Making Soup

I was part of an interesting discussion recently with staff members from various churches and denominational backgrounds on the subject of worship. Ultimately, we found ourselves discussing instrumental configurations, styles, song choices, form, and tradition all encapsulated by the topic, “what makes great worship?”

It soon occurred to me that what I was hearing sounded akin to a couple who when asked to describe true love responded with talking about their terrific sex life.

Not much about chasing one another around the kitchen requires truly loving devotion and not much about our “great worship” makes us true worshippers.

Back to the discussion with my friends, after I challenged the conversation with my somewhat base analogy they asked me in what context I viewed true worship.

After taking a moment I said, “Until we view things like making soup as an act of worship then we will never have a proper view of what it means to truly give God his worth with the daily parts of our lives and we will always feel as if we have to abdicate to the experts on Sunday to do it for us. We will have a very codependent relationship with experience if we lose site of the ordinary miracles in the moment. What the church needs to know is that when we lead worship it is we, the ‘worship leaders’ making our soup. We just happen to make our soup in front of a lot of people. My soup happens to include art, story, and music. You’re soup may be literally making a meal for a friend who is on her second round of chemo. The Sunday Soup was never meant to be THE soup.”

If the main thing that comes up when we talk about worship is how we do it then we are very much like the people mistaking love for how often they swing from the chandeliers together. If our view of worship is one that understands sacrifice and living a life that matters we are less likely to be satisfied with simply slurping down the soup that someone else serves up to us once a week hoping they season it to suit our own persnickety taste buds. Trust me, my Sunday Soup will never be so good that it will quench our need to glorify God in the unseen moments of our daily lives.

I understand that when a bunch of consumers come together and decide to call themselves a church, expressions of art, music, and story in worship will be a matter of specific taste (and even propriety in the opinions of some). However, the more we can see ourselves as part of a body of past, present, and future soup makers we can begin to embrace their various expressions and place less focus on our need to brand the soup.

Maybe it would be a good thing for our perspectives of worship and intimate relationships alike to step back from the hooha and just make soup together.

The Beautiful Dissonance of Advent

“The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment.” Frederick Beuchner, Whistling In the Dark

When I was a young piano student my teacher would take me to a number of concerts featuring our local philharmonic orchestra and guest instrumentalists. I studied piano at the University of Evansville Preparatory School of Music and had the same piano professor from the time I was in the fourth grade until I graduated from high school. I was in grade school when she first offered me those unique opportunities to experience such amazing musical performances.

Such sophisticated events were always a treat for me. My mother would get out my suit and make sure I was crisply pressed. She also managed to confiscate my chewing gum and make sure that I had one last crash course in Manners 101 before going out the door to the local concert hall in our Indiana town.

The anticipation would first begin to stir within me when my teacher even mentioned a new guest pianist that would be coming to perform with the symphony. When the day arrived I was giddy and could think of nothing else. Getting ready to go wasn’t my favorite part but if it takes wearing a suit in order to hear such irresistible music then so be it.

When we arrived at the auditorium an usher with a tiny flashlight would escort us to our seats in the dimly lit venue. Even the twilight level of the lights told me that I was in for something incredible and extraordinary. Sitting down in the spring-loaded theater seats my freshly polished dress shoes barely touched the floor as I fumbled with my program and fidgeted with excitement.

Eventually, the orchestra members, all in concert black, filed to their respective positions on the stage and took their seats. The concertmaster rose to the podium and upon a cue from him a most unusual and unexpected sound arose from the cavernous stage. It was the most dissonant and yet strangely transcendent bouquet of tones. It began with a few instruments on the same pitch and then it was joined by other instruments a fifth above or a fourth below. The swirling passages by flutes and clarinets practicing one last pass of runs that would be played masterfully later emerged in the thick sonic sauce known as tuning the orchestra.

The tones grew louder as they resonated and bellowed out into the massive concert hall. There was nothing particularly beautiful about this sound but it set the stage for what was to come and it created anticipation in us for that moment we had all waited weeks to experience. It was also a vital part of making beautiful music.

Suddenly there was silence. It was as if the air had been sucked from the room. The twilight setting of the lights faded away to darkness and even the tiniest bit of murmuring in the auditorium ceased. There was a holy hush that fell upon the room as if every person was holding their breath. It was an extraordinary moment before an extraordinary happening.

From the wings of the stage a rotund man in a tuxedo and tails emerged bathed in a white spotlight holding a baton as if it were a fragile reed. The spontaneous applause that broke forth from the audience was thunderous and wholehearted. The conductor bowed humbly acknowledging our generosity and then took the podium where every eye was completely fixed on his suddenly stalwart countenance.

He raised his baton with the grace of a feather floating upward. The silence was deafening and we, the audience desperately needed to exhale as we waited for him to unleash what would become two hours of the most beautiful music ever written.

To borrow Frederick Beuchner’s analogy, the moment that the baton is raised becomes the extraordinary moment before the extraordinary happening that we have been waiting for. As he said, this extraordinary moment is called Advent.

As I began to ponder the season of Advent this year it reminds me a great deal of the experiences I had as a youngster listening to the orchestra preparing to play. We must expect some beautiful dissonance before the peace is delivered that has been promised. Life has some artistic discord that must be embraced in that preparation season.

What does life look like when the baton is raised? Those moments find us walking a friend through their grief, meeting a monetary need, showing mercy to the sick, sitting with a troubled young woman with a difficult decision to make, spending our days mentoring a young man who has no father – these are the moments the lyric of O Come, O Come Immanuel paints so well.

This is the beautiful dissonance. Christ has come and this is what he looks like.

The beautiful dissonance of Advent is to be savored. It is the season of extraordinary opportunities, extraordinary anticipation, and extraordinary joy before the baton falls and the most beautiful music is unleashed upon us. We are enjoying the tension of that extraordinary moment before the extraordinary happening. In this anticipation is joy and shalom, the peace He came to bring.