Assist Our Song: Music Ministries in the Local Church

First published in 2021 by

SAINT ANDREW PRESS

121 George Street

Edinburgh EH2 4YN

Copyright © Douglas Galbraith 2021

ISBN 978 1 80083 010 3

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Bible extracts are from the Authorized Version of the Bible (The King James Bible), the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced by permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Worship and Music

1. Word, Water, Wine and Bread: Understanding Worship

2. ‘Get Me a Musician!’: How Music Relates to Worship

The Music

3. Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs

4. Service Music

5. Contemporary Worship Music

The Choice of Music for Worship

6. Traditional or Contemporary? Getting the Balance Right

7. Choosing the Music

Ministries of Music, Their Tasks and Responsibilities

8. Apprentice Angels: The Music Ministry of the Congregation

9. Your Church has Got Talent! The Ministry of the Choir

10. To the Chief Musician: The Ministry of Those Who Plan and Lead the Music

11. Embodying the People’s Praise: The Music Ministry of the Clergy

Skills

12. What Kind of Organ?

13. The Accompaniment of Hymns

14. Playing the Words

15. Leading and Accompanying Worship Songs

Related Issues

16. Technodoxology: New Technologies in Worship and Music

17. Making Music Safely

18. A New Dimension in the World of Sound: Making Musical Judgements

Appendix 1 Table of Hymns and Tunes Referred to

Appendix 2 Planning Worship: Resources

Appendix 3 Further Reading

Appendix 4 A Prayer for the Music and Musicians of the Church

Acknowledgements of Sources

Ye holy angels bright

who wait at God’s right hand,

or through the realms of light

fly at your Lord’s command,

assist our song,

or else the theme

too high doth seem

for mortal tongue.

Richard Baxter (1615–91) and

John Hampden Gurney (1802–62)

Acknowledgements

This book has been years in the making and many people have contributed. I am particularly grateful to those who have represented different denominations in giving advice or in reading chapters: Peter Moger, formerly of the Church of England Liturgical Commission and Canon Precentor of York Minster, now Rector of the Scottish Episcopal congregations on the Isle of Lewis; Sally Harper, Welsh musicologist, honorary research fellow of Bangor University, chaplain to St Asaph Cathedral, and a spiritual director; Laurence Wareing of the Methodist music website, Singing the Faith Plus, who was a conduit into the practice of the Methodist Church throughout the UK; Michael Ferguson, who discussed with me his doctoral thesis on the Roman Catholic Church in Scotland and beyond, and other colleagues and friends in that Church; John P. Kitchen MBE (Edinburgh City Organist; director of music at Old St Paul’s Episcopal Church, Edinburgh; President of the Incorporated Association of Organists) who acted as mentor to the chapters on organ skills; and Alan Buchan (organ adviser, Scottish Federation of Organists, and archivist, Scottish Historic Organs Trust) for his help in the chapter about the organ as instrument.

Others have allowed me to build on their work: Suzanne Butler (working with praise bands and instrumental groups), Brigitte Harris (organist, choir director, and teacher of organ), Ian McCrorie MBE, d. 2019 (choral director, Scottish Festival Singers and other leading choirs), Marion Dodd (minister, choral director and leader of workshops with congregations), Walter Blair BEM (organist of Holy Trinity Church, St Andrews, on practising and preparing organ music), and Graham Maule (d. 2019), artist, hymn writer, and member of the Wild Goose Resource Group (using technology in worship).

Others have shared their expertise and provided me with information: Duncan Sneddon (Gaelic psalm books), Michael Harris (St Giles’ Cathedral, Edinburgh), Phill Mellstrom (contemporary worship music), Anne Harrison (resources), Iain McLarty (resources), Nigel Uden (former Moderator of the United Reformed Church General Assembly), and Nicola Lawrence (organist and member of the RSCM Scotland Committee) who made suggestions as to content. These I thank, along with others who at various times have shared information or offered views and encouragement.

I am also most grateful to John Harper who, as professor in the School of Music and director of the International Centre for Sacred Music Studies, Bangor University (North Wales), supported and supervised the studies I undertook there, of which the results surface from time to time in these pages.

I am particularly indebted to my wife, Daphne Audsley, who closely read several drafts and made perceptive comments and suggestions for both content and presentation.

Preface

We are in the early stages of a profound church renewal.¹

This rather unexpected claim, when many prefer to talk of managing decline, appears in the opening pages of a book for those whose ministry is the leading of worship. Assist our Song is for those others whose ministry is leading and making the music in the local church, but the remark is equally apt.

For the music-makers, this is also a time of renewal, adjusting to fewer resources but seeking new strategies to meet greater opportunities. There can be bewilderment about the volume of new writing, frequently found online, and the need to navigate a good deal of hurt and resistance when changes are proposed. There is a revaluing of the traditional, but some unease about how the old and the new may marry.

The author of the book quoted observes that in a time of church renewal, questions begin at a fairly superficial and manageable level, and then almost imperceptibly each problem and question invites us deeper and deeper into the heart of the church where all roots are intertwined. The solution, he suggested, does not come from clever techniques and new programmes; nothing less than conversion and total commitment is required.

Worship and its music is one of the strongest roots upon whose nourishment Christian people draw. The church which looks to its roots in our day needs to find an increased commitment from its music-makers, new skills, fresh energy, a deeper understanding of worship, more imagination, greater risk-taking, especially in the local parishes throughout the land who are nearest to the challenges to existing patterns of church life and worship which arise from changes in public life: in how people communicate, how they understand belonging, and the multifarious ways they approach matters of inner health and the life of the spirit.

Assist our Song explores the ministries carried out by directors of music and their associates, and the ministry of choirs and other groups of singers and players. It is less obvious that the congregation have a music ministry, or that the clergy also have ministerial duties and responsibilities of a musical nature. Yet these two categories are included also, and what they have to offer is of high importance at this particular time.

The book from which the opening quotation comes is arrestingly titled Strong, Loving, and Wise and is by Robert Hovda, who was an American Roman Catholic priest. Yet in spite of the denominational divide, this particular representative of a Reformed branch of the church had the uncanny feeling of meeting someone who knows us better than we know ourselves. This should not be a surprise. It is in the areas of worship, liturgy and music that the churches come nearest to experiencing the unity for which Jesus prayed (John 17:21), and the present book has drawn from the experience of all denominations and seeks to share the results with all.

If this book has an inspiration, it was a volume published by the Church of Scotland in 1932, Manual of Church Praise – which must have been widely used if the fact that no fewer than six copies have accumulated on the writer’s shelves nearly a century later is any indication. As the title suggests, it was intended as a practical guide, including necessary background, for the music-makers of the church, with the congregation firmly included. It is hoped that the present volume will also be of practical use to their successors in any branch of the church.

Douglas Galbraith

Note

1 Hovda, Robert, 1981, Strong, Loving, and Wise: Presiding in Liturgy, Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press.

Worship and Music

1. Word, Water, Wine and Bread

Understanding Worship

The church bell has fallen silent, the last worshippers have clattered into their place, the beadle hoists the Bible on to the lectern, the minister climbs to the pulpit, the organ voluntary reaches its final cadence. There is a hush of expectation …

(or perhaps) …

In the ancient cathedral, the organ swells and the congregation rises to sing an opening hymn as the procession of choir and clergy weave their way to the chancel and settle in their stalls, and a collect harvests the diverse thoughts of the people present …

In the sanctuary of the modern, multi-purpose church centre, a praise band strikes up as the people assemble, excitement builds through songs and choruses until, at a signal from the worship leader, the sound of praise gradually sinks to a prayerfully reiterated refrain …

In a west Highland glen, the soberly dressed elders and congregation face down the path as the minister approaches, greets them, and leads the way as they shuffle in silence into the church …

On the village green, a handful of people slip through the slanted dawn light to their seats in a side chapel for early Communion, kneel and bow their heads in prayer …

Round a table in a café, the news and the greetings over, a Bible is put in the midst, and a discussion begins which becomes thoughtful, and then prayerful …

At Messy Church, after time spent exploring a Bible story through different crafts, chairs scrape as children and adults converge for a time of story, prayer and song …

In a Zambian village, one choir after another engages the gathering people in waves of song until it is sensed that the time has come to begin …

… so many approaches to worship. The curtain has risen. What now?

In a broadcast essay late one night on Radio 3, theatre director Bartlett Sher was revealing the secrets of his trade.¹ When people visit a gallery or go to a concert or the theatre, what they are doing, he said, is not just seeking entertainment but looking for something additional in their lives, something more. They want to be set free, they want to break through into another world, they want – and he used the word – to transcend. As directors rehearse with a cast they wrestle to unveil what he called, in a phrase from the poet Edmund Spenser, the ‘inward sound’ of each person in the audience. A well-made play has rhythms and movement which keep us on the edge of our seats, and the director works with these rhythms, getting exactly the right tempo so that they touch into and overlap with the rhythms of those in the audience. The hope is that, with their own inward sound released, people will find themselves pulled into a new rhythm, one that is beyond the clamorous and dissonant rhythms of multi-layered contemporary existence.

Could this describe our expectations of worship? We may come seeking sanctuary, a place of peacefulness amid the pressures, but also the possibility of peace and reconciliation in human society which is declared and enacted in worship; we may be uncomfortably aware how much store we place on things that are expendable and peripheral and come to church to rediscover and embrace the essentials; we worry about the masks we are so often forced to wear to cope with the range of relationships which must be kept up; we feel shame for how disconnected our private lives can become from the issues affecting the public life of the world and its need; we are exercised about the rise of extremism, the dangers of social media, the climate emergency, poverty, and the seeming impossibility of ending conflict and oppression. So we seek an experience of things falling into place, where sense is made, where hope is found. No – more than that. We hope, gathered together in God’s name, that God will be in the midst, that we will be in God’s company, that we will encounter God, that God will be with us here and when we go to live our faith in the world.

Worship’s palette

How might this come about? How is the inward sound generated that finds an answering echo within us? We think of worship as the one thing that is fixed and unchanging. In fact it has proved itself one of the most resilient of phenomena, adapting to enfold every era and every human experience. It has no equal in its ability to reach and embrace the whole human being, body and soul. To this end, over the centuries worship has accumulated an unusually generous palette. It is too easily assumed, as we examine denominational service books and authorised liturgies, and indeed as we listen from week to week, that worship is spoken text – that, like some hymn books, it is ‘words only’, or at least ‘words mainly’. Worship is written and then spoken. This would be to overlook the rubrics (‘red’ type or italics) telling us, ‘do this’, ‘go there’) that scatter the pages. It would also be failing to notice what is actually going on as we worship, not just around us but through our senses. It requires a whole range of ‘media’ to shape an act of worship.

There is the visual, the impact of our surroundings, the curve of a roofbeam, the beauty of embroidered pulpit fall or table frontal; the well-crafted furnishings and how they symbolise stages and events in the course of worship; the colours that spill on the ground from intricate window glass; clergy vestments and people’s Sunday best which dignify the moment. In some traditions there are icons – paintings which are frozen prayer and which, when contemplated, draw out the people’s own prayer; statues which bring to mind stories from Scripture and the saints, which put our own attempts at prayer and service in a strengthening mould.

There is movement, at the entry of the choir, the presentation of the offering, the going forward to the table at Communion or assembling at the font, processing on Palm Sunday or at thanksgiving for harvest; gesture in the raised hand for benediction or the clasping of hands in petition, the sign of the cross, or simply as we greet fellow worshippers; posture as we stand to sing, kneel or bow in prayer; touch as we exchange the Peace, receive the bread from a neighbour or take the wafer on the tongue. There are olfactory experiences, the homely smell of the loaf, the tang of wine, the wafting incense, even the musty odour of sanctity that for so many defines the church. And of course there is the important place given to the hearing as the Word of God is read, directly from Scripture but also married with our own experiences and situations in sermon or homily.

This palette, like the painter’s, is not the picture itself. Worship does not consist of these things; rather they are only the surface of a deep running flow whose current is the God who reaches out to creation, and we respond – perhaps, like the leaping salmon, making something of great beauty. The various media and artefacts that give worship form must be designed to open both sides of the dialogue. The language must be such that lies between speaking in tongues and mystical silence and must partake of both. Put another way, to be capable of such two-way traffic, a certain transparency is desirable in what we say and do, unclogged by other agendas – the selfish sounds of a desire to impress or win acclaim – or by off-the-peg forms and phrases with other messages still clinging to them. This is not the same as arguing for more silence in worship, albeit very necessary, but rather to craft the media of worship in such a way that there is space and silence within them and through them.

Through these varied media which carry our adoration and petition we hear in return the divine voice. The line of a hymn suddenly strikes us with a truth, or a gesture warms us as we feel loved and accepted, or a striking stained glass window uncovers for us beauty in ourselves that we have suppressed, or a memory of another act of worship is awakened in well-known prayer words or musical cadence and re-sets our wavering discipleship – each a whisper of God. The idea that God speaks through the media of our worship suggests that we are not mere observers but in divine company. As the church reflected on the experience of being renewed by its worship age after age, it raided the limits of understanding, interrogated Scripture, struggled in prayer and strove in debate (the birth of a doctrine is rarely casual but occurs out of a driven need to capture, nurture, and share a precious truth), and uncovered the insight that in our prayer we were echoing the intercessions of Jesus Christ, our great High Priest, at the throne of grace. That our lips should move in time with Christ’s suggests a presence with us – Christ with us intimately as two or three gather.

Having grown up with a more distant God, many find it difficult to comprehend such an intimacy. That this has been the church’s belief from earliest times is illustrated by a helpful definition of hierarchy from a Lutheran liturgiologist.² In our mind, he says, we spell it higher-archy. But the word means in Greek ‘having a sacred origin’, and rather than the congregation being distanced from God, say, by a layer of ordained clergy, it actually suggests the most intimate connectedness possible. Dionysius, the sixth-century Syrian writer who coined the phrase, said hierarchy was to enable human beings to be as like God as possible and to be one with God. A modern writer puts it: ‘The church in her liturgy partakes of the life of the divine society of the three persons in God’.³ Is this perhaps what is meant in that puzzling passage in John 17:20–23 where Jesus prays that his disciples ‘may … also be in us’, as the Father is in him, and he in the Father, embraced within the blessed Trinity?

When we cannot worship

Yet these factors in themselves do not guarantee a full experience of worship. One obstacle is identified in another theatrical parallel. Recently the Church Service Society⁴ held a consultation whose main speaker was Icelandic theatre director and playwright, Kolbrún Björt Sigfúsdóttir, who asked participants what they hoped for when they went to the theatre. We all gave our answers, but her own answer was different still: that we go to the theatre to recognise ourselves, to find our experiences and feelings represented in the action of the play. How well do we enable people to recognise themselves in worship?

People worship first of all not with liturgies but with who they are. Worship fails for anyone if they have to say: I might as well not have been there, I did not recognise myself. This may happen when the forms worship takes become hardened and squeeze people out. They may have come to lack the flexibility that can stretch to encompass a person’s whole experience of life (including the life of the spirit). Inclusiveness in worship is not just a matter of language. The culprit is often not the orders for worship themselves but the idiom of church life: how we greet each other, the social smiles, the sort of conversation topics which are allowed to be broached, the level at which we permit involvement with each other. There is often a self-satisfaction in our life together that limits the reach of our worship, which is threatened by those ‘not like us’, or who are tainted with misfortune, or whose style and experience of life is different, often because circumstances compel them to live this way. Pharisees and Publicans alike may not feel welcome!⁵

Even regular churchgoers may feel ‘excluded’ at times. You slip into your usual pew but this week you avoid the eyes of your neighbour. Something has happened to cause you pain and grief: the loss of a job, injury to someone close to you, betrayal by someone you love, news that you have a serious health problem. You may be angry with those who are the cause – even angry with God that it should happen to you. But this is church and you put a brave face on it. You leave at the end feeling your anger and sorrow have not been addressed. Or you greet your fellow churchgoers as normal but, yet again, you wonder why they should be so friendly to you. Your feelings of inadequacy, even shame, never really go away: the unshakeable belief that you are socially awkward, unintelligent and unattractive. You may even have absorbed a prevailing disapproval or discomfort with the social group or cultural background you come from. There may be a real cause for shame: you feel you have put off facing a difficulty, or that you have let someone down, or carried out a task incompetently.

Our liturgies provide for the whole gamut, from deep penitence to glad thanksgiving, but in practice we often feel at one remove: a list of sins not quite ours; intercession for situations which feel as remote from us after as before the prayer; thanksgiving for the more obvious blessings; benedictions which brush our foreheads without healing our souls. This is particularly so in congregational gatherings where the style of worship is relentlessly upbeat. There is surely truth in the belief that our proper stance in worship is joy and humble acceptance before the sovereignty and providence of God, but the psalmists also show the honesty that acknowledges one’s anger, bewilderment and doubt.

Another possible obstacle is that changing circumstances mean that we are trying to pack too much into the Sunday service. In a paper to the Church Service Society, Michael Perham (later, bishop of Gloucester) suggested that many congregations now try to incorporate all that was formerly spread across seven days into one hour on Sunday morning – worship, education, outreach, the creation of fellowship. (We may observe how today it is becoming more common to begin worship with a focus on the human community gathered in worship as The Welcome takes pride of place, our ‘good mornings’ establishing who we are before whose we are, and it is often difficult to move from this warmth of togetherness to an awe in God’s presence – however glad we are to have recovered this sense of fellowship.) A similar analysis is offered from a Catholic perspective by North American liturgical scholar John Baldovin SJ, who suggests that, given the frenetic pace of life in post-industrial society, the main weekend service will most likely be the only time that most Christians come into formal contact with the church, and so the opportunity is taken of getting everything in. The problem is, he suggests, that once liturgy becomes an instrument to achieve other ends it loses its fundamental raison d’être. Former Uniting Church in Australia president D’Arcy Wood notes that this trend may be behind disagreements and dilemmas about music. These different aspects of church life potentially drew on a variety of idioms of music and of song collections, and we often find ourselves trying to compress this spread of sounds into that one hour whether suitable or not. In our attempt to incorporate ‘a variety of desirable things’, he concludes, we can forget that ‘worship is attentiveness, waiting, listening, meditating, seeking to hear what God says to us’.⁶

Another factor which can contribute to a lack of engagement is also a result of social change. It relates to how worship is approached. Today, we can jump in a car and be in our pew within ten minutes. In times past, the transition from life to worship was literal in that people had to cross long distances on foot. The effort involved in getting to the place where worship was to take place would give it a special profile. People today particularly value the worship when they have travelled to a shrine or sacred destination: Taizé, Walsingham, Lourdes, Iona or other centres, or indeed events like Greenbelt and Spring Harvest or an international ecumenical assembly. They find that worship takes on new layers of meaning because of the journey and on the expectation of arrival, not to mention the companions on the way. The fast-increasing number of pilgrim routes in our day may recover this dimension for many more people.

In some contexts the liturgy of life merges with the liturgy of worship, as in the monastic communities. In Iona Abbey today, worship takes place consciously in the context of the day’s work. George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community, in bringing together young ministers and stonemasons to live in community and rebuild the historic Abbey, designed the day so that work and worship were one single weave. As one of the young ministers, I knew the power of moving straight from morning worship to stone and cement-mixers and the co-operation and camaraderie of the day, and the gratitude and relief in entering the cool of the Abbey Church in the evening after work was ended. You don’t need to belong to a religious community to find in your work, your duties and responsibilities a context, resource and launch-pad for worship, but it may need weekday focus in, say, a pattern of prayer and reading.

Over the centuries other rituals and practices have grown, themselves small liturgies, which have helped make the transition from the midst of life to the heart of worship: a period of fasting, a visit to the confessional the evening before, daily devotions or the daily office, a weekday Bible study or prayer group, studying the lectionary in advance. And for many still, on the morning itself, the self-imposed discipline that from first rising seeks a quietness of demeanour which continues through to the time and place of worship, taking one’s place without gossip or noise.

There are also the rituals that lead directly into the actual event. In some traditions there is the reverencing of the holy table or host when entering and leaving the sanctuary. Robing clergy may recite prayers over each item of dress. There are prayers with the choir, prayer with the preacher or presiding minister. And there are the bells! – in these days often common ground between churchgoers and those who have ceased to attend but whose enthusiasm and skills continue to serve the church. Bells can begin the final approach to worship, not least when a peal of bells intensify their pattern as the time approaches. St Salvator’s, the university church of St Andrews, possessed two ancient bells, Katherine (first cast 1460) and Elizabeth (1520) (four more have now been added). The two would ring together, but shortly before the service began one fell silent leaving the other to continue alone. In my time as the university’s chaplain, waiting in the quadrangle to preside at the weekly university service, this moment was palpable, almost ominous, a reminder of one of the chants from medieval liturgies for the consecration of a church, Terribilis est locus iste (‘Fearsome is this place’). We can enter church too casually, treating it as any other human space and forgetting that to prepare to meet a God who is Judge as well as Shepherd is not only momentous but risky: we might be called to account, or led out on to a new way.

These examples suggest that worship is not so much an activity, more a disposition, a readiness, a state of mind, a habit of soul, which nevertheless finds its highest expression when we gather with others in worship, but already begun before a word is said or a note is struck.

Word, water, wine and bread

The shape of worship which is common to