I went to grad school in English because I loved reading. More specifically, I loved the novel. I read and appreciated poetry and drama, but I loved the novel. I loved the depth, the breadth of possibility, the exploration of the human condition far beyond what anyone could safely—not to mention ethically—experience in the real world. I loved everything about the art form that the novel is.
There are many reasons that I am an Anglo-Catholic. But one of those reasons is that I love the art form that our liturgy is. I know that there are many who shy away from calling liturgy art, because it sounds showy or performative or trivial, but I think that characterization undervalues art: art as transformative, art as meaning-making, art as a fundamental human response to God’s act of creation. It also evinces a troubling dissociation of God from art, as though God did not have a hand in all things beautiful. Further, it’s a theologically indefensible position when Psalm 95:1-2, Psalm 96:1-2, Psalm 98:4-6, Colossians 3:16, Ephesians 5:18-20 and so many other places in scripture tell us to make music and songs to praise God, and while also the poetry and prose of Scripture are art in themselves! Collaboratively, over many, many years we as a church have evolved this art form that we call liturgy. This art is one of the offerings that we give out of gratitude to the source and ground of our existence.
I am in love with our collaborative artwork. As much as I respect other people’s liturgical orientations and preferences, often when I am in low ritual spaces, I am reminded of when I was 17, and just beginning to enjoy opera and I went to opera in the park, not knowing it was sung, but not staged. It was just opera singers in formal wear on the stage. No sets, no costumes, no acting—for me, it felt lacking, but the delight on the faces of the others sitting there listening highlights the glorious diversity of what brings us joy in art.
Many years later, I learned that opera in particular is often referred to as Gesamtkunstwerk—a total work of art. To qualify as Gesamtkunstwerk, an art form must make use of, or strive to make use of, all the media possible: so opera’s participation is clear: instruments, voice, costume, set, poetry, prose, drama. I believe that liturgy, our Anglo-Catholic liturgy in specific, surpasses even opera’s position as a more total work of art. Yes, our liturgy uses sound in so many different kinds of ways: organ, bell, and voice in speech and song. Our liturgy uses bodies, we stand, we sit, we bow, we kneel, we process, we shake hands, we cross ourselves. We are each dancers in that way. We are each singers in that way. We are each elocutionists in that way. Yet, liturgy—completely focused beyond itself—contains even more media because it includes worship and has worship as its end. Because of this, we are painting with more colors than art is, and we are sounding more pitches and rhythms than music, and we are doing more than all the other arts because one of the media in which our art is made is love. One of the media in which our art is made is adoration. It is care. It is fiercely breathing in God’s love and breathing it out as love for all humanity.
That, more that anything else is why excellence matters. It does not matter as a measure of our own perfection; it does not matter as a field for competition or judgment, nor as a performance for the delight or appreciation of an audience. It does not matter as a source of shame or anxiety for those who get it wrong. It does not matter because excellence will make the Holy Spirit “show up” any more or any less. It matters because when we offer the the movements, the sounds, and the signs with our whole selves, and when they become become clean and fluid the true beauty of the art form can emerge. The Holy Spirit will be present in our liturgy regardless of its technical excellence, and yet we strive for excellence in order to fully express this offering of our selves, our souls and bodies in crafting worship as our most fragrant offering to God, and we don’t want one of our offerings to be halfhearted. But if our striving for excellence sacrifices love in any amount to achieve “success” in one of the other media—word, scent, choreography, music—is unacceptable. Our ultimate success is measured against our twofold commandment: love God, and love our neighbor.
I am in love with the totalness of our liturgical art. I know my talents and skills are not equal to it, and that stands to me both for humility and aspiration. There is also another layer of humility, though, in that I know I will never be equal to it. That would mean that I—or we—had decided and accepted that—through our own efforts—we could create something that would be equal to the task of expressing all the praise, worship, gratitude, and love that we have for God. Every offering will fall short. And that’s okay, because as Merton wrote: “I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.” Our liturgy is not about perfection, the same way that human life is not about perfection, but about striving, and failing, and resting in God’s grace when we do, and getting up and trying again.
This contrast, between the beauty of the art form and the flawed nature of humans inscribes a kind of paradox. We make music, we follow choreography, we elocute and when it is well-executed the beauty is exquisite. I have never been professionally involved in the performing arts, but my impression is that the beauty of them is often engendered by a kind of rigidity of training and a fierceness in striving for perfection. We read—and here I’m thinking of Gelsey Kirkland’s notorious memoir Dancing on my Grave—that ballet dancers have been downright tortured into making beautiful art, and I take no position on whether that does or should detract from the beauty of that art. But enforcing that kind of rigid precision on liturgy runs the risk of emptying it of the elements of love, care, gratitude, praise that we need to fulful our twofold commandment—a commandment that is prior to any liturgical design. If we sacrifice love for each other in service of the artwork we’re lifting up to God, we harm that artwork.
I am in love with the collaborative nature of our liturgy. I can, and have, celebrated the Mass with only one other person in the room, and that does have its own beauty. But no one can do this Anglo-Catholic liturgy alone. There are parts that I direct as celebrant, but there are so many other parts that must be contributed by the others in the party. I cannot elevate the host and swing the thurible at the same time. I cannot cue the transition from Offertory proper to Offertory motet, not only because I am occupied when those things happen, but because it’s the musicians who have worked on the skill of musical timing—it’s their skills, not my cue, that make that transition work. The preacher walks to the pulpit and paces their sermon based on their own experience and intuition. The altar liturgy collaborates with the choir liturgy which collaborates with the congregation. We all have important parts.
None of us will ever be completely equal to our liturgy—just as we remain unworthy to gather up the crumbs under God’s table. Just as we proclaim our unworthiness to offer any sacrifice, and we beseech that God will accept both us and our worship. The learning curve can be steep for those who are new to it, even for those who have a fair bit of experience. No ballet company would put new dancers up front quite as fast as I’ve come up front, but as a church we no longer as an institution to have the luxury of new priests, new acolytes, new sacred ministers, taking time to observe and learn and study and be quizzed and be rehearsed before they jump in. It’s just the moment we’re at. So, we build the plane as we fly. We repeat, we study, we practice. So with every Introit, I find a new opportunity to get the procession a little more fluid. With every repetition, a chance to stand with a little more confidence. To stay absolutely present with every word and pitch. With every offertory, I have another chance, as the focus shifts from the altar liturgy to the choir liturgy, to be so at one with the whole room that I can feel in the back of my skull when the music will start. Gradually, I learn to be “off book” where it is appropriate. Every time, I learn more about pacing, because the rhythm of the Mass is what ties together the feet and the voices, the altar and the choir, because when the rhythm of the service weaves one part into the next without jarring transition, something truly transcendent can and does emerge.