PARISH BULLETIN: LITURGICAL REFLECTIONS
Orthodox Decorating or How a Mystagogue 'Decks the Halls'

by Edward Foley

The ways we decorate our homes and worship spaces, especially at times such as Christmas, affect us whether we know it or not.

It is August as I commit these Yuletide musings to hard drive. To date, I have yet to spy a single Christmas decoration for sale in the local Wal-mart or Walgreen’s. My suspicion, however, is that they are being shipped as I type, and will start appearing on store shelves even before the spider webs, pumpkins, and goblin costumes reach their apogee on Hallow’s Eve. My point is not to launch a preemptive rant about excessive anticipation of the Christmas season, but more that we love to decorate, especially at Christmas. Decorating homes, offices, and churches is such big business that innumerable Christmas boutique stores are open year round. Then there are the online versions of these boutiques, open not only 365 days a year, but also 24 hours a day.

I have some empathy with those who indulge in Christmas decor and have a sibling who could almost turn her house into one of those Christmas boutiques if her day job ever goes poorly. On the other hand, I doubt whether she would ever part with one of the nine Santas; thirteen elves; and various other sleighs, creatures, and creations that make it difficult to navigate her home in December. Thus it probably would be a waste of good energy to put price tags on everything.

The Environment as Mystagogue?

A consistent theme in these liturgical reflections over the past few years has been the importance of a mystagogical perspective. As I have suggested, mystagogy is a type of believer’s reflection, rooted in the rituals, liturgies, and sacraments that are the heartbeat of Catholicism. Mystagogy is a type of theologizing that considers seriously our embodied and communal experiences of the rites. It implicitly recognizes that these rituals and the galaxy of symbols whirling in and around them are a kind of primary and elemental “skin theology.” Thus, even before we consciously step back to consider what a liturgy or ritual may mean, that ritual is at work, exerting its powerful force on believers. Like the earth’s gravity, our rituals and sacraments have an undeniable effect on our believing whether we recognize it or not. They help us gravitate toward certain beliefs, particular understandings of God and salvation.

Sometimes, to use the language of James and Evelyn Whitehead, that experience is one of “grace”—but it can also be one of “malpractice.”

One mystagogically potent aspect of our worship often overlooked is the very environment that we pray in and the spaces which house our worship. I do not mean that we ignore the interiors of our churches, for that same holiday instinct to decorate home and neighborhood carries over into our church buildings and sanctuaries. I am not sure, however, how much time we spend reflecting theologically on the decorations and environment, considering what religious messages are therein embedded, and pondering their mystagogical power. Our focus may more often be about aesthetics rather than theology, i.e., more concerned about whether it’s pretty rather than what godly beauty it reveals.

The celebrated Methodist liturgist and historian James White once remarked that “every building is a musical instrument.” That comment helped me understand that a building is not simply a receptor for sound; rather, it is a participant in the way that sound is articulated, distributed, absorbed, and dispersed. The building is a critical partner in our music making, and just as a Stradivarius or other finely crafted instrument has an impact on the quality of the performance, so a building with well-tuned acoustics has an impact on our sacramental-liturgical performances.

By analogy, I believe that in their own way our worship spaces are mystagogues in wood and stone, glass and tile. They not only “house” our worship, they exert their own gravitational force on our liturgies and sacraments, pulling us toward particular forms of “skin theology.” Our church buildings have a formative role not only in how we participate in worship (e.g., if we can actually see and hear the rites) but also how we interpret that worship. For example, the way we configure pews speaks volumes about our affirmation of the multiple modes of Christ’s presence delineated in the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy. Arranging the pews in rigid uniformity so that all face forward toward the sanctuary—rendering us capable of seeing only the backs of others’ heads—may contribute to honoring Christ’s presence in the eucharistic species or ministers at the altar, but may not enhance our experience of Christ’s presence in the community.

Mystagogical Decorating?

Besides the actual design of the worship space—over which most of us have no control—the very decorating of that space with fabric and flowers, crèches and candles, statues and shrines is also a theological interpretation. More than just aesthetics, deciding what to use for decorating a worship environment as well as deciding where to place such decorations provides a particular interpretation of the act of worship itself. For example, a worship space that is punctuated by artificial flowers, electric candles, polyester fabrics, and wood or brick veneer could communicate that the worship—in imitation of the worship space—has little to do with the real world or authentic human experience, and rather is cued to pleasant surfaces. Thus, both Environment and Art in Catholic Worship (1978) and Built of Living Stones (2000) held that one of the central criterion for evaluating art in worship was “quality.” As BLS notes, “Quality is evident in the honesty and genuineness of the materials that are used, the nobility of the form embodied in them, the love and care that goes into the creation of a work of art, and the personal stamp of the artist whose special gift produces a harmonious whole, a well crafted work.”

Besides the quality of the materials employed for decorating our spaces, two other aspects of our decorating that have considerable mystagogical weight are the scale of the materials we employ and their placement. Given the Christmas context of these remarks, I with to illustrate with brief reflections on the Advent wreath and crèche.

The Advent Wreath: A number of years ago, noted liturgical consultant Marchita Mauck was commenting upon a church renovation she had helped facilitate. In this renovation, the community created a large immersion baptismal font dead center in the middle of what had previously been the center aisle of a traditionally arranged church. A few parishioners complained about this placement, noting that a bride and groom would “run into the thing” coming in and out of their wedding. Mauck emphasized, however, that such was the whole point. Brides and grooms should confront their baptism, as should all who celebrate funerals and any other life cycles or faith moments in that church.

Analogously, consider moving the Advent wreath out of the sanctuary and into the center aisle or some other place in the narthex or even atrium of the church where people both figuratively and literally have to “run into it.” Rather than having a vague or undersized decoration in a distant sanctuary, plant this tree of light where it cannot be missed. Place it where toddlers and kids will marvel at it as they walk under and around it, and parents will have to explain what it is doing there and why all of its candles are not lit at once. Then move the ministry out of the sanctuary where this Advent beacon is blessed and lit the first Sunday and ritually set ablaze every Sunday as a dramatic affirmation that liturgy is not something that takes place on that holy stage at the back of the building, but is what happens in the midst of God’s people gathered in thanksgiving and praise.

The Crèche: Many years ago, when I spent my first Christmas season in Europe, I was surprised how many churches created nativity scenes right inside the front door of the church. During my own childhood, our parish’s nativity set was always placed on the other side of the communion rail, far beyond the reach of the youngest believers. Thus, I presumed that the “tradition” was to place the crèche inside the sanctuary where it could not be touched, and where I only got my regular glimpse of it coming back from Communion if I negotiated myself into the communion line on the “epistle side.” My unexpected encounter with nativity scenes right inside the door of some European churches changed my perception of that “tradition.” I was fascinated by how theses crèches were their own form of “religious magnets,” drawing both the church-bound and wandering visitors inside. A favorite memory was of one church on the main square in a small town in Germany where some chairs were placed around the crèche. There a toddler sat in his father’s lap while the adult explained the Christmas story in such simple terms that even with my rudimentary understanding of the language, I was instructed as well.

Besides placing the crèche in a place where it can become a true mystagogical focus, also consider the impact of placing all of the pieces there at once. In my childhood the baby never showed up until midnight Mass, even though every other character had been milling around since the Fourth Sunday of Advent. Years later one student told me that in his home parish baby Jesus, with two small screw-eyes in his belly, came flying down from the choir loft on an airplane wire while the choir sang “Silent Night” during its pre-Midnight Mass concert. I also know of a parish that had a small ledge that ran around the interior perimeter of the church. After Christmas, the three wise men appeared on that ledge and slowly made their way over the coming days in the direction of the manger, until they magically arrived just in time for the feast of the Epiphany. While extreme examples, such “staging” of the infant’s appearance or journey of the wise men contributes to a theological interpretation of these feasts that their center is recalling an event in history, rather than an invitation to personal and communal transformation.

We are grateful to those who expend their time and energy seasonally transforming our liturgical environments. Their talented hands and well-trained eyes bring grace and beauty into our worship. Let’s encourage them not only to be artisans but also mystagogues: “skin theologians” in texture, color, and space who both delight our eyes and feed our souls.

The Rev. Edward Foley, OFM Cap., is on the faculty of the Catholic Theological Union in Chicago.