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This post is another in my series on Christian worship and music. To see the posts that this follows, please see here, here, and here. Click through for the rest of the article; it is rather long as weblog postings go.

Preliminaries

Perhaps the most important thing to do is to ensure that we are all speaking the same language. It is crucial to note that “contemporary worship” means one thing to capital-e Evangelicals and quite another to Christians in liturgical traditions.

re: “Evangelical” vs. “evangelical”: I am an evangelical Christian, but I am (probably) not an Evangelical Christian. The distinction I draw is between “evangelical” in the sixteenth-century sense and “Evangelical” in the contemporary sense. In the sixteenth-century sense, “evangelical” means that one does not accept as authoritative any source of divine revelation other than written Scripture; in the contemporary sense, “Evangelical” is used by the mass media to describe “post-denominational” (and in many cases post-theological) Christians.

I would posit that the aesthetic and teleological motives of Evangelical contemporary worship are close to those of the “worship” subgenre of C-rock — to provide a “relevant” way to praise God with a new song. On the other hand, the sort of contemporary hymns that liturgical Protestants and some RC parishes are subjected to come from various motives: some claim that the contemporary worship is more “relevant,” some are unable to find support for their heterodox views in traditional hymn texts, and some claim that it is a means to renew the Church. Contemporary hymns in liturgical settings are also more likely to ape the musical materials of ancient music and chant — examine, for example, Marty Haugen’s reliance on compound meters and pseudo-modal (especially Mixolydian) melodies.

on compound meters: One thing that is sometimes confusing to non-musicians is that time signatures aren’t like fractions — two may represent the same rational number without representing the same meter. Compound meters, such as 6/8, 9/8, 12/8, and 6/4, are those in which the basic beat is a dotted note. Therefore, a measure of eighth notes in 6/8 would be in two groups of three, “one-and-uh two-and-uh,” while a measure of eighth notes in a duple meter like 3/4 would be in three groups of two, “one-and two-and three-and.” (see figure.) In medieval sacred music, compound meters were most common; the division of each beat into three parts was thought to represent the Trinity.

I do not intend to treat these groups of genres as a monolith, but I am interested in exploring the potential and empirically visible problems that all “contemporary” worship shares. Obviously, there are good and bad instances of every musical genre; my aim is therefore diagnostic and prescriptive, rather than condemnatory.

Learning the tunes

Tiffany and Luke both claim that my desire for music notation is unnecessary and/or obviated by the call-response style of contemporary worship. I respectfully disagree. I have been in many situations in which the text on the overhead transparency is the only indication of what the congregation is to sing. There is no call-and-response, there is no introduction, and it is apparently assumed that everyone who wants to participate in the service already knows the tune. It is disconcerting, distracting, and places a further wedge between the unchurched and the congregation. This is no way to reach out!

While it is true that many — even most — people can’t read sheet music, it is necessary to have some indication of the tune one is supposed to sing, especially if there are no aural cues. It is straightforward even for non-musicians to see the contour of a melody from the score; with such guidance, it is more possible to follow the enlightened congregants in the next pew.

Furthermore, I should point out that the tradition of introducing hymn tunes to congregants who can’t read music goes back much further than call-and-response in the African-American spiritual tradition. In my devotional tradition, one can examine the chorale prelude — an organ introduction of the hymn tune. This genre goes back as far as Luther (while he was primarily a lutenist, he also played keyboard instruments), but began truly flourishing with Praetorius, Scheidt, Schein, and Buxtehude; the genre was perfected (of course) by Bach. (Going back even further, we can look at Guido d’Arezzo [fl. 11th C.], who used hand symbols and positions to teach melodies.)

Accessibility, aesthetics, and function

My concern about the dominant aesthetic of contemporary Christian music has been characterized as snobbery. I have also been accused of presupposing an unreasonable level of musical sophistication. (These sorts of attacks are, apparently, the first refuge of the enterprising contemporary Christian musician; I am certainly not the only one to be the target of such attacks.) On the contrary, my concern is with accessibility; and I will show that the level of musical sophistication I expect is reasonable even for a generation raised on bubblegum pop and Broadway musicals. Below is the first line of Monk’s hymn Abide With Me; it should be clear even to those who can’t read music that this line comes from an essentially accessible tune.

The rhythmic structure of Abide With Me is simple, directly flowing from the accents of the text. There is no need to skip notes in some verses because the author was incapable of writing a metrical text. The melody moves primarily by step — the only melodic leap in this excerpt is from the tonic pitch to the dominant pitch, which is an easy interval to sing. There is only one pitch in the whole tune that is not from the G major scale; there is none of the sort of mode-mixture chicanery that is endemic in contemporary liturgical music.

I spent some time researching praise songs, to see if they adequately stack up to the accessibility of Monk’s tune (for example), but I am not including an example here for several reasons. First, because of the non-monolithic nature of the contemporary worship community, it would be difficult to claim that any example was “representative” in any meaningful way. Second, the performance practice of praise songs is, as I have indicated in the past, similar to the performance practice of popular music, or of national anthem performances prior to a baseball game. Ornamentation run wild, melismas, scoops, and creative arbitrary pitch replacements are the order of the game. This performance practice makes this style of music unsuitable for group singing, but it also means that the score is not an accurate representation of the sort of vocal gymnastics that are involved in performing this sort of music. Finally, the current intellectual property climate is hostile to fair use; I do not desire the legal entanglements that might result from quoting a copyrighted work in an unflattering context.

In any case, it should be clear that there is nothing inaccessible about traditional hymns. In the case of early American hymnody, these tunes are part of our cultural heritage. They are suitable for singing in parts, a capella; they do not require flowery, sentimental piano arpeggio accompaniment or a rack full of guitar effects. German chorales were written to be accessible to semiliterate peasants, and are certainly accessible to us. Furthermore, chorale harmonizations express the essentials of tonal harmony so well that music students generally spend several terms studying and writing tunes in this idiom. Tonal harmony, of course, is the basis for just about all contemporary commercial music — it is the meat and drink of the soundtracks to our lives.

note to devil’s-advocate/wise-assed readers: I anticipate that some of you would like to attack my position by using the German chorale tradition and Luther against me. Specifically, at first glance the practice of contrafacta (setting sacred texts to well-known secular tunes) and Luther’s rhetorical question “Why should the devil have all the good tunes?” might seem to support the impulses of contemporary worship composers. However, the analogy falls apart upon even the most cursory examination. Contemporary hymns do not take well-known tunes and set sacred texts to them; as I have argued elsewhere, contemporary worship tunes cannot be described (accurately or charitably) as familiar tunes or even as being in familiar secular idioms or genres. (To apply contrafacta to a contemporary secular tune, by Luther’s reasoning, it would have to be “good.”)

There are legitimate aesthetic concerns with most contemporary worship music, but my concerns with it are largely functional. If the tune or performance practice do not facilitate congregational singing, then the music cannot be serving any function we could reasonably ascribe to worship music. We shall now examine the issue of hymn texts: how do contemporary texts compare to the best ones from the history of Christian worship?

What is a good hymn text?

The question of textual content is an important one that has, in my opinion, been inadequately addressed by my critics. The question of what sorts of content fall into the categories of mandatory, indifferent, and damnable, of course, hinges on the question of what worship is supposed to do. Wolf Paul’s response to my last post on this matter helpfully echoes what liturgical Christians have known for millenia: that there should be a formal separation between the liturgy of the Word and the sacrament of the altar, between proclamation of God’s Word and communion with the Body of Christ. I believe that worship music, in order to serve the end of proclamation, should serve didactic as well as aesthetic goals, and should be held to the same theological standards as we would hold preaching, public teaching, or writing.

While praise song authors must work harder to include the sort of heterodoxy that has worked its way into the fabric of more general contemporary hymnody (although it is possible to introduce heresy even to a psalm paraphrase), this does not excuse praise song authors from including some legitimate proclamation of the Gospel truth, which requires some exposition of the distinctive features of Christian doctrine. (After all, the distinctive features of Christian doctrine — by definition — are what make it Christian.)

I believe that the gold standard for hymn texts that educate and proclaim is very nearly met by Es ist das Heil, which was written in 1523 by Paul Speratus; a translation is reproduced below. There is not an unnecessary word in it; every strophe and every line has a didactic and theological purpose. I challenge anyone to produce a contemporary hymn text that approaches the quantity and quality of proclamation contained in Speratus’ hymn. (Some might argue that a ten-verse hymn is an anachronism; perhaps they are right. Pick three or four verses from the Speratus at random, then — I still maintain that you will be unable to find a contemporary hymn text of comparable quality, breadth, or depth.)

Why “accessiblity” and “relevance” should not be primary criteria for evaluating worship

But the righteousness based on faith says, Do not say in your heart, “Who will ascend into heaven?” (that is, to bring Christ down) or “Who will descend into the abyss?” (that is, to bring Christ up from the dead). But what does it say? The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart (that is, the word of faith which we preach); because, if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For man believes with his heart and so is justified, and he confesses with his lips and so is saved.

Romans 10:6-10 (RSV)

The relevance of Christianity does not subsist in accidental features of worship music, in willingness to take politically popular positions, or in making things up as we go along to ensure the maximum emotional involvement and engagement of congregants. Rather, the Christian faith is relevant because an intractable, inescapable problem is revealed in the Law and its solution is revealed in the Gospel. We do not shoehorn Christ into something that the world can understand; likewise, we should not reduce our worship to the lowest common denominator or simplify our proclamations to the point of falsehood.

The problems of “relevance” can only be solved by education. Orthodox Lutherans identify the church catholic as where the Gospel is preached and the sacraments are rightly administered. These signs relate to the communication of grace and the Spirit. This communication depends on proclamation and education, not on superficial adherence to a particular aesthetic. While I don’t claim to have a clear picture of precisely what is required of worship to educate, I have a pretty good idea of what is distracting or dangerous.

Useful stereotypes

When I was an undergraduate, I served on the student congregation council for two years. St. Olaf occupied an undesirable position with regard to its relationship to Christianity — it was “too Christian” for the aggressively secular, but not nearly orthodox enough for most thoughtful Christians. Likewise, worship was too traditional for students who desired charismatic, affective services but not traditional enough for students whose primary Christian concern was getting dressed up in fancy robes. (In fairness, worship was not nearly traditional enough for the theologically motivated, either!) The experience of being involved with a body that was to make decisions guiding worship in this community — in which everyone had their own set of mutually-unsatisfiable complaints — was extremely educational for me. I identified two useful types in examining the concerns people had. Both are probably caricatures, but shades of each are widely extant in the world:

The liturgical jihadist

This character is extremely committed to rituals and symbols, but not particularly to doctrine, Scripture, or the Christian life. Their opposition to contemporary worship appears to stem mainly from the paucity of opportunities for organ, chamber orchestra, and unending processions, although they hid their concerns behind a veneer of intellectualism. One such student left the congregation because the magisterial authority of the late-1970s vintage Lutheran Book of Worship seemed to be diminishing; when I pointed out to him that it was not a particularly good hymnal — that, in fact, the hymnal it replaced was not particularly good, and that you would have to go back to our grandparents’ generation to find a truly unobjectionable Lutheran hymnal — he acted as if he had never considered the possibility that there was a tradition worth respecting dating from before his birth. For the liturgical jihadist, sacred tradition is authoritative, but it means solely an idealized version of “what we did in my childhood church.” Private judgement is also privileged above all else, but it is private judgement of liturgical beauty, not of the proper interpretation of Scripture.

The bathwater abortionist

These characters have determined that creeds, liturgies, litanies, and formulas are necessarily recited by rote and are at best a stumbling-block to faith. For these types, your private experience of the divine is what is most important, and worship is supposed to get you to have such an experience as efficiently as possible. In the best Emersonian/Enlightenment “judge for yourself, stupid!” tradition, private judgement does not extend to what is conducive to encouraging a certain sort of experience; there are publically articulable metatruths. One such metatruth is that “I don’t think I can get anything out of this service, and neither can you.” (As anyone who has read Richard Neuhaus’ libels about Lutheranism knows, ad hominem attacks in theological discourse are only acceptable if they are reflexive.)

Like their intellectual progenitors in the Radical Reformation, these types are all too keen to throw out the baby with the bathwater. Instead of assuming that there is something valuable to, say, the liturgical calendar, the order of the service of the Word, or even to a fixed service, these characters have abandoned the form and structure of Christian life for millenia. No one would argue that we should accept spiritual deadness and nominal faith. However, one can be spiritually dead whether reading the Nicene Creed from a bound book or reading “(repeat last line seven times)” off the bottom of an overhead transparency. Gregorian chant can be “performed” without faith, but so can contemporary praise songs.

From stereotypes to sonnets

Martin Luther was not just a pastor, theologian, composer, and translator — he was also a bit of a music critic. Of Josquin des Prez, Luther once said, “He is a master of the notes, which must express what he desires — all other composers must do what the notes dictate.” To anyone who has written Renaissance-style counterpoint, this is a great illustration: it is hard enough to write notes that obey the formal, melodic, and harmonic rules of the style, let alone to do anything with those notes.

However, I am loathe to presuppose an unreasonable level of musical sophistication, so I will use a more culturally accessible example: the sonnet. If you have ever written a sonnet — especially with a rhyme scheme that is unidiomatic to English, like the Petrarchan — you will know that creating something meaningful and beautiful while satisfying the formal constraints is extremely difficult. Genius in art produces works that transcend the form, not that slavishly, legalistically meet its criteria.

Artists must strike a balance between formal requirements and individual expression; it is difficult to accomplish both. We have a similar problem with liturgical worship: it presents formal constraints, and in our worship we are called to be artists within these constraints. The “liturgical jihadists” would have us establish the form as clearly as possible and assume that being mastered by it is a sufficient condition for true expression. By contrast, the “bathwater abortionists” would free us to be truly expressive by the abolition of form, structure, or constraints.

Neither of these approaches is appropriate. Form is what enables those other than the artist to make sense of art, and expression is what makes art out of a work following a form. Without both, art (or worship) cannot obtain. Liturgies and worship traditions are not authoritative, but they are useful when they are scriptural and act as signs pointing to the Triune God. By participating in traditional worship, we are engaging in a sort of expression that is analogous to art. Just as we would do in making art, we should worship in a way that is externally comprehensible, in a structure and form that makes sense of the whole enterprise.

The solution, then, is to teach people on why we do what we do, so that forms may serve as schemas for understanding, not as formulas for rote recitation. Education — not alteration — is what makes worship accessible, just as preaching law and Gospel — not altering the Christian message — is what makes Christ accessible. Of course it is important that the accidental features of worship are accessible, just as the wordings of doctrinal formulations should most clearly express the truths of the faith. However, we must be careful to separate the unchanging wheat from the anachronistic chaff before lighting a fire on the threshing floor.

Notes