A belated thought for Trinity Sunday...
In recent weeks, one question that has been revolving around my mind has been this: can we, in our own voices as 21st century Christians, recite the Nicene Creed? As a Christian with some concern for both catholicity and orthodoxy, that the question should occur at all is worrying. I've been led to it by arguably the most important clause, which declares that the Lord Jesus Christ is "of one substance with the Father" - that is to say, homoousios. The significance of this word for the debates over Trinitarian theology in the fourth century, and therefore for all subsequent Christian thinking, can hardly be overstated. This was, ultimately, the dividing line between the Nicene party, which was eventually triumphant as the standard of Christian orthodoxy, and the Arian heresy and all those who would compromise with it. It really matters. It answers the question 'is Jesus really God?' with an emphatic yes.
So why might we not be able to say it with our own voices?
The problem is that the Nicene definition operates within a particular metaphysical view of the world which is alien to us. The idea of 'substance', which lies at the heart of the debate, is just not one that exists in contemporary ontology. The language of three 'persons' 'subsisting' within one 'substance' is alien to us. I'm not at all suggesting that we should ditch the creed; we can understand it, if we do the work, and we can understand what was meant by it and why it mattered and therefore continues to matter. We can (and should) say it in their voices, or perhaps in the voice of the church universal, but I don't think we can say it in our voices. I don't think that indicates a fundamental problem; the metaphysics in which the Trinitarian dogma was expressed was never drawn from the gospel. It was the scaffolding, and if that scaffolding no longer works for us, we can move on, albeit maintaining the appropriate respect for the language in which the essential truth has been communicated and safeguarded in the past.
The question, really, is 'how do express this truth in a post-metaphysical age?' How do we say it in our voices?
I do think it's something we need to think about. The threat of a bald monotheism is always lurking, where Father, Son and Holy Spirit disappear into the mush of an undifferentiated godhead. And then the gospel becomes impossible; the story makes no sense without these characters. However, the bigger issue on my mind at the moment is how we avoid tritheism. I've heard a number of people teaching on the subject of the Trinity in a way which, to my mind, does not adequately guard against this danger - perhaps because more effort is going into watching the other door to ensure monotheism doesn't sneak in. Still, it is not sufficient to say that Father, Son and Holy Spirit are one because of their relationships; social Trinitarianism is built on an overly-literalistic (and anachronistic) interpretation of the word 'person'. Three persons in relationship is true but insufficient as an expression of the unity of God. Also, any system which can allow God to be described as a 'committee' - I have heard this taught - is wide open to tritheism, if it is not already in the middle of it.
So my question is, if 'substance' doesn't work for us, how do we say 'God is One' in a way which will shut out tritheism fully and finally whilst allowing the telling of the gospel story with all its inter-Trinitarian interactions?
Monday, June 04, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Thoughts approaching Pentecost
1. The prayer for the Spirit, whether addressed directly to him ("Come, Holy Spirit") or to the Father and Son ("Send your Spirit"), is the third of three 'prayers of locomotion' which the Christian prays. The first is "your Kingdom come"; the second is "come, Lord Jesus". The second is a prayer for the ultimate fulfilment of the first. God's Kingdom rule comes when God's King comes, and so ultimately we look to the coming of Christ and the end of this age for the answer to our prayers. When we pray for the coming of the Holy Spirit, we are looking for the provisional, penultimate entry of the Kingdom into the circumstances of this age, of our daily lives and the situations we know. Pentecost itself points beyond itself, to the time of the restoration of all things. Bearing this in mind will help us to remember that even on the 'Spirit's day' Jesus is the final word.
2. It may be (in a dry and dusty part of the brain) that the language of "coming" has to be understood metaphorically - after all, the Spirit is everywhere and in everything. Even if this is so, we must acknowledge that the metaphor is absolutely appropriate. The idea of coming establishes two poles - there, where the Spirit is and is at work, and here, where his presence and work are needed. (The Lord's Prayer is explicit on this - "...on earth as it is in heaven"). It is the 'movement' from there to here for which we pray.
3. We can be hopeful in praying for this movement, for at least two reasons. Firstly, Christ has promised to send the Spirit from the Father. Secondly, the fact that we are praying shows that even here, whilst it is definitely not there, the Spirit is still (and already) present. We pray only at his prompting.
4. Although the dove has understandably been adopted as the symbol of the Spirit, the more prevalent Scriptural images are fire and a mighty wind. Perhaps the dove is better suited to the brand of mysticism we prefer, or perhaps we just like the peaceful imagery more. Perhaps fire threatens us - does a fiery pneumatology imply a fiery ecclesia? Or at least a community where more sin is burnt away than we are happy with? And a rushing wind sounds perhaps a little more out of control than we would like?
5. Speaking of mysticism, let's have none of it. Let's remember that the Spirit is not formless, in the sense of a spiritual force that twists and bends this way and that. As the Spirit of the Father and Son, he takes what is theirs and gives it to us. Every time we see something desirable in Christ, every time something of the gospel rings true, every time we take a stand for God's sake against some sin - internal or external - there is the work of the Spirit. Mysticism is the attempt to have a direct experience of God which bypasses the human and historical Christ; the Spirit of Christ is not to be thought of as in any way facilitating such a foolish enterprise.
6. We are in need - oh, how we are in need! We are and have nothing unless the Spirit comes to us.
2. It may be (in a dry and dusty part of the brain) that the language of "coming" has to be understood metaphorically - after all, the Spirit is everywhere and in everything. Even if this is so, we must acknowledge that the metaphor is absolutely appropriate. The idea of coming establishes two poles - there, where the Spirit is and is at work, and here, where his presence and work are needed. (The Lord's Prayer is explicit on this - "...on earth as it is in heaven"). It is the 'movement' from there to here for which we pray.
3. We can be hopeful in praying for this movement, for at least two reasons. Firstly, Christ has promised to send the Spirit from the Father. Secondly, the fact that we are praying shows that even here, whilst it is definitely not there, the Spirit is still (and already) present. We pray only at his prompting.
4. Although the dove has understandably been adopted as the symbol of the Spirit, the more prevalent Scriptural images are fire and a mighty wind. Perhaps the dove is better suited to the brand of mysticism we prefer, or perhaps we just like the peaceful imagery more. Perhaps fire threatens us - does a fiery pneumatology imply a fiery ecclesia? Or at least a community where more sin is burnt away than we are happy with? And a rushing wind sounds perhaps a little more out of control than we would like?
5. Speaking of mysticism, let's have none of it. Let's remember that the Spirit is not formless, in the sense of a spiritual force that twists and bends this way and that. As the Spirit of the Father and Son, he takes what is theirs and gives it to us. Every time we see something desirable in Christ, every time something of the gospel rings true, every time we take a stand for God's sake against some sin - internal or external - there is the work of the Spirit. Mysticism is the attempt to have a direct experience of God which bypasses the human and historical Christ; the Spirit of Christ is not to be thought of as in any way facilitating such a foolish enterprise.
6. We are in need - oh, how we are in need! We are and have nothing unless the Spirit comes to us.
Saturday, April 07, 2012
Disappointment
So, this is it.
I am not sure, now, exactly what we were expecting. Some sort of new beginning, I suppose. It always felt like a new beginning, to me at least, whenever he spoke. There was something fresh about it, as if I was listening to a voice that wasn't touched or tinged by all the dirt of centuries of human language. But then again, sometimes I thought it was an old voice - sometimes, perhaps, it felt more like days of old than a new beginning. Like Elijah, or one of them; those men who spoke so fearlessly to kings and thundered the word of God to Israel. Except when they came for Elijah, he burned them with fire from heaven. I cannot hear from anyone that our Teacher put up any fight, or spoke to the governor with any words of power. It would have been different in the olden days. They had fire back then.
We had fire, for a little while. We were hot with it. But now he is cold in the grave, and we have gone cold with him.
I don't suppose there is any point in hanging around. Somehow we all gathered together, afterwards, but it was more out of fear than anything else. Not sure what we would have done if they had come for us. Probably nothing. The fire has gone out of us. We huddled together as if we could maybe - just maybe - feel the last warmth of the dying embers. But now I think even that has gone. There will be no farewells, I think. We are embarrassed in each other's company. In truth, I do not know these people. They are not the same people we walked in with, just a week ago. I dare not look them in the eye; thankfully, they avoid my gaze as carefully as I avoid theirs.
No, we will just slip away, as I suppose every one else will in time, when the truth sinks in, and they see that it is ended once for all. The world didn't change as we thought it might, and now it's time for us to get back to the world. Let the dreams die. At least there will be no packing; he called us to follow him with nothing, and now nothing is all we have with us. For today, the empty Sabbath, the restless rest. Tomorrow we will slip away.
It's a long walk back to Emmaus.
I am not sure, now, exactly what we were expecting. Some sort of new beginning, I suppose. It always felt like a new beginning, to me at least, whenever he spoke. There was something fresh about it, as if I was listening to a voice that wasn't touched or tinged by all the dirt of centuries of human language. But then again, sometimes I thought it was an old voice - sometimes, perhaps, it felt more like days of old than a new beginning. Like Elijah, or one of them; those men who spoke so fearlessly to kings and thundered the word of God to Israel. Except when they came for Elijah, he burned them with fire from heaven. I cannot hear from anyone that our Teacher put up any fight, or spoke to the governor with any words of power. It would have been different in the olden days. They had fire back then.
We had fire, for a little while. We were hot with it. But now he is cold in the grave, and we have gone cold with him.
I don't suppose there is any point in hanging around. Somehow we all gathered together, afterwards, but it was more out of fear than anything else. Not sure what we would have done if they had come for us. Probably nothing. The fire has gone out of us. We huddled together as if we could maybe - just maybe - feel the last warmth of the dying embers. But now I think even that has gone. There will be no farewells, I think. We are embarrassed in each other's company. In truth, I do not know these people. They are not the same people we walked in with, just a week ago. I dare not look them in the eye; thankfully, they avoid my gaze as carefully as I avoid theirs.
No, we will just slip away, as I suppose every one else will in time, when the truth sinks in, and they see that it is ended once for all. The world didn't change as we thought it might, and now it's time for us to get back to the world. Let the dreams die. At least there will be no packing; he called us to follow him with nothing, and now nothing is all we have with us. For today, the empty Sabbath, the restless rest. Tomorrow we will slip away.
It's a long walk back to Emmaus.
Monday, April 02, 2012
(Super)historical Jesus
One of the great things about the annual remembrance of the Passion is that it forces us to recall that Christianity is about events. That is to say, what we remember is an occurrence, a thing that happened. The Gospel is not a message based on someone's enlightened thoughts about God; it is not even a message sent straight from heaven. It is a message about things that took place, in real space and real time. The Paschal celebration helps us to remember that. There is time before it, leading up to it, and there is time afterwards, leading away. We celebrate in a particular place, with particular people - a space that is next to other particular places, inhabited by other particular people.
This is a long-winded way of saying that Christianity is historical. When Jesus died and rose, he did so in reality, in a moment contiguous with other moments and forming part of a series that includes this moment now, in a space located within that same space in which we live. The Gospel is a report of that occurrence, coupled to an explanation of its significance. It is about history. That is why the only worthwhile apologetic for the Christian is a historical one. Did this happen, or did it not? It is this sort of apologetic which is used by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15, and before Agrippa. This stuff happened. (If it did not, then Christians are pitiful, pathetic creatures).
Having said that, how do we avoid Lessing's ditch? Lessing's problem was that as a good child of the Enlightenment he felt a universal could not be proved by a particular; specifically, reports of particular miracles, which reach me by perfectly ordinary and non-miraculous testimony, cannot establish the truth of the Gospel. If all that matters is history, how can I get over the intervening centuries and believe in a report of a thing the like of which I have never witnessed? If the Gospel is a report of a historical occurrence, why should I believe it when it resembles nothing else in history?
I think part of the answer is to recognise that when the apostolic testimony asserts that these things happened, it does not mean to maintain that they happened in just the same way as all other things. Perhaps a useful way to put it would be this: the events reported in the Gospel happened within history, but they are not themselves historical events; that is to say, they are not events which stand in an ordinary relation to the other things happening around them. They are not explicable by reference to their setting, or to the other events occurring at the time. In fact, whilst at one level the resurrection of Jesus is something that happens in history, at another level it is a thing that happens to history. This one point in space and time brackets and encompasses all the other points, including this one now. If there is an epistemological ditch, there is no ontological one. A historical apologetic can get us to the point of saying: there is a hole here - a thing that does not fit into history. We cannot explain what came before and after in terms of the ordinary historical sequence. And at that point, a lot will depend on whether we are willing to consider that history is neither so impregnable nor so linear as we thought.
This is a long-winded way of saying that Christianity is historical. When Jesus died and rose, he did so in reality, in a moment contiguous with other moments and forming part of a series that includes this moment now, in a space located within that same space in which we live. The Gospel is a report of that occurrence, coupled to an explanation of its significance. It is about history. That is why the only worthwhile apologetic for the Christian is a historical one. Did this happen, or did it not? It is this sort of apologetic which is used by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15, and before Agrippa. This stuff happened. (If it did not, then Christians are pitiful, pathetic creatures).
Having said that, how do we avoid Lessing's ditch? Lessing's problem was that as a good child of the Enlightenment he felt a universal could not be proved by a particular; specifically, reports of particular miracles, which reach me by perfectly ordinary and non-miraculous testimony, cannot establish the truth of the Gospel. If all that matters is history, how can I get over the intervening centuries and believe in a report of a thing the like of which I have never witnessed? If the Gospel is a report of a historical occurrence, why should I believe it when it resembles nothing else in history?
I think part of the answer is to recognise that when the apostolic testimony asserts that these things happened, it does not mean to maintain that they happened in just the same way as all other things. Perhaps a useful way to put it would be this: the events reported in the Gospel happened within history, but they are not themselves historical events; that is to say, they are not events which stand in an ordinary relation to the other things happening around them. They are not explicable by reference to their setting, or to the other events occurring at the time. In fact, whilst at one level the resurrection of Jesus is something that happens in history, at another level it is a thing that happens to history. This one point in space and time brackets and encompasses all the other points, including this one now. If there is an epistemological ditch, there is no ontological one. A historical apologetic can get us to the point of saying: there is a hole here - a thing that does not fit into history. We cannot explain what came before and after in terms of the ordinary historical sequence. And at that point, a lot will depend on whether we are willing to consider that history is neither so impregnable nor so linear as we thought.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Building Blocks (2)
To pick up where we left off...
4. Prayer. I struggle with corporate prayer, to be honest. I find it hard to feel involved if someone is leading prayer from the front; I find it hard to feel like I'm really praying if I am leading prayer from the front; I find it hard not to slip into a fairly mindless ritualism with liturgical prayers. Still, I think the gospel demands it, as our common response, our speaking to God in reply to his speaking to us. I am not sure how it can be well done. One thing I think we should steer clear of over-using is the 'time of private reflection'. We can pray by ourselves at home; in the church, let's pray together. I think I favour a mix of brief, front-led prayers, with occasional liturgical prayers. Either way, I'd like them to be well written, and not extempore. (I do not always keep this rule myself, and I always regret it when I don't).
5. Confession of faith. Our culture, both inside and outside of the church, is riddled with subjectivism and relativism. In that context, perhaps more than ever before, we need to be responding to the gospel by declaring our faith together. It doesn't matter so much how it is done, but I would favour having two 'creeds' - one would be the Apostles' Creed or the Nicene Creed, which would help to remind the church of its catholicity, and the other would be a local creed, which would express the truth as it particularly needs to be said in the context within which that church finds itself. We could alternate between them.
6. Some expression of community. It matters that our Sunday worship be primarily on the vertical dimension; that we lift up our hearts, and that we expect God's blessing to come down. It is right that we go to church to meet with God. But we do it with other people, and they are the people into whose fellowship we have been called when we were called into fellowship with Christ. There is a danger here that this becomes tokenism, and an excuse for not being community in the rest of the week - just offering a sign of the peace on a Sunday. Still, some sign of fellowship, something which deliberately orients us for some part of our time together towards each other must be a useful primer for the rest of life. It may just be that we incorporate the coffee time into the service, rather than just leaving it as the no-man's land between 'Amen' and first gear (not my phrase, but I like it). Perhaps we eat together on a Sunday more regularly. Perhaps we restart the tradition of the Agape feast, and incorporate the Lord's Supper into a fellowship meal. Something like that.
7. The Lord's Supper. We take bread and wine together. I'd have this every week; it should be at least a couple of times a month. At the level of straightforward obedience, it's a Dominical command. It is also the most profound way we can reflect on the gospel together, and the most profound way we can feed on the gospel, taking it into ourselves in a way that will shape us for the rest of life. In the churches I'm most familiar with, the Supper often feels like something tacked on rather than central, like we're doing it because we know we're meant to, but we're not sure why. I'd like to see it more central. I'd also like to have less words around the Supper. We talk a lot in evangelicalism, and it would be nice if there was this one things that we could do simply. I don't see that much more beyond the words of institution (with a very light fencing of the table) needs to be said.
I'm out of things. Anyone got any more?
4. Prayer. I struggle with corporate prayer, to be honest. I find it hard to feel involved if someone is leading prayer from the front; I find it hard to feel like I'm really praying if I am leading prayer from the front; I find it hard not to slip into a fairly mindless ritualism with liturgical prayers. Still, I think the gospel demands it, as our common response, our speaking to God in reply to his speaking to us. I am not sure how it can be well done. One thing I think we should steer clear of over-using is the 'time of private reflection'. We can pray by ourselves at home; in the church, let's pray together. I think I favour a mix of brief, front-led prayers, with occasional liturgical prayers. Either way, I'd like them to be well written, and not extempore. (I do not always keep this rule myself, and I always regret it when I don't).
5. Confession of faith. Our culture, both inside and outside of the church, is riddled with subjectivism and relativism. In that context, perhaps more than ever before, we need to be responding to the gospel by declaring our faith together. It doesn't matter so much how it is done, but I would favour having two 'creeds' - one would be the Apostles' Creed or the Nicene Creed, which would help to remind the church of its catholicity, and the other would be a local creed, which would express the truth as it particularly needs to be said in the context within which that church finds itself. We could alternate between them.
6. Some expression of community. It matters that our Sunday worship be primarily on the vertical dimension; that we lift up our hearts, and that we expect God's blessing to come down. It is right that we go to church to meet with God. But we do it with other people, and they are the people into whose fellowship we have been called when we were called into fellowship with Christ. There is a danger here that this becomes tokenism, and an excuse for not being community in the rest of the week - just offering a sign of the peace on a Sunday. Still, some sign of fellowship, something which deliberately orients us for some part of our time together towards each other must be a useful primer for the rest of life. It may just be that we incorporate the coffee time into the service, rather than just leaving it as the no-man's land between 'Amen' and first gear (not my phrase, but I like it). Perhaps we eat together on a Sunday more regularly. Perhaps we restart the tradition of the Agape feast, and incorporate the Lord's Supper into a fellowship meal. Something like that.
7. The Lord's Supper. We take bread and wine together. I'd have this every week; it should be at least a couple of times a month. At the level of straightforward obedience, it's a Dominical command. It is also the most profound way we can reflect on the gospel together, and the most profound way we can feed on the gospel, taking it into ourselves in a way that will shape us for the rest of life. In the churches I'm most familiar with, the Supper often feels like something tacked on rather than central, like we're doing it because we know we're meant to, but we're not sure why. I'd like to see it more central. I'd also like to have less words around the Supper. We talk a lot in evangelicalism, and it would be nice if there was this one things that we could do simply. I don't see that much more beyond the words of institution (with a very light fencing of the table) needs to be said.
I'm out of things. Anyone got any more?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Building Blocks
What things should take place when we gather to worship? If I am a service leader sitting down to prepare, what are the ingredients which I have to combine into an order of 'service'? Here are a few things:
1. A sermon. If the gospel isn't preached and applied, it isn't Christian worship. Of course, the gospel can be preached from many starting points - as many and as varied as the multiple witness of Scripture - and applied into many situations - as many and as varied as the lives of all the congregants. But it must be preached, both as a theological and a practical necessity; the former because the gospel alone is the foundation of our approach to God in worship, and the latter because we need the gospel for daily living.
2. Scripture reading. My own feeling is that the gospel demands of churches in my context that they ramp up the amount and quality of Scripture reading involved in their gatherings. We live in a time when the basic storyline of Scripture, and the content of particular Scriptural texts, are generally not well known within the church, and completely unknown outside it. That leaves God's people vulnerable to being misled from the pulpit, because they are not equipped to weigh up what is said. It also leaves them ill-prepared for personal devotional study of the Bible. My own preference would be for two or three decent length readings from Scripture, besides the passage which is being preached in the sermon. We need to be saturated with Bible. In particular, my own feeling is that it makes good theological and practical sense to open our worship with Scripture, a role for which the Psalms are very well suited. Theologically, it reminds us that God initiates, and the first thing we do is hear; practically, it prepares our hearts and gets us into the right frame of mind for worship.
3. Singing. Scripture is full of singing as the right response to God's saving action, whether that is at the Red Sea or in the church. I worry when Christians won't sing, or don't sing enthusiastically. Partly this is just related to my experience - having been in church all my life, I stopped singing as a teenager, and only resumed when I was converted, so singing to me is associated with new birth. But then, singing is associated with new birth in Scripture as well! At the most basic level, joyful hearts open singing lips. There are some people, I know, who are worried that music is emotionally manipulative, and are concerned about getting carried away emotionally. That is possible, but I think it is far less of a danger than a cold, emotionless worship. Music, I am convinced, is amongst other things given to stir up the emotions in us which are appropriate to the gospel. In the sorts of churches I generally attend, I can't help feeling there is not enough singing, which concerns me because it doesn't reflect a gospel heart and a gospel aesthetic. Let's sing more.
Some more tomorrow...
1. A sermon. If the gospel isn't preached and applied, it isn't Christian worship. Of course, the gospel can be preached from many starting points - as many and as varied as the multiple witness of Scripture - and applied into many situations - as many and as varied as the lives of all the congregants. But it must be preached, both as a theological and a practical necessity; the former because the gospel alone is the foundation of our approach to God in worship, and the latter because we need the gospel for daily living.
2. Scripture reading. My own feeling is that the gospel demands of churches in my context that they ramp up the amount and quality of Scripture reading involved in their gatherings. We live in a time when the basic storyline of Scripture, and the content of particular Scriptural texts, are generally not well known within the church, and completely unknown outside it. That leaves God's people vulnerable to being misled from the pulpit, because they are not equipped to weigh up what is said. It also leaves them ill-prepared for personal devotional study of the Bible. My own preference would be for two or three decent length readings from Scripture, besides the passage which is being preached in the sermon. We need to be saturated with Bible. In particular, my own feeling is that it makes good theological and practical sense to open our worship with Scripture, a role for which the Psalms are very well suited. Theologically, it reminds us that God initiates, and the first thing we do is hear; practically, it prepares our hearts and gets us into the right frame of mind for worship.
3. Singing. Scripture is full of singing as the right response to God's saving action, whether that is at the Red Sea or in the church. I worry when Christians won't sing, or don't sing enthusiastically. Partly this is just related to my experience - having been in church all my life, I stopped singing as a teenager, and only resumed when I was converted, so singing to me is associated with new birth. But then, singing is associated with new birth in Scripture as well! At the most basic level, joyful hearts open singing lips. There are some people, I know, who are worried that music is emotionally manipulative, and are concerned about getting carried away emotionally. That is possible, but I think it is far less of a danger than a cold, emotionless worship. Music, I am convinced, is amongst other things given to stir up the emotions in us which are appropriate to the gospel. In the sorts of churches I generally attend, I can't help feeling there is not enough singing, which concerns me because it doesn't reflect a gospel heart and a gospel aesthetic. Let's sing more.
Some more tomorrow...
Monday, March 26, 2012
Joyful worship
In theory, I don't see why Christians can't gather to worship at any time on any day of the week. In certain contexts, where Sunday is a normal working day, it may be necessary to meet regularly on a Saturday. However, Sunday morning has the advantage that it is resurrection morning, and that sets the tone. Every Sunday is a little Easter, and therefore every Sunday gathering to worship is a celebration. A few observations:
1. It seems appropriate that we have a Sunday Celebration rather than a Sunday Service. The former reminds us that our primary purpose is to come together to rejoice in what God has done for us in Christ; the latter sounds like we are coming together to do something for God. In fact, it is our celebrating on Sunday that will empower our service Monday through Saturday.
2. The appropriate tone of Christian worship is always joy. Even when the subject matter of the sermon, or the theme of the day, is something dark - perhaps mourning over sin, or the suffering of death - it occurs within the bracket of joy because it happens on Sunday morning. We live this side of the resurrection, and we know a joy that puts all sadness in its place. The structure and content of our meetings together should reflect this.
3. Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of joy and its expression, least of all a misplaced concern for reverence. Yes, our approach to God must be in awe and reverence, but too often this is a front under which under which worship is turned into a sombre exercise. Does our worship encourage and display joy?
1. It seems appropriate that we have a Sunday Celebration rather than a Sunday Service. The former reminds us that our primary purpose is to come together to rejoice in what God has done for us in Christ; the latter sounds like we are coming together to do something for God. In fact, it is our celebrating on Sunday that will empower our service Monday through Saturday.
2. The appropriate tone of Christian worship is always joy. Even when the subject matter of the sermon, or the theme of the day, is something dark - perhaps mourning over sin, or the suffering of death - it occurs within the bracket of joy because it happens on Sunday morning. We live this side of the resurrection, and we know a joy that puts all sadness in its place. The structure and content of our meetings together should reflect this.
3. Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of joy and its expression, least of all a misplaced concern for reverence. Yes, our approach to God must be in awe and reverence, but too often this is a front under which under which worship is turned into a sombre exercise. Does our worship encourage and display joy?
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