Robert Harrison reflects on intuitive liturgy at The Garden Centre.
Is it possible to have a liturgy that is so intuitive and culturally apt that it doesn't require any service sheets or projectors, introductions or explanations – or repeated attendance – to get the hang of it?
From the evidence of my annual 'pilgrimage' to Greenbelt, it seems that the answer is: no. Assembled musicians and comedians manage to actively engage their followers without any of these artificial 'aids', but Christian worship liturgies – it appeared – cannot.
My mind turned to the faithful, little fresh expression in my own parish – simply known as The Garden Centre.
Every other Sunday, about eight people gather in the café at our local garden centre. They buy a cup of tea and gather round a table for an hour or so of gently guided conversation – usually based on the theme which St John's is exploring that month but always starting with the needs and concerns of those present. If there is a birthday or other cause for celebration, someone brings a cake, and the café staff provide plates and cutlery. Then, when the tea is drunk, the cake eaten, the concerns shared and the theme explored, a poem or prayer offered, people say their goodbyes and the gathering dissipates.
It is a liturgy. From the first hello to the last goodbye there is a familiar pattern of action and interaction that holds the event together and ensures a helpful balance. But this liturgy is so natural that it doesn't require any artificial aids to maintain, and is free enough to respond swiftly to the needs of those present. It is a liturgy that is natural, intuitive and culturally apt.
Casting my mind across the gospels, it seems that Jesus habitually employed such natural liturgies. The temple of the Sadducees and the synagogues of the Pharisees had complex liturgies which required scrolls or memorisation to keep them going, and were subject to all manner of rules and traditions. Jesus, however, engaged with people around the common patterns of ordinary life.
He was not attempting to re-imagine temple or synagogue for a new generation; he was showing people that the realm of God was right where they were and all around them in the reality of their own lives. This is no less true of the way he engaged his disciples at the Last Supper, when he subtly tweaked the established pattern on Jewish table fellowship to such dramatic effect that we are still reeling from its impact.
Imagine a day, a century or two for now, when devout religious folk at some future incarnation of Greenbelt might try to revive the worship of the Hillingdon Garden Centre group. They will have to source the tea and the furniture though specialist ecclesiastical suppliers; the cake will be baked to a 'traditional' recipe and be quite unpalatable to the tastes of the day; and the opening responses:
- Minister: Hello, how are you?
- All: Good thanks. And you?
- Minister: OK
will need to be written out and explained because half the words may no longer exist in the language of the day.
All too often, we over-complicate our gatherings. We want them feel special (holy), so we add unusual stuff. We want them to echo the traditions of the past, so we add old stuff. We want them to express an incomprehensible God, so we add incomprehensible stuff. But the special, traditional and divine stuff doesn't naturally resonate, so it requires scripts, explanations or patient experience in order to fully take part.
This is what Jesus did not do on the hillsides and lakesides of Galilee.
Hillingdon's Garden Centre group grew, like many fresh expressions, from a desire to reach out to practical needs within the local community. It started life in a council-owned shop front providing tea and friendship to isolated pensioners, and relocated to the garden centre when the council closed the shop. It didn't really intend to become a 'church'; that only happened because the folk enjoyed talking about God and life so much that they asked for more.
Whether or not it counts as a 'church' now can remain a matter of opinion. It doesn't matter to the people who go. They break cake instead of bread. They sing, 'happy birthday' instead of the Sanctus. They listen to each other's concerns instead of explicitly praying. They drink tea instead of red wine. And I, the vicar, make a conscious decision not to go – in case I spoil it.
When I walked around Greenbelt, pondering to myself that a natural liturgy would require no service sheet, no PowerPoint, no explanation, no instructions, and no hard-won familiarity, I had already promised to write this piece about our wonderful little Garden Centre gathering. It was an unexpected turn of events to discover that this – perhaps – is a natural liturgy, and is more akin to the ministry of Jesus than I had expected.