Second Sunday in Lent: Kyrie and Peace

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Second Sunday in Lent

Friends, I am sharing a homily I spoke to the gathered community at Christ Chapel at Gustavus on Monday, February 24, 2014.  It speaks about the relationship between liturgy and peace.  

Matthew 5:38-48

The peace of Christ be with you all.  “And also with you.”  Or “And with your spirit.”

To begin, please open up the red ELW hymnals in front of you to page 98.  Take a look at the Kyrie there; I’d like to read the words in dialogue.  I’ll read the parts in light print, if you will respond with the parts in bold. 

In peace, let us pray to the Lord.

Lord, have mercy.

For the peace from above, and for our salvation, let us pray to the Lord.

Lord, have mercy.

For the peace of the whole world, for the well-being of the church of God, and for the unity of all, let us pray to the Lord.

Lord, have mercy.

For this holy house, and for all who offer here their worship and praise, let us pray to the Lord.

Lord, have mercy.

Help, save, comfort and defend us, gracious Lord.

Amen, Amen.

We gather this morning in the physical presence of not only words of peace, but a variety of images of peace.  I invite you to take some time to view the photographs and read the stories of peace that activist John Noltner has assembled and placed on display here in the chapel and elsewhere on campus.  So, it is appropriate to begin this week in chapel with a reflection upon peace.

One striking, but perhaps often overlooked aspect of the historic Christian liturgy is its emphasis upon peace.  Words of peace permeate the liturgy of the church; some of you might recognize the litany we just recited as part of the “Kyrie” often sung at the first part of a Lutheran worship service – at least since the time of the liturgical revival of the 1960s and 70s.  This litany has deep roots – it comes from the Byzantine Great Litany, a ancient litany of peace which was reintroduced into the late 20^th century liturgy as a series of prayer petitions combined with the response “Lord, have mercy, ” – the core phrase of the historic Kyrie.  The dialogue is a beautiful plea for a state of harmonious balance, in which peace is desired for all of creation, the gathering of the people of God, and for unity.  Its prayer is for the health of the one body of Christ, the body that the apostle Paul regards so eloquently in 1 Corinthians 12.  This healthy body is in essence the “Peace of Christ” that we speak.

Recently, a cover article of Time magazine, titled “the Mindful Revolution,” got me thinking about the distinction between what might be called “peace of mind” versus the “Peace of Christ.”  Rightfully, in our complex and busy world, most of us have every reason to seek a state of mindfulness, or a state of calm focus, that allows us to sense some personal wholeness in a situation of chaos.  But, in terms of the Good News, or the Gospel that we hear in the story from Matthew this morning, there is a different peace that we all can seek with just as much fervor as the self-oriented peace of mindfulness. 

One tack to take is to look at the theology of Martin Luther, who observed that one aspect of our lives that brings us out of wholeness is the tendency to “curve inward” upon ourselves, to the detriment of our care for our neighbor. 

We know that when pressed to determine which commandment was the greatest, Jesus answers that we are to “Love the Lord your God” and to “Love your neighbor as yourself.”[1]  In this morning’s Gospel, the instructions Jesus gives us towards enacting this love might seem drastic or harsh, but perhaps the challenge for us is to realize the broad extent of who it is that we call our neighbor.  The Gospel tells us that it is “everybody.”  For the peace of the whole world demands that we turn away from ourselves, individually and collectively, toward everybody in our presence, including enemies, and that we pour out our love toward our community. 

Peace begins with this:  turning toward your neighbor and looking that person in the eyes and saying “The peace of Christ be with you.”  This is not just a gesture of greeting or simple good-will, but an act that initiates reconciliation with that person.  In Byzantine theology of worship and, in particular, the celebration of Holy Communion - the gesture of peace - which in the formative years of Christian worship was a “kiss of peace” – the sharing of the peace is an act intended to bring all who are about to share the Eucharistic meal into right relationship with each other.  The idea is that in order to fully break bread with one’s neighbor, each individual must bear no enmity or ill-will toward that neighbor.  In that moment before the breaking of the bread together, that relationship must be reconciled, so that hatred, misunderstandings, grudges, pains, jealousies –the list can go on –these broken parts of the relationship are brought back into wholeness.  In that wholeness, enemies, who are forgiven, always by God, but now by each other, can stand side by side and share in the meal that is, in a dramatic way, the Peace of Christ. 

Samuel Torvend, a scholar of church history and liturgy at Pacific Lutheran University, relates a marvelous story of the depth and power of the sharing of the peace in one Christian community that demonstrates the reality of reconciliation that can occur when the community grasps the notion that this moment is more than just a two minute social time.  He writes: “A former professor once said to me, “The Peace is the happiest three minutes in the liturgy when you get to greet everyone around you.”  Yet at one African American parish in the Midwest, the “passing of the peace” usually takes twenty minutes.  ‘We take those words about reconciling seriously,’ said the pastor. ‘With all the shootings and beatings in our neighborhood, we never know for sure if we’re going to see each other come next Sunday.  We want to eat and drink and then leave at peace with each other.”[2]

So then, Peace continues with this:  Reconciled with your neighbor, you now extend your whole self toward that person with a willingness to bear that person’s burdens.  The gesture that begins with a handshake continues with a prayer for that person’s well-being, and a genuine desire to bear the hurts and wants and needs that he or she carries.  As the handshake is released, the peace of Christ continues as you reach to remove your own jacket from your back and to place it upon the shoulders of your neighbor.   Remember Martin Luther and his concern with the curving inward?  The peace of Christ is the opposite of that turning inward, and is instead an opening away from one’s self.  I don’t think that disagreements between any two humans magically disappear in the act of turning the other cheek, but the act of self-giving love can do much to alleviate resentments, distrust, and disunity. 

Peace continues with this:  practicing the vision and hope for the coming reality of the whole creation joining together in peace and unity in the holy City of God, the New Jerusalem.  As we end this time of Sabbath, let’s rehearse that unity a bit.  We will share the peace, and then gather together at the center of the chapel and sing a simple hymn of peace, Dona nobis pacem. 

The peace of the Lord be with you.  And also with you. 

Please share a sign of that peace with your neighbor as we gather toward the front of the chapel. 

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[1] Mark 12:28-34

[2] Samuel Torvend, Daily Bread, Holy Meal: Opening the Gifts of Holy Communion (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Publishers, 2004), 73-74.

First Sunday in Lent Omitting the Alleluia

March 9, 2014

First Sunday in Lent

Omitting the Alleluia

This past week I’ve been reading a short book titled “Centripetal Worship,” edited by Timothy Wengert.  The primary thrust of the book is that worship should draw us toward the center, which is Christ, rather than lead us away, toward ourselves.  This is a rather nuanced concept that requires more discovery than can be discussed here, today.  However, as I think about one of our Lenten liturgical practices, one particular line from the book stands out as a guide:

“In the face of all our attempts to discover the rules for correct worship, we can only confess with Luther that Christian worship, true worship, is not about us and our rules but about God in Christ, who is the end of the law.  As Dirk Lange has observed, Luther thinks there is but one ‘law’ for the church’s mass, Jesus Christ himself!”[1]

Often, we in the church get bound up by the rules, often indicated in our worship books as red rubrics, and become overly concerned about what is the right way to do something.  I am guilty of such consternation, although as I’ve studied the history and theology of liturgy more deeply, I’ve realized that our practices have come about in the context of many different human situations that have evolved over time.  We might say that liturgy was made for human worship, not human worship made for liturgy!

One practice that we encounter in the season of Lent is the omission of the Alleluia as we welcome the Gospel.  This practice has taken on the quality of a “rule” that some enforce with a stern shushing of the unmentionable word as if the wrath of God will break out.  But really, it is a practice, found in the Western church (in contrast to the Eastern Orthodox practice of always singing the Alleluia) that directs us toward the center during the time of Lent.  In the penitential and contemplative time of Lent, we keep the word Alleluia (Let us praise the Lord!) in reserve, in our hearts, as we contemplate the approach of the cross and Jesus’ passion.  Omitting the Alleluia can help us keep in mind Christ our savior as we continue to hear the good news of the Gospel. 

As a final segment, I will share the commentary distributed by the ELCA regarding the omission of the Alleluia several years ago (you will note references to LBW and WOV, two previously used hymnals in our congregation.)

“Because of the penitential character of the season of Lent, singing or saying the word "alleluia" has historically been suspended during Lent's forty days. This period of individual and congregational reflection on the quality of our baptismal faith and life suggests that the joyful nature of alleluia is more appropriately reserved for our Easter celebrations when it is given full and jubilant voice. An alternate gospel acclamation for Lent that omits the alleluia is provided for all settings of Holy Communion in both Lutheran Book of Worship and With One Voice.

“The omission of alleluia during Lent goes back at least to the fifth century in the western church. The custom of actually bidding it farewell, however, developed in the Middle Ages. The hymn "Alleluia, song of gladness" (With One Voice #654) contains a translation of an 11th century Latin text that compares an alleluia-less Lent to the exile of the Israelites in Babylon. The text then anticipates the joy of Easter when glad alleluias will return in all their heavenly splendor.

“Along with a sung farewell to alleluia, some congregations have embraced the practice of physically "burying" the alleluia. This may take the form of actually placing a visual representation of alleluia in a hole in the ground, or of hiding it away after carrying it in procession around the church or worship space. This ritual practice is especially delightful and meaningful for children.”

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[1]Timothy Wengert, Centripetal Worship: The Evangelical Heart of Lutheran Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2007), 16.

Sunday of the Transfiguration - Alleluia

March 2, 2014

 Sunday of the Transfiguration

By tradition, today is the last Sunday of the church year that we sing an Alleluia in greeting of the Gospel.  We will put the Alleluia to rest for the Sundays of Lent, as a sign of the penitential and solemn nature of the season. 

As a word, Alleluia is the Latin form of the Hebrew Hallelujah, which means “[let us] praise the Lord.”  In Jewish liturgy, the word is associated with Psalms 104 – 150, where it is often found as a congregational cry of joy, likely included to encourage the people’s participation in the recitation of the psalms.[1] 

In Christian use, the word signifies a cry of eternal praise and joy.  Augustine writes “it is in praising God that we shall rejoice forever in the life to come.”[2]  The eternal Alleluia has been described by some as a heavenly hymn of praise sung by the angels that never ceases; when we join the hymn in our worship, it is as if our earthly thread of song weaves momentarily into the eternal chorus.  The praise we sing is both a rejoicing in the presence of Christ in our midst now and an expectation of the great feast to come. 

Use of the Alleluia as a greeting of the Gospel can be traced to the third century.  Since then, the texts associated with the simple Alleluia have undergone many forms.  In the medieval period, the Alleluia formed the bookends to a recitation of a psalm between the reading of the Epistle and the Gospel.  At some point, the recitation was shortened to just one verse of the psalm.  This evolved into a pattern that we often follow at First Lutheran.  Many Sundays we will sing the Alleluia, followed by a “Proper” verse, with a repetition of the Alleluia closing the song.  The Proper verse, from the New Testament, relates directly to the Gospel text for the day.  In the historic Mass, the distinction between the Propers and the Ordinary texts refers to the texts that are always used at each celebration of the Mass as opposed to those that are “proper” to a specific day.  In the case of the Alleluia verse, it is case specific, or recited only for a specific day, hence its designation as a Proper. 

In the medieval period, Gregorian chant often extended the last syllable of Alleluia (the “ia”) with a lengthy series of musical notes known as a melisma.  This extension, called a “jubilus,” was meant to portray the extravagant joy felt by the presence of the Gospel.  (As an aside, “jubilus” refers to Jubal, the first musician recognized in the Old Testament – you may have heard of Jubal’s lyre.)

Next week – commentary on the resting of the Alleluia during Lent. 

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[1] Pfatteicher, Philip, Commentary on the Lutheran Book of Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1990), 139-140.

[2] Ibid.

Seventh Sunday after Epiphany: February 23 2014 You are Holy

Seventh Sunday after Epiphany

February 23, 2014

I promised this week a discussion of “music that praises God as Holy” in our worship.  My reason is the opening verse of the first reading we hear today.  The reading from Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18 contains the Holiness Code, which begins “Speak to all the congregation of the people of Israel and say to them: You shall be holy, for I the LORD your God am holy.”  The Code gives us reason to take action – to care for the poor and to enact justice for our neighbor – as a response to the holiness of God.

Each Sunday in our celebration of Holy Communion, we sing the quintessential hymn of praise to God who is Holy.  The Sanctus (Latin for “Holy”) begins with the thrice repeated “Holy, Holy, Holy” as if to over-emphasize the solemnity of the designation of “Holy Lord.”  The hymn continues:

Lord God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory.  Hosanna in the highest.  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.  Hosanna in the highest.  

This powerful language praising an awesome God has several scriptural sources.  The first part of the hymn references Isaiah 6:3, which scholar Philip Pfatteicher describes as “Isaiah’s breathtakingly majestic vision of the transcendent otherness of the All-Holy in confounding contrast to the mortality and impurity of humanity.”  Pfatteicher’s thicket of words might be more easily interpreted by referencing the great communion hymn “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” (ELW 490):

Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand; ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descending, comes full homage to demand.

Isaiah’s majestic vision was paraphrased by Martin Luther in the German vernacular hymn “Isaiah in a Vision Did of Old” (ELW 868).  This hymn, included in Luther’s German Mass of 1526, uses equally colorful and fantastic language to describe the encounter with the Holy one, ending with a phrase “and all the house was filled with billowing smoke,” a reference to the incense sanctifying the space.   

The Sanctus continues with a Hosanna and “Blessed is he” that comes from Psalm 118: 25 – 26.  

Per Harling’s “You Are Holy” (ELW 525) is an expression of God’s Holiness that doesn’t project the same sense of grandeur or remove as the hymns referenced above.  We sing this hymn as our sending hymn, and the sense of dance and celebration implied by the jazz influenced rhythm is perhaps appropriate as a demonstration of our joyful response to God’s holiness.  We are brought back down to earth, to the familiar, and sent out in response, to care for the poor and to enact justice.  The words of the hymn maintain some of the mystery of God, but we sing with a little more spring in our step!

Sixth Sunday after Epiphany

February 16, 2014

The two musical pieces we hear during the offering today are the basis for this week’s blog.  At the 8:15 service, the handbell choir will perform an arrangement of the joyful hymn In Thee Is Gladness.  Later, at the 10:30 service, the Sunday School children will sing Arise, Shine, for your Light has come, a simple song that states Isaiah 60:1.

We encounter the hymn In Thee Is Gladness twice during the early service.  The handbell arrangement emphasizes the ebullience of the hymn through the constant eighth note motion that rambles throughout the entire piece.  Later, the hymn itself (ELW 867) should make you get up and dance!  That’s because it has its musical origins in the light dance rhythms of a late Renaissance genre known as the balleto, or “little dance.”  An Italian, Giacomo Gastoldi, was the primary composer of this gracious style, which features repeated musical phrases, simple harmonies, and a lightness of rhythm that often included the singing of “fa la la’s.”  A contemporary German church musician, Johann Lindemann, adapted this balleto by adding the text of his own hymn, In dir is Freude.   What’s my point for revealing the dance origins of this great hymn?  That the character of the music and the text we sing to it are often remarkably well suited for each other.  The unabashed joy of the hymn text demands that we get up and dance in celebration! 

In thee is gladness, amid all sadness, Jesus, sunshine of my heart.  By thee are given, the gifts of heaven, thou the true redeemer art.

An interesting local connection with this hymn:  the arrangement found in the hymnal is by Jan Bender, 20^th century church musician extraordinaire, who taught at Gustavus for several years (and was well known to many at FLC, including David Fienen.)  I will endeavor to remain true to Bender’s harmony for at least the first stanza of the hymn!

This simple song Arise, Shine emerged out of a movement that calls itself Music That Makes Community.  The goal of this movement is to generate “paperless” music – that is music that can be learned by heart and sung together in worship.  One connection with our local context I’ve talked about with the Sunday School kids is the large blue and white banner that hangs in our nave during the season of Epiphany.  Of course, the text on the banner is the first phrase of the song.  Since this song is meant to encourage community, the kids will invite the congregation to sing along!

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany

Sunday, February 9, 2014

What’s a Kyrie?

Many Sundays, including this Sunday, we sing a “Kyrie” in worship.  What’s a Kyrie and why do we keep singing this odd word regularly?

The phrase Kyrie eleison is Greek, and translates as “Lord, have mercy.”  We also sing Christe eleison, which translates as “Christ, have mercy.”  A common pattern we often use is Kyrie/Christe/Kyrie; this three-fold repetition is symbolic of the Trinity, yet the whole gesture is directed toward Christ.

While the phrase “Lord, have mercy upon us” can be found in the Bible, the particular phrase Kyrie eleison has its origins in pre-Christian use.  In Asia Minor, it was an acclamation or gesture of praise and respect shouted at the passing of the emperor, an important ruler, landowner, or “lord.”  More a shout of respect than a penitential plea, the phrase does suggest subservience. 

In its earliest forms, Christian worship began with a silent entrance into the room by the bishop, deacon, or minister, followed by a short greeting and the reading of the scripture texts.  By the fifth century, some sources indicate that Christians had adopted the Kyrie into the liturgy for a couple of reasons.  One, the phrase, which carried the connotation of pagan sun worship, was being shouted by some Christians despite attempts to suppress it and church leaders adopted it and gave it some theological justification.  Its common use was as a response to a litany, or series of prayerful supplications.  Two, as worship in Rome became more grandiose, a need arose for an extended entrance procession rite that would allow the bishop to enter the large Basilica at the beginning of worship.  In this case, the Kyrie was repeated more times, with a nine-fold repetition common.  The extended rite was necessary, since with the growth of Christianity, the bishop of Rome was expected to visit and preside at a number of services within the city.  The procession from one Basilica to another became a grand spectacle.

Even as the language of worship in the west changed from Greek to Latin, the Greek phrase persisted.  In meaning, the phrase took on the character of a penitential plea for forgiveness.  The individual petitions of a litany, or prayer disappeared, and the simple three-fold repeated phrase remained.   

In the twentieth century, a renewed interest in liturgical studies yielded the development of another form of the Kyrie that we often encounter in our Sunday worship.  This form, which begins with the petition “In peace let us pray to the Lord,” followed by the response “Lord, have mercy” combines the Greek phrase with a Byzantine Litany of Peace. 

Even though the Kyrie is one of the parts of the Mass “Ordinary” – the historic form of Western liturgy – it is a part of our worship that can be used with some flexibility.  It may be omitted at times when an emphasis upon the celebratory nature of a season is desired, such as during Easter when the gathering rite usually includes the hymn of praise “This is the Feast.”  Or the traditional Kyrie may be replaced by another rite of supplication, such as the Great Litany, or a penitential hymn . 

The question of “why” remains.  Perhaps a simple answer is this:  at the beginning of our worship, this text directs our focus toward Christ, with the acclamation “Lord” and often the prayer for “peace.”