By Peter W. Marty
Elements of the Lord’s day
The wind-down One way or another, worshipers take the church experience with them
D
ismissal is a strange term for describing the closing act of worship. Do people really need permission to leave? At a literal level, the word makes it seem as if we are ordering or allowing worshipers to exit an event of praise that is compulsory. I used to worry that some unsuspecting guest might see that word “dismissal” and think rejection, as in an employee who has just been eliminated from her job. If the term itself seems odd, the liturgical words that follow it are rich with significance: “Go in peace (to love and) serve the Lord.” The hymnbook on my shelf doesn’t include the word “love.” But in our congregation, we tuck it in all the time, believing that love is what gives serving its Christ-likeness. Without love, service to others may offer nice help, assistance or aid. But when love gets mixed in with a servant impulse, a Christian distinctiveness begins to emerge. Once set free, worshipers may linger or leave the building. Staying or slip- ping away fast all depends on everyday tangibles like the presence (or not) of food, the warmth of hospitality, the need to paint the bedroom ceiling back home, or the broadcast of an NFL game already in progress. As the communionware gets washed and the sanctuary lights go dark, the woman who spent two days preparing the bulletin grabs her coat. She peeks into the garbage can near the exit door and sees stacks of the day’s announce- ment fliers stuffed in it. Don’t people take the church home with them? All of that careful planning, scrupulous proofing and copier toner, sitting in the dustbin of history.
People do take something of church with them. As each car pulls out of the
lot, buzzing conversations move into high gear. Even if you’re the only one in the vehicle, your head is talking. If the worship experience was stirring and memorable, you enjoy a stimulating exchange. Sermon points get discussed. Implications for the coming week come to life. You wonder if there is any- thing you can do to stop global warming, or the bad vibes that persist between you and your friend.
If the worship experience lacked intentionality or luster, the car conversa-
tion spirals into critique. You may know the routine. It resembles the banter of a radio call-in show after the home team loses badly. Armchair quarterbacks dial in to complain about what went wrong or what they didn’t care for. For some of us, the Sunday afternoon nap is a highlight of the week. It’s all but mandated by God. “God makes me lie down in green pastures.” For others, Sunday afternoon is the momentary lull before the storm of Monday. Either way, those who have been to worship know the renewing quality of the Sabbath. They can sense a restoration from exhaustion, a freedom from compulsion, and a certain relief from restlessness. The deep breaths that go with good worship and good play form what theo- logian Barbara Brown Taylor calls “the weekly practice of eternal life.” We quit living under the tyranny of obligation. The “musts” of our many required tasks fade into the background. Admittedly, plenty of people skip worship altogether. They see little point in an exercise that demonstrates no apparent productivity or efficiency. As highly
goal-oriented individuals, these ones know how to express what they’re after: “Sunday is my day. It’s the one day I have for myself.” It doesn’t pay to argue with such opinion. Others of
us simply retain the strong sense that worship offers perspective to even our leisure, play and pleasure-seeking experiences. It helps keep them from collapsing into mere self-indulgence. By bedtime on the Sabbath, worship is mostly a distant memory. The resting of our head on the pillow does offer a final chance to determine the difference that God can make in the coming week. An 18th century rabbi named
Chaim Ben Attar used to suggest that God decides on every Sabbath whether or not to continue the creation for the next six days. That’s a provocative idea. It makes me wonder whether our own delight in the Sabbath, and our steady commit- ment to remem- bering who we are, might help justify the continued existence of the world.
Marty is a pastor of St. Paul Lutheran Church, Davenport, Iowa, and a regular columnist for The Lutheran.
Tenth in a series of 10
[T]hose who have been to worship know the renewing quality of the Sab- bath. They can sense a restoration from exhaustion, a freedom from compulsion, and a certain relief from restlessness.
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