the Lord’s Prayer says otherwise.
Read Scripture. This is how we introduce “trouble” into the narrative of worship. The stories our ancestors told assert that “the earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it” – i.e. that God gets everything God wants. It does not always appear to be true in our experience. And so every Sunday the text invites us to wrestle with tradition, promises made but not yet fulfilled. We let it trouble us, and sometimes let the tension stand, refusing the easy resolution that condescends both to us and to the text. (Also, sometimes scripture pisses people off.)
Sing. Singing before a crowd of people requires some courage; most of us aren’t that good at it and shouldn’t be on a mic. But singing with a crowd is different. It releases us from self- consciousness about raising our own voices. It requires that we breathe together, in and out. It puts the words of faith, hope, and love in our own mouths, even if we can’t quite muster those things ourselves. It’s like a spiritual workout, where the hymn is the personal trainer encouraging you to bend a little deeper, try a little more weight. And – as we’ve talked about in our Advent/Christmas series – the songs we internalize matter. What do we mostly sing about? Can we carry the songs from in here into our daily lives out there? Like Paul and Silas and their cell-stock singing? Carissa Robinson is preaching.
Preach. “Churches get the preaching they deserve,” Katie’s spouse has said, quoting someone else. Meaning, preaching is inherently dialogical. It has the form of monologue, but at its best it reflects the preacher’s conversations with the church, with the culture, and (most obviously) with the scripture itself, and thus with our ancestors in faith. This is the space where the Whole Project is called into question, and where the preacher demonstrates the Wrestling-with-God, and where the congregation is invited to imagine their own participation in God’s Big Story of Everything. “This is Who God is. This is who you(we) are. Right?”
The Table. Jesus just has this whole way of upending the traditional “table math” – seats of honor, who’s invited. (I think that at my grandmother’s house he would’ve sat at the kids’ table, with his knees up under his chin.) Scripture often compares being at home with God to being seated at a banquet, secure in plenteous food and gracious welcome. This is the “eucharistic economy,” the radical way God has of giving generously without consideration of merit; and it’s an economy we’re invited/challenged to practice beyond the table of our Lord.