For the Love of Liturgy
I’ll always treasure the first moments I set foot in my church. Broken, hurting, and flinching from the wreckage of a church that was crumbling, I set foot in a sanctuary that resonated with gentle tones of an organ. Congregants sat quietly in wooden pews. Red carpet yawned in front of me and sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows at the side. A smiling usher handed me a bulletin and found me a seat. The reverence and expectation in the room was palpable. At the front, sat several robed pastors, against the backdrop of a sea of blue choir robes. The prelude came to an end, transitioning into a hymn melody and the congregation rose at the gesture of the pastor. We sang a few verses of scripture for an introit, and then the pastor ascended the pulpit. “Come, let us worship the Lord our God together,” his voice boomed in a Welsh lilt, “Let us pray.”
The words sent a thrill in my heart. How many Sunday mornings had I spent in church, and yet here I felt the reality of a people coming together to meet with God as if for the first time. I fumbled for the hymn number as the organ swelled and the voices around me soared. These people’s God is bigger in their eyes than he has ever been to me, I thought. I want to know the God these people worship. When the hymn ended, I held the bulletin with trembling hands as we prayed the prayer written. I could barely speak the words as they caught in my throat.
My experience of church for so long had felt like a chaotic dust storm—causing me to lose sight of the One to whom I prayed. Speaking the words written on the page before me, it felt as though the air suddenly cleared, and I regained my sight of him. It was not the last time during the service that I felt as though I could dissolve into tears, also immediately mortified by the thought. Do Presbyterians cry? But these were not the frozen chosen. Formal, yes. Reverent, yes. Frozen, absolutely not.
By the end of the service, I lamented that I had five other churches on my list to visit, and it would be six more weeks before I could return. I then realized the perk of a solo church hunt: I make the rules. I never visited another church because I had found my home. My former non-denominational church had taught me to fear other denominations, but it was in a church with a steeple, a choir, an organ, and a hymnal that I found safety and healing. I grew up in a church that prided itself on emotional expression, and yet standing in stillness with a hymnal in my hands, my heart glowed in a worship deeper than I had ever known. And the more that my heart healed, the more I fell in love with liturgy.
At its core, the word liturgy refers to the structure of a service. Some churches may even have a more contemporary style of worship and still follow a liturgical order of service. There are doctrinal and denominational reasonings behind the way a service is constructed. Volumes could and have been written about the topic, and I’m sure if one opinion were to be thrown into the tumultuous waters of social media, ten more would pop up like piranhas to devour it. I will speak as a lay person and a congregant—and call to mind the days when I was a baby Presbyterian figuring it all out.
From the congregant’s perspective, liturgy serves as a series of weekly traditions. Liturgy determines where in the service the Lord’s prayer is recited or when communion is celebrated. In some churches, the prayer of confession may be followed by the assurance of pardon, a Scripture the pastor reads that serves as an encouraging reminder of God’s forgiveness. There may be a doxology or Gloria Patri in the mix. Some services may recite the Apostles’ Creed, and others the Nicene Creed. Liturgy creates a pattern of Scripture read and Scripture sung, or written prayers spoken together, silent prayers, and pastoral prayers. In general, liturgy has a rhythm to it, almost like a dialogue. Or put another way: “We believe that when we gather on Sundays, we meet with God to hear from Him and for Him to hear from us. What goes on is something of a divine dialogue, and a thoughtful liturgy will be structured to reflect the back-and-forth nature of that encounter” (Jonathan Landry Cruse, Ligonier Ministry). It is perhaps this dialogical element that provides a safety net for the struggling believer. The burden is not on us to conjure up emotions to throw at God for an hour. Instead, our hearts are moved and transformed by the truth in the liturgy, which then we direct back to God in prayer and song. Liturgy becomes a form of preaching, as it proclaims truth to the individual, the congregation, and the outside world.
Liturgy proclaims truth to the individual worshiper. In an ideal world, we would all stream into the church service, hearts primed and ready to meet with God. The reality is that we sometimes trudge into the service bringing discouragement, grief, fears, and frustrations. The Scripture and truth that has been sprinkled throughout the service is there to catch us when we stumble. If we don’t have the words to pray, the prayer on the page speaks for us. Depending on the prayer, we may be repeating words that have been spoken for hundreds of years before us. These prayers may express faith that has been forged in fiercer fires than we have known, deepening our faith as we repeat them. Psalm 145:4 becomes very practical: “One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts.”
The interplay of scripture and hymns is another example of how liturgy proclaims truth to the worshiper. The disciples marveled to each other on the road to Emmaus in Luke 24:32, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” In the same way, Scripture proclaimed throughout the service kindles within us the worship that overflows in song. One thing I have always appreciated about my church is that the director of music, in collaboration with the pastor, plans all the music to connect to the sermon text and topic. In fact, my value of the preached word grew exponentially when I joined the choir. Our music director would connect our anthem to the upcoming sermon in a written devotional each week, which he would often expand upon in rehearsals. Preaching to the choir literally started in our warm-ups and rehearsals, priming our spiritual appetites for the actual sermon and making us eager listeners.
Liturgy also helps the congregation proclaim truth to one another. Reading a written prayer to oneself can certainly be an encouragement. Speaking the words out loud in unison with a congregation of others amplifies the proclamation and intensifies the encouragement. In a pew of five people, one may have lost a child, one distracted by chronic pain, one walking through a divorce, one facing unemployment, and one who has worshipped in that very pew for sixty years. Standing shoulder to shoulder with each of these to proclaim out loud, “thy kingdom come, thy will be done” brings particular potency to the prayer—not that God listens more in numbers, but that the reality of his faithfulness in each of our lives becomes more tangible.
The same is true of congregational singing. Of course we sing hymns to God, but there’s an element of proclaiming truth to one another at play as well. Depending on our circumstances, we may have entered the church questioning, “Great is thy faithfulness?” That’s when we need two hundred and fifty (or just fifty) voices around us to answer in a resounding “Great Is Thy Faithfulness!” To quote the hymn, “We Are God’s People:”
We are a temple, the Spirit’s dwelling place,
Formed in great weakness, a cup to hold God’s grace;
We die alone, for on its own
Each ember loses fire:
Yet joined in one the flame burns on
To give warmth and light, and to inspire.
When we feel weak to sing, weak to pray, weak to confess, the voices of those around us help strengthen our feeble faith.
Finally, liturgy proclaims unity. From the state of the internet these days, there doesn’t appear to me much the church at large agrees upon. The consistent structure of service liturgy, and especially those elements that are done corporately, helps to cement the core tenets of our faith. One phrase I have often heard quoted in church contexts is, “In essentials unity, in non-essentials liberty, in all things charity.” Elements like the Apostles’ and Nicene Creed help define and confirm what these essentials are. I remember being so excited as a new Presbyterian the Sunday that I first recited the Apostles’ Creed without looking at the bulletin. Even twelve years later when I could probably say it in my sleep, the words still hold such meaning and comfort. Speaking them in unison with the congregation is even more meaningful. During my graduate studies in the UK, I became a temporary Anglican, and I heard the Creed in British accents every Sunday. When other issues might divide us, we gather to rehearse the essentials of our faith together. The Creed is like an anchor that brings us back together. The tempestuous, tumultuous world we live in needs an anchor more than ever.
Liturgy is not merely about a traditional style, but structure and intention. It’s about recognizing the need for our hearts to be reminded of truth. Liturgy puts guideposts in place to direct our hearts in worship, recognizes our frailty, and bolsters our faith with truth.
Erin Jones is the social media coordinator for GCD. After nearly a decade teaching in the humanities, she is now a freelance writer and founder of Galvanize and Grow Copywriting. She lives in Maryland, where she enjoys involvement in music ministry at Fourth Presbyterian Church, as well as participating in local theater and opera productions. For more information, visit ErinJonesWriter.com, follow on Instagram, or visit her blog for travel-specific writing.