The performing arts have a legitimate place in public religious ceremonies. In fact, a religious ceremony is in itself performance art of the highest order. The preparation and presentation of a piece of music is an intensely spiritual exercise. I refer to spirituality not as something otherworldly, but rather as the very human effort to be compassionately present to the people, events, and tasks that I encounter every day. As an organist, harpsichordist and choral director I must be very awake, attentive and present to each moment in order to learn, teach and perform the music in a convincing way. As well, and in order to maintain that presence, I must, in a certain sense, forget what came just before so that my attention is fully focused on the details of the present moment. This presence and wakefulness is something worth striving for in general, and musical practice is a good way to learn the mental, physical and spiritual skills involved.
In many people’s eyes, "performance" in a church setting equals showing off or self-glorification, putting oneself where God belongs, and I have heard it argued that to focus attention on the music is to practice idolatry. A custodian's careful and focused work of keeping the church clean is not seen as idolatry, and yet, from a certain perspective, the whole scene of churches with their buildings, music, and programs is idolatrous to the core. As someone who knows intimately what is involved in preparing and delivering, as well as receiving and appreciating a good performance, I am well aware of the pitfalls of the musician's ego. The point I wish to make though, is that the very acts of thorough preparation, rehearsal, and performance can in and of themselves be acts of worship, and invitations to worship. If I am prepared for, and present to, the tasks of practicing and performing, I can offer my best efforts, in the words of J. S. Bach, "for the glory of God and the recreation of the mind." In any truly good musical performance, it will be abundantly clear that the performer is spending his or her efforts to draw our attention primarily to the music itself, and not so much to his or her own skill and artistry.
Church services are performance art at its best. We are putting on a show and God is the audience. We dramatize the body of Christ (the anointed body) so that we become the body of Christ. In Anglican churches, among others, where we have consistent and (hopefully) conscious use of the same order and prayers from week to week, the element of performance is heightened and intensified. Every time I say certain recurring prayers, sing or play certain songs, or perform certain actions, it means something new and different. This is one of the main reasons I became an Anglican to begin with. I love the collective dramatization of the story that we all share which culminates in the communion meal.
I am now a full-time music student here at ÎÛÎÛ²ÝÝ®ÊÓƵ, getting ready to go into the Master's program in performance. I also have been employed for the first time in my life as Director of Music of a small but lively and active Anglican church in St-Lambert. This group of people loves music. However, there is some discomfort with the perception that the choir and I are sometimes putting on a show, a discomfort that I myself have felt in the past. There is a feeling sometimes that if the whole congregation is not singing along with everything, then the worship experience is incomplete. I wholeheartedly respect and share the desire and need for people to feel as though they are participating. That very participation is itself a performance. But the point begs to be made that listening is also a way of participating.
When I work with my church choir, I make every effort to cultivate an atmosphere of respect and love. Since the choir's role is to provide physical, visual and aural leadership in worship, it needs to do its work in the same spirit of invitation and dedication that is needed in all human interaction. The choir is in this sense a microcosm of the whole community. Likewise, I must do my work of choosing music and preparing myself to teach it in the same spirit. If I neglect to spend the focused time and energy necessary for a good performance, the whole of the worship experience is degraded. As well, if I'm pondering all the various meanings of the words to a hymn that I'm accompanying at the organ, as op-posed to concentrating on getting the notes right, shaping the phrases elegantly to fit the rhythm of the words, then I lose my place, and no one can participate anymore.
Some therapists use role-playing in order to allow their patients to realize and articulate their realities and problems. When I go to church, I agree to enter into a role-playing relationship with everyone else there, and read the script that is given to me (with a critical and interpretive eye), which is to say that having a script is often very helpful. This dramatization, and more-or-less abstraction, can point to something very real and in need of recognition in my unrehearsed and concrete everyday life. But just because I'm playing a role absolutely does not mean that I'm somehow being phony. I speak here simultaneously of pure musical activity and of religious ceremony. I have seen many "spontaneous" acts of worship that were thoroughly and embarrassingly phony. This is not to suggest that spontaneity is out of place in church, far from it; it is the spontaneous that brings the rehearsed and memorized to life. Likewise, rehearsal and memorization allow more space, dignity, and vocabulary for spontaneity, since they provide greater confidence in performance. I would not be offended at all if, in an Anglican service with all of its pomp and ceremony, smells and bells, someone was so moved that they needed to jump up and shout "Halleluiah!" at a particularly poignant moment. All of these forms of expression say the same thing that we have realized that we are children of God and loved, and it makes us happy.
The use of artifice by no means renders its purpose artificial. Spirituality is the very human effort to be compassionately present to the people, events, and tasks that I encounter every day. Just because something is part of an old tradition does not mean that it is irrelevant in the here and now. In fact, it is Anglicanism's connectedness with the ancient Christian liturgical customs and traditions that I find so inspiring and empowering. It's always possible to understand and perform traditional expressions in perpetually new ways. It is also possible, and of vital importance, to be aware of the failings of our cultures and traditions, and to redeem them through that very same process of renewed and changed understanding and performance.
As Robertson Davies once said, the problem with elitism is that we don't have enough of it. If everyone pursued the quality and skill that they really wanted, and helped others to do the same, I think the world might be a much happier, safer and more interesting place. Human creativity is worth the time, effort and resources that are required to bring it to real flowering. The human tendency to organize sounds and other sensual events and objects in a creative way is one of those inexplicable natural gifts and, as with anything, the use of our gifts to care for the people and planet around us are the real objective. Our human creativity is one of the best gifts we can offer back to our Creator, to the world, and to ourselves. To enable that offering is one of the main goals of religion.
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Loren R. Carle first published this in the April 2002 issue of Radix magazine.
