Worship in the Presbyterian Tradition: The Majesty of Music

Revelation 4:1-11

​During seminary, Wendy and I spent one summer in Tupper Lake, New York, where I served as an intern at a country church there. Liz was two at the time, and she would stand at the top of the steps welcoming people as black flies with their gruesome fangs attacked us! For entertainment when people came to visit, we would take them to the local trash dump at dusk. Like clockwork, half a dozen bears would appear, providing great entertainment. We’d go blueberry picking around the lake as loons mesmerized us with their ethereal call, which was much more beautiful than the music on Sunday morning there. 

There was a faithful organist—I say faithful because she played for many decades—but had two hip replacements. Which already is a challenge for an organist, but it was doubly so because this was a pump organ, which required pumping those pedals to push the air through the organ pipes! The music was awful.

The great 16th-century Reformers—John Calvin, Ulrich Zwingli, and possibly even Martin Luther—would have been thankful for her, because of it, there was zero chance that anyone would be distracted by its beauty.

The Reformers sought to change worship because it had become overly elaborate, with too many extra layers. They wanted to simplify worship so that nothing would pull us away from focusing solely on God. Like folks in the 1950s, they knew music had incredible power. "[Rock and Roll is] the martial music of every side-burned delinquent" (Frank Sinatra), and Rock and Roll is where "God and the devil shake hands" (Neil Young).

And because of music’s power—like the people of the 1950s who were terrified of the Beatles’ long hair—the Reformers went to extremes:

The organ was characterized as the “Devil’s Bagpipe” and a “Seducer to Worship.” Organs in one city’s five churches were silenced, then destroyed. The organ in Zwingli’s Grossmünster, the Cathedral Church, was relatively new. Historian Sharp said eyewitness Gerold Edlibach described the instrument—it was massive, gorgeous, superb, and very expensive, with an imposing cluster of registers. Edlibach also described its destruction—it was “ripped down and smashed” while the cathedral’s organist, Pelagius Karlschmid, “stood by, helpless and weeping.” Sharp reported that in various cantons of Switzerland, pipes were melted and recast. In Schaffhausen, pipes became wine cans; in Winterthur, a new roof for the prison tower; and in Geneva, dinnerware for the city hospital by order of Reformer John Calvin. (Source: Beggars All Reformation Blog, 2012)

Clearly, they took reform too far, but there is something important we can learn from them—and it’s reflected in our Presbyterian Book of Order:

W-2.0202 The singing of psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs is a vital and ancient form of prayer.

The Reformation sought to reclaim the role of music in worship.

It is prayer—and as such, it must always turn us to God, in service to glorifying God and never mere entertainment. Granted, it is not always simple to separate the two.

If at the end of a wonderful anthem our only thought is the beauty of the music or the incredible talent of the choir, then the music is distracting us. Certainly, these are normal responses—but the aim is to take us deeper. Music’s power is meant to connect a part of ourselves to the glory of God that mere words cannot touch. Scripture tells us, “As you sing, make a melody to the Lord with your hearts.”

Furthermore, the Book of Order tells us that all of us are the primary choir, not just the ones sitting in the chancel. Presbyterian worship by its very nature is participatory. It is not a spectator sport. Even when we are listening to the choir, we should be aware they are not singing to us—they are singing to God on our behalf.

And like all elements of our worship, these understandings are drawn from Scripture. And in our text from Revelation, we find ourselves in the throne room of heaven itself!

This fantastic scene is not a literal description of heaven. Heaven is beyond our earthly grasp—but it is evocative of divine glory speaking to us; these images seek to peel back the veil of eternity, “And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and inside. Day and night without ceasing they sing, ‘Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God the Almighty.’”

Music in worship is first and foremost an act of praise. This is our destiny—day and night without ceasing, the text tells us. Our Sunday morning worship is meant to be a rehearsal of this eternal throne-room scene. Consider the opening hymn. The procession of the choir, the Order of Saint Paul, the Beadle, the elders, and the pastors are all meant to give us the sense that we are being ushered into this throne room. In fact, Revelation tells us that everyone in heaven and everyone on earth will join together in praise. So, on Sunday morning, we are literally joining the heavenly choirs.

The scene continues into the fifth chapter of Revelation, in which we discover the presence of the Lamb, so the focus of the heavenly praise turns to the Lamb of God—that is, Jesus: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might, and honor and glory and blessing!”

“Blessing, honor, glory, and power be unto Him!” I love Handel!

But music in worship does not begin and end with hymns of praise—it extends throughout the service. I invite you to pull out your order of service and follow along.

After our public confession we sing the Kyrie, “Lord, have mercy upon us.”

These words are drawn from many places in Scripture, but most potently from Psalm 51. King David recognizes the immensity of his sin. He has murdered a man out of lustful desire. He knows that God does not want animal sacrifices but rather a truly contrite heart. When we sing “Lord, have mercy,” we should use the music to enable our desire for mercy to be more humble, more authentic, and more deeply felt.

We also sing after the Affirmation of Faith. The affirmation follows the sermon. Once we have heard the Word of God, we stand up before the world and say, “I believe.” And upon realizing what it is that we believe—that God’s gracious love in Jesus Christ has saved us—we cannot help but sing with joy: “Glory be to the Father, glory be to the Son, glory be to the Holy Ghost. Glory be!”

Next, we pull our gaze down from heaven and look out onto the world that God has created. Having heard Scripture, we have a clear picture of how far this world is from God’s will for it. So we pray. We pray for ourselves, we pray for our friends, we pray for those around the world. And when the spoken prayer is complete, the whole congregation finishes the prayer by singing:

“Not for this land alone,

but be God’s mercies shown from shore to shore,

and make the nations see that we must loving be,

and form one family the wide world over.”

Then comes the offering. We may think this time is about putting money into the plate—and though that is part of it—it is not the primary intention. First and foremost, this is a time to remember Christ’s self-offering, his sacrifice, his death. He offered his life for our sake. That is what this moment commemorates. We happen to collect money at this time because, in light of the depth of his love for us, we can only respond with thanksgiving. Your offering is meant to be a reflection of the love and thankfulness in your heart.

At this point the choir offers up a prayer for all of us—the anthem. They sing on our behalf to this incredible God, a God that is beyond our comprehension, that displays a mercy and a steadfast devotion outside of human capability—and God does it for us, a wayward, obdurate, and recalcitrant people.

And as we listen to them sing, perhaps we’ve gone deeper into the presence of the Spirit of God than at any other moment in the service. For me, it’s like a spiritual exhale of my stress, my anxiety, and my worries.

Which brings us to a moment of exceeding joy and anticipation. Have you ever noticed after the anthem there is a subtle but critical moment? Melissa or Ray play a transition with the theme of the anthem transposed, modulated. There is an immense amount of the gospel in those few notes they play—it builds and builds and builds. It is my most anticipated moment in the service until they play a chord—an exceedingly powerful, triumphant, and joyful chord—that one chord that makes me stand up ready to sing like no other point in the service:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Praise God, all creatures here below!

Praise God above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

Presbyterian worship has sought to be simple so that everything turns us to God.

We are wary of emotions that might become sentimentality. We don’t simply want a pretty sanctuary or an exquisite piece of music that doesn’t point us above.We don’t want an impressively intellectual sermon that simply proves how smart the pastor is.We are afraid of our own feelings—I’m afraid, lest I shed a tear and show that I am human. But most of all we are afraid of… clapping!

Some months ago, the chancel choir, along with a percussion group, offered up a gift to God on our behalf—the composition known as The Cry of Jeremiah by Rosephanye Powell.

In many ways it tells the story not only of Jeremiah’s anguish but humanity’s journey of sin, brokenness, and fear. There are somber, deep, and painful moments in the piece. You can feel Jeremiah’s soul-crushing sorrow when they sing, “Cursed be the day I was born!” It is heavy, hard, and heart-rending.

But like the Bible itself, there is a turn. It doesn’t come all at once—the choir starts a rhythmic chanting, “Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,” and then a single, incredibly powerful voice… and it’s not simply a strong or beautiful voice but a voice that conveys a life that has lived in the depths and the heights of human experience. “I’ve gotta rejoice!” she sings as the choir’s Alleluias grow more hopeful. The organ plays a funky beat; the solo voice ascends higher and higher as she carries us with her up into the stratospheric heights. And then her voice melds with the choir’s as the organ rumbles with joy and the percussion beats out divine power, as it comes to a rapturous conclusion!

Music has a special power to usher us into the holy presence of God. Dare I say it was the perfect moment in worship—except for one thing. As the last note played, there was an awkward silence. We looked around at each other, and we Presbyterians all wanted to do something very un-Presbyterian—applaud—but we were too afraid. All of us. Though generally I am against it, in that moment I truly believe it was the Holy Spirit offering an authentic way for us to give thanks not simply for the music, but for what the music gave us—the joy of God’s amazing love. Alleluia! Amen!