Set Your Worship for Continuous Play Mode

by | May 13, 2011

This post was written by Ted Lyddon Hatten.

Is there a place for humor in worship? I looked up humor in the dictionary. It wasn’t very funny, but you can judge for yourself:

humor |ˈ(h)yoōmər| (Brit. humour)

noun
1 the quality of being amusing or comic, esp. as expressed in literature or speech
• the ability to perceive or express humor or to appreciate a joke

2 a mood or state of mind

3 (also cardinal humor) historical each of the four chief fluids of the body (blood, phlegm, yellow bile [choler], and black bile [melancholy]) that were thought to determine a person’s physical and mental qualities by the relative proportions in which they were present.

ORIGIN Middle English (as humour): via Old French from Latin humor ‘moisture,’ from humere (see humid ). The original sense was [bodily fluid] (surviving in aqueous humor and vitreous humor, fluids in the eyeball); it was used specifically for any of the cardinal humors (sense 3) , whence [mental disposition] (thought to be caused by the relative proportions of the humors). This led, in the 16th cent., to the senses [state of mind, mood] (sense 2) and [whim, fancy,] hence to humor someone [to indulge a person's whim.] Sense 1 dates from the late 16th cent.

See.
But when I read it in the voice of John Cleese, however, it has a different effect. The same words are now funny; and I can hear Eric Idle singing, “Always look on the bright side of life.” If you are a fan of Monty Python, you might be hearing it now, too. If you are not a fan, you may find the closing scene of the movie, Life of Brian very disturbing.

Humor and religion have always had an uneasy relationship. Comedians and court jesters have a long and rich tradition of lampooning societies’ sacred cows. Irreverence can be genuinely funny. But not everyone is laughing. Sometimes irreverence is, well, irreverent. Sometimes a joke can sound like (and, more importantly, feel like) ridicule.

What to do?
One option is to focus on the content of the humor. Family-oriented humor is easy to find in the children’s section of your library. These are safe jokes. But safe jokes are like safe sermons and safe music – the people might smile, but no one will be moved. Another option is to focus on the context of the worship itself. If the worship environment allows room for the people gathered to be themselves, humor will be present. Laughter will be heard. If the whole self of each player is a welcome participant in an organic event, humor will be present.

James Carse, Professor Emeritus at NYU, wrote a dense little book called, Finite and Infinite Games, in which he explores the meaning of games and what they say as metaphor. He wrote that there are two kinds of games, finite and infinite. Here is a brief description of each:

Finite games are common and the objective is clear – winning. They have set boundaries, set rules, officials, and a clock. Finite players play with power, and they play to win titles. A finite game always comes to an end.

In an infinite game the objective is continuous play. There are no officials. The rules can change – must change in order for play to be sustained. There is no clock, and the players play with the boundaries in the same way they play with the rules. They play with strength rather than power, and there are no titles. Laughter and joy are intrinsic. An infinite game never ends.

Although Carse had something else in mind when he wrote, Finite and Infinite Games, his metaphor is applicable to our current practice of worship. Worship, it would seem, is a finite game. We have rules to follow, officials to mind, and boundaries that tell us who is in and who is out. The Call to Worship starts the clock, and everyone, it seems, is eyeing the liturgical finish line, aka the benediction. Worship today often feels scripted because it is scripted. In my experience, the Holy Spirit seldom follows the script.

Worship has the potential to lead us into a new way of being – a lighter way of being in these heavy times. I think there is room for humor in our worship today if we are willing to see worship differently – perhaps as an infinite game. Worship that never ends is continuous play. The rules and the boundaries are ours to play with. Those who have titles may resist the change, and the process will be difficult. But there is a place for humor if we allow for it and look for it.

Just remember, “Always look on the bright side of life.”

© Ted Lyddon Hatten

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Ted Lyddon Hatten is hierophant in residence at the Wesley House, Drake University, Des Moines, Iowa. He is an artist, theologian, educator, pastor, father, and life-partner. And, a United Methodist by birth and by choice. He works in a variety of media but is particularly fond of beeswax.

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Content and Context: Getting the Balance Right?

by | April 27, 2011

I recently experienced worship in a very beautiful space. The curator had gone to a massive amount of effort to curate a space that was almost overwhelmingly beautiful and detailed. The building was very ordinary – a 1960’s, 120 degree wedge shape made out of concrete blocks. The curator hung 16 huge 2m x 4m (6ft x 12ft) sheets of handmade paper from wires across the high ceiling. These were painted and projected onto. Stacks of shredded paper, a table made from ice, a large flaming centrepiece of pumice stone, 12 potted flax bushes, various soft coloured lighting washes, a central and one either side video projectors, all contributed to the mystery and wonder of this multi-layered environment in which worship was taking place.

The worship itself was what I would describe as ambient, open-ended and stations-based. In other words after a brief introduction where some of the art and symbolism was introduced, people were encouraged to respond in whatever ways they wanted, to whatever they sensed God was saying to them. The invitation was made to move around and engage with the various ‘activities’ (stations) available in the space in the expectation of also engaging with God. Much more than a weeks work had gone into making the works of art and setting up the space. Probably more like two or three full weeks. It was magnificent, and a fitting recognition of the creativity and beauty of the God we serve.

Not everyone present was Christian. One older Kiwi Bloke from beyond the fringes of The Faith was heard to comment, “I don’t know what that was about but it was bloody good,” Other less colourful but no less sincere comments indicated that many people had encountered God in the worship event. A worship curator can’t ask for more than that. I love this kind of installation based worship. Love it. And this was well done.

The weakness of it, for me, was a shortage of content. I have been known to say that context is more important than content when it comes to worship. I do that mostly for effect, wanting to emphasise the much-neglected context. The strong point of the worship I described above was its context. The weak point was its content. The curator would acknowledge that. He’s a conceptual artist and one of the most creative people I know. That’s his strength.

I just wasn’t quite sure what to grasp onto for reflection during the event. I needed some strong biblical text to form the backbone of the worship installation and therefore give me a ‘reflecting off’ point. In my experience of curating installation worship spaces, many people encounter God in ways that I didn’t imagine when I put the worship together, and on themes not directly connected with the one I put up. That is great. Its how it should be if the trinitarian community of God is present. But as a punter coming in from the outside I like something to grab onto and work over in my mind and heart. A biblical story, theme, text to explore. At least as a starting place. This gives what is otherwise unguided and non-linear worship some shape and content. Something to hang your heart on. Its particularly important when not-Christian or young-Christian punters are engaging in the worship. The content, the Story, is what makes our worship Christian. What takes it beyond an art gallery.

Most worship today is overly content laden. Too little emphasis is given to the context. I am delighted to know that there are at least a few people, like my friend, who are emphasising the context. It’s not one or the other. A good curator emphasises both.

This was originally posted on Creative Worship Tour, July 29, 2009.

image © iStockphoto

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A Necessary Bridge: The Church to the Artists

by | March 29, 2011

I had an epiphany a few years ago: when I tried to live my life as a “Christian” who also was an artist, I found that I was miserable, resentful, and incredibly unhappy with every expression I managed to get out of me on Sundays and throughout the week. They seemed forced, monolithic and yes, despite my best attempts, a little cliche. So, I made up my mind. No matter how much displeasure I drew from my spiritual community or how much discredit I received from those on the inside, I had to acknowledge this basic truth about myself: I was first and foremost an artist. A writer, a thinker, a poet, a musician. And it just so happened that I was a disciple of the best oral Story-teller and bard in history.

I almost never make Christian art. Not out of a conviction not to do so, but because I just find that my ideas don’t lend themselves to what has come to be known and understood as Christian art. But then I find that, sometimes, the poem or the song or the narrative seems to speak to the tension of light and dark, of mortality and transcendence, of redemption better than some of those elements I mine from the caves of Christian culture.

It’s necessary for me to note that I am at the bottom of the artistic food chain. I work alongside those who have proven their mettle – both with skill and with the merit of their idea. They leave me speechless at their fluency in those areas where I am merely learning my vocabulary. In a rather tangential way, it must be noted that these people have transcended that sophisticated cynicism that turns its nose up at artistic education, training, and craft. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that notion that crafting your skill chokes the soul out of your art. On the contrary, those who work the hardest and shed the most seem to have some of the most profound and human artistic expressions.

This group, these artists, are such a crucial piece of my own spiritual formation and my own efforts to be consistent in my soul-identity. Not because we speak the same language – in fact I sometimes feel like a babbling toddler in the presence of some – but because they are not afraid to tear open the curtain on mystery and paradox.

In the last couple hundred years or so, the Church has separated herself from the great artists and culture shapers – partly in an effort to remain “pure” and unworldly, partly out of pragmatism. The time has come for us to build the bridge again. The time has come for us to consider that the artists among us are cloaked prophets and seers, the bearers of a great story about a broken humanity aching for redemption, borne down with images of what is possible, able to interpret an unseen reality with words and images and songs.

But there’s a huge risk in inviting the artistic community to help interpret our weekly liturgies. They’re an unknown quantity and there’s always that chance that it won’t be “Christian” enough. Isn’t it better to ask our creatives from the community to be the leaders in this vision?

Ah, but here’s the rub and something I ask you to consider: what if those in our community who enjoy making art but are not artists are (validly) co-creating in their own spiritual formation but the messy and risky artists “out there” have the means to work towards the spiritual formation of a great majority – those who are consciously moving towards the cross and those who are unaware of their soul-path? What if they have a certain gift to provoke, inspire, awaken, and re-imagine those truths that exist outside of our tangible reality? Isn’t this a prophetic act?

The Church is ready to rebuild this bridge, but needs to be conscious about the conversation. It means that we need to be open to having some views and definitions challenged around spiritual formation, around mystery, and around art.

How would you work to identify and collaborate with the Artists in your context? What would you have to name as “The Risks” in order for this to happen? What is the greatest obstacle for your congregation?

image © iStockphoto

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Chapter 9: Contexts for Worship

by | March 16, 2011

This week’s blog is likely to be a bit disjointed. Christchurch, then Japan, and now a young family friend has died, and I have been asked to take her funeral on Friday. She was ex-church and from a family that is church, ex-church, post-Christian, and atheist.

This afternoon I met with the pastor of a large inner city church. He has decided to insist on one substantial hymn in every worship service at his church.  He will check and alter archaic language where possible and explain unfamiliar metaphors when necessary. But one hymn with substantial theology and clear language. We talked through how and why he would do that and what else was missing from his weekly public worship events.

Yesterday, I offered another pastor some ideas and content for a memorial service for victims of the Christchurch earthquake. International students from 17 English Language Schools are coming together in a church setting to remember and grieve. Most won’t be Christian.

Three different worship events. They are a strong reminder of the different contexts in which we can be called upon to curate worship. While in these cases all will be in church buildings, they are each for very different purposes and will require curating differently. The curation will build on the very different answers to the “what do I want to say” question.

And that is really the point of my setting up the 3 contexts for worship that I offer:

  • community – regular week by week worship events or services.
  • transitional – not quite either of the categories it sits between!
  • guerilla – sacred spaces in public places and the like.

It’s not that these are definitive. Rather they remind us that different contexts – of people as well as place – require different approaches in content and style.  In other words, they need curating differently. When it comes to worship, the cry of the Thai t-shirt seller, “one size fits all” is simply not true. Ever.

We so often forget that the people are the reason we put a worship event together. In particular we do it so that those people will engage with the Trinitarian God in some way.

The funeral and the memorial service are both about death and grief,  but they will provide quite different contexts for worship. The people and the purpose are different. The services wouldn’t be interchangeable even if they were taking place in the same church building. (It’s interesting to ponder whether they would be interchangeable if the congregation was the same in both cases.)

The pastor introducing a hymn into every service has yet another context. Clearly a community one. Within that context the worship events are interchangeable because the people-context and purpose remain very similar week by week.

Until we are able to get our minds around these differences we will continue to sell our people short in the worship events we offer. We will use the same formats and content across everything we do.

A customer is the most important visitor on our premises. He is not dependent on us. We are dependent on him. He is not an interruption in our work. He is the purpose of it. He is not an outsider in our business. He is part of it. We are not doing him a favor by serving him. He is doing us a favor by giving us an opportunity to do so. (Quote attributed to Gandhi.)

It is this people-focus of the curator that recognises the difference in contexts and leads her/him to design and curate appropriately.

A few minutes ago I was asked by email, “I’m curious. How many times have you experienced full blown community worship and stations-based transitional worship all at the same time and in the same place? And that you didn’t curate?”

I haven’t had time to find out what is behind the question, but my answer would be that I have had the great pleasure of experiencing that on maybe 15-20 occasions in the last 5 years. Most times in three regular worship events that I have been part of.

Community worship that has an open edge to it. Worship with communities that are used to creativity and the arts, and questions, and struggle and engagement in the worship they come to. These communities are rare. I expect them to become more common.

Community worship that is also transitional (i.e edging to at least some degree toward Guerilla) requires very carefully made deliberate choices. It’s a wide spread to bridge. My feeling is that it probably ends up sliding more into one category than the other.

In the reprint of The Art of Curating Worship, my friend Linda Parriott at sparkhouse has tidied up the chart on page 151. The first printing wasn’t as clear as it might have been. Sorry about that. Linda still can’t quite understand what I mean by “composite” worship.

“I’m still struggling with ‘composite.’ According to your stated intent, it looks as though you mean a composite as a combination of ‘non-stationed’ and ‘stationed.’ I can’t envision how that would work. I’m wondering if you mean a combination/hybrid of ‘ambient’ and ‘linear.’”

This overlaps the question above about combining community and transitional worship.

By composite I do mean using both stationed and non-stationed elements in the same event. So a community worship event that started and finished sitting in pews, with 30 minutes of stations in between would be “composite.” Depending on its context and intent it could also be community worship that was edging toward transitional (i.e. it had a wider audience in mind than just the usual Sunday morning crew.)

In the end these are “straw worshippers” I have put up. The categories and labels aren’t important. Thinking about the people you curate for, and designing for the various contexts and to support what you want to say is the bottom line.

Before I go back to designing for my funeral context – which could probably be described as “community worship with a transitional edge in a ritualised setting” – I want to share how Katie Strandlund answered the “what do I want to say?” question for a recent worship event she was curating at Journey Church in Nashville.

  • What Do We Want to Say?
  • the light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not understood it
  • Jesus is the Light
  • darkness must be revealed so light can come in
  • Christ calls us to leave behind the darkness of bondage to sin & guilt and walk in the Light
  • we have the opportunity to share the Light through our stories.

Thanks Katie. Maybe you can tell us if the process of answering the question was actually helpful or not?

I’m still taking suggested materials for a Good Friday service. Flick me anything you think could work and I’ll see what I can do to bring it all together. Read more about the project here. Submit your stuff here.

image © iStockphoto

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The Risk of Narrative Worship

by | March 15, 2011

It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story. Nothing in human history has had the sheer energy and transformative reach of story. Since people could sit around a fire, the common will was found through epic song, narrative, myth. As we emerge from the limited power of reasoning, religious separatism, personal autonomy it would seem that we are rediscovering this: this impulse to find our meaning in Story.

I’m a wanna-be anthropologist and historian. Even my kids are nerding out on the History Channel and National Geographic these days. Maybe we should do a little less of it, but for now, it’s “family time.” There is some learning that takes place, and, if there’s any lesson to be found in the long history of humankind it’s our collective value around – even need for – Story. Each culture, each people, each era has used Story to preserve their identity, instill values, provoke the communal imagination, embrace the unseen they believed to exist around them.

Inside Christian history, the role of story can’t be under-estimated. The gospel is rooted in and spread by the Story of a GOD who is relentless and reckless in the loving pursuit of humankind. This shows up in our language, in our traditions, in our own practices of spiritual formation. The mass itself is a “little story,” the passion of Christ retold in symbol and ritual; a narrative you can touch, taste, and smell.

The nuclear power of story seems to be built into our own atomic essence. The American writer Muriel Rukeyser said that “the universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” No doubt the psalmists knew this as well. This narrative language comes pre-loaded in the human operating system that rises above culture, time, economic development. When the powers that be want more control, they bribe the narrators or squash them altogether. It’s always been this way; we just see it more candidly now. Why are the story-tellers so dangerous? Because they know how to take the content that matters, that speaks to the soul and contextualize it for their people to take in the experience.

When planning a worship gathering, the default procedure is to think about how it will work. I get this. I’m hardly pragmatic in most areas of my life, but I love a good sense of flow and transition; focusing on the how appeals to that part of me. In my best moments, I try to forget I’m a worship “leader” and remind myself that I am a story-teller. A narrator. And as such, I have the responsibility of beautifully and honestly shaping our collective narrative into something that invites participation in something bigger.

In order to do this, it’s imperative that we can articulate the difference between content and context.

Content is the stuff that shapes, convicts, disciples us. Context is the vehicle that gets it from our heads to our hearts, or very often in the case of some of contemporary Christian worship, the other way around. Or to put it another way, context is the means by which our souls are opened to the content.

When we think of the worship gathering as a narrative, it changes how we approach our content – giving more accountability – but frames how we interpret it for our context – giving us more freedom. As much as I believe that there isn’t one right way to worship, I do believe, fiercely, that there is a wrong way: any way that denies our shared human story with GOD. When I encounter churches who only consider singing about the Jesus sitting next to you a complete time of worship, or who think that being “creative” means re-inventing the wheel instead of re-contextualizing the traditions of our shared faith, or who opt out of a regular sharing of Eucharist, or who perpetuate individualistic or therapeutic experiences, I have to wonder: which story are they telling?

But when we take The Story – the mysterious narrative of GOD and humankind and creation – and put it into the dangerous hands of the artists, poets, mystics, it takes on an energy, even quite literally, and starts to hit at those uncomfortable, unnameable places. The places where Divine encounter leads us to spiritual formation.

What would you do differently if you perceived yourself as Story-teller instead of worship leader? How does this affect your content and your interpretation for your context? Which story are you willing to tell in your worship gathering?

image © iStockphoto

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