It isn't easy being Reformed on Madison Avenue. Just ask Presbyterian pastor and former Westminster Seminary professor Tim Keller. Four years ago, despite the difficulties, he planted a church in midtown Manhattan, and today Redeemer Presbyterian Church effectively reaches students, office workers, corporate executives, and intelligentsia.
Keller's office, on the twelfth floor of a Madison Avenue high-rise, is wedged between the skyscrapers of New York's famous skyline. And just a five-minute cab ride from the office, the congregation meets for worship three times each Sunday in the auditorium of Hunter College. Its 11:00 a.m. service, rich in liturgy and classical music, attracts a crowd as ethnically and spiritually diverse as any Broadway musical. Its 6:30 p.m. contemporary service could be mistaken for a Broadway musical.
That contrast prompted Leadership Journal editors Dave Goetz and Marshall Shelley to brave the January slush one Sunday to worship there. At ten minutes before eleven, their cab pulled up to the doors of Hunter College. As they stepped out of the cold and into the college, a couple of enthusiastic greeters pointed them to a rapidly filling auditorium.
Shortly before the violin prelude ended, a middle-aged woman in a fur and stone-washed blue jeans plopped down next to Dave. She politely introduced herself, said her toes were cold, and asked how we'd heard about the church. Just then, Tim Keller stood up on stage, and the service began.
By the end of the first 19th-century hymn, it was obvious she was new to hymnody, and Redeemer Presbyterian Church. She didn't sing but used her index finger to follow the words printed in the bulletin. Throughout the service, she kept glancing sideways at Dave's bulletin, to see where he was reading or singing. Then she'd look back at hers and try to follow along.
A quick learner, however, by worship's end, she seemed to have mastered the liturgy, worship that even Jonathan Edwards could have appreciated.
Reformed liturgy, Madison Avenue style.
That paradox shouldn't come as a surprise, however, given the fact that Jonathan Edwards quotes roll off the tongue of Tim Keller as effortlessly as lay-ups roll off the fingers of New York Knicks center Patrick Ewing. As pastor and worship leader, Tim Keller has a head for the Reformed tradition and a heart for worship that pleases God. He spoke to Leadership Journal about what it means for Manhattan natives to worship well.
LEADERSHIP: Is worship doing what comes naturally? Or is it a skill that must be learned?
TIM KELLER: Worshiping God is an instinct that's gone awry. As a result, it must be learned, but as it's learned, it feels utterly right and natural.
Jonathan Edwards spoke of religion consisting in our affections. Our affections consist of that core part of our being that orients our mind, will, and emotions toward an object. Sin has caused our affections to stray (I told you I was Reformed), propelling us to worship relationships, achievement, work-everything but God. Alfred Adler would say we gravitate toward control or power or comfort or approval.
We obsess about those things, comfort ourselves with them, fantasize about them.
Of course, biblically speaking, those things are idols. Worship is pulling our affections off our idols and putting them on God. Obviously, at our deepest level, we were created for worship. But rediscovering that takes skill. It's learned.
When you strip away all of the externals, what is corporate worship?
Individuals worshiping God in harness. Each horse, say, in a team of six horses is affected by the speed and direction of the other five. The same is true of worship.
The word worship comes from an Old English word meaning "worth-ship." I define worship as a private act, which has two parts; seeing what God is worth and giving him what he's worth.
Job says, "I have treasured the words of his mouth more than my daily bread" Job 23:l2). When I treasure something, I longingly look at it, for example, in the store window and think about how great it would be to own it. I ponder its virtues, talk to my friends about how great it is. Then I go out and buy it.
Worship is treasuring God: I ponder his worth and then do something about It–I give him what he's worth. Every brand of worship must have those two elements. Public worship just means you're doing it in concert with others.
If the minister is talking about the holiness of God, for example, and you're seeing God's worthiness in terms of his holiness, you're seeing it in concert with the rest of the congregation. Together, God's people are in harness, letting the worship leader guide them to thinking about God in certain ways so they can respond individually by giving him what he is worth.
Of course, not everyone will be worshiping.
So when has a congregation worshiped well?
When a large number of those attending the service are privately worshiping, seeing God for what he's worth and responding in kind. A poor worship service is one in which very few are.
Unfortunately, there's no tangible way to tally the percentages. I've led services where I thought few people were truly worshiping, but then when I talked to my wife, she sensed just the opposite.
As an individual, how do you know if you have truly worshiped or just sat through a religious activity?
Our affections include not only our mind but our will and emotions. Jonathan Edwards said that you can have an intellectual event that hasn't affected you. In order for us to worship, our mind, will, and emotions have to be moved. They're all organically connected.
Merely learning a truth about God is intellectual education, not worship.
For example, I can know intellectually that God is good but still be worried silly about something that's coming up this week. If the morning's sermon is on the sovereignty and goodness of God, I've haven't worshiped unless that truth descends from my mind and touches my emotions and my will.
I worship, then, when I realize I've been trusting in my own abilities, not the sovereignty and goodness of God. When I pull my affections off the other things I've been trusting in–which is why I'm anxious–and put them on God, I will be touched emotionally. I may cry; I may not. It depends on what kind of personality I have. But the truth will affect my emotions–and my will.
My will is affected when I decide to change the way I handle that threat next week.
Worship is grasping a truth about God and then letting that truth strike you in the center of your being. It thrills you, comforts you. That's when the truth has moved from left to right brain-from mind to heart. On the spot, it will change the way you feel. And from that moment on it will change the way you act. The whole brain, the whole person is affected.
Some people are moved to tears by listening to "The Old Rugged Cross." Others by "The Wind Beneath My Wings." Is that worship?
Perhaps. But it could also be merely a sentimental connection. That is, the song reminds you of a warm memory. This is one reason why people will say, '"I can't worship if I don't sit in my pew" or "I can't worship because you rearranged the furniture," or "I can't worship if I don't know the hymns."
That's nostalgia, a fond sentiment that people often need because everything else in life is changing. But that feeling isn't worship.
So an emotional experience may not be worship.
Correct. Feelings–perhaps induced by my surroundings or whatever–are stirred, but there is no impact on my whole life. Our emotions become a legitimate part of worship when, in response to a truth about God, we give something back to God: our money, our sin, our praise. Again, the three elements must be there: mind, will, emotion.
I'd rather use the word moved than the word emotion, however. I agree with Edwards who essentially said that if we don't find that our affections have been moved from earthly idols toward God, we haven't worshiped. Our affections are more than just our emotions.
Some of us, myself included, are not emotionally expressive. I don't consider myself repressed; that's just who I am.
However, if I leave Sunday morning having had no emotional connection whatsoever, I haven't worshiped. I must allow my heart to be touched to worship.
Besides nostalgia, what other emotions are often confused with worship?
Conscience clearing. Some people feel guilty because they haven't gone to church for a while, or they haven't been praying, or whatever. So because they're sitting in church, having sung a hymn and put something in the offering plate, they feel better. They feel like good people for being there. Their conscience is dear. Perhaps that feeling is better than the sentimental feeling, but it's still not worship.
Other people are only having an aesthetic experience, which may be better than the other two forms of emotion, but it's still not worship. Even people hostile to the gospel can weep while listening to Handel's Messiah. C. S. Lewis said that his imagination was baptized when he was still an atheist because of excellent Christian art.
After preaching a sermon, I've had people say, "Your sermon was wonderful. It made me feel terrific, but I don't believe any of the things you said." They liked the logic, the delivery, the overall impact, but they couldn't believe it.
So you can withhold your intellect and your will and yet have an incredibly aesthetic experience as you see the gospel presented in an artistic way.
What role should aesthetics play in worship?
Aesthetics, or art, is a movement from the right brain to the left. Consequently, art is often a back door to the left brain–the side of our brain that analyzes truth. Clearly, people are brought to faith through great aesthetics. The power of the art draws people to behold it. After a while they begin to wonder if the ideas that inspired it are true.
That's one reason why large churches that focus on excellence in worship attract more non-Christians. A non-Christian is attracted to the art of a tight-sounding worship band or string quartet. Non-Christians are not, in general, attracted to smaller, close-knit churches where for the Sunday morning special music Brother Joe's seventh-grade nephew gets up and plays "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" on his clarinet. That music is meaningful for the members of Brother Joe's church, who know and love the nephew, and know and love the truth. But those who don't have the relationship already established are only made uncomfortable by the lack of aesthetics.
As a general rule, the larger the church, the more important worship aesthetics become. It can be compared to the difference between two restaurants, both of which have great food. One restaurant is a dive, tucked away in a hard-to-find basement: its patrons are proud of the fact that not many people eat there. It attracts few new customers because nobody knows where it is unless you're told by an insider.
The other restaurant, however, places a premium on good advertising and a pleasant ambiance. It's easy to find, warm and friendly. Everything about the restaurant communicates, "Why don't you buy our food?"
I would go so far as to say that when planting a church, you determine its future size by the importance you place on aesthetics in worship.
Is the reason for good art in worship because God deserves our best?
That's one reason. But, frankly, I doubt that to God there's much difference between the classically trained soloist or Brother Joe's nephew. Even our most highly trained musicians are probably not going to impress Almighty God.
God is the one we want to please, and I doubt he judges on the basis of aesthetics.
To me, aesthetics are important as an effective means for people to grasp the truth about God so they can give him what he's worth–to worship. Good aesthetics remove the obstacle of distraction that bad art places in the path of the would-be worshiper.
Isn't focusing on aesthetics, though, merely catering to our culture's consumer mindset?
Effective evangelism has usually combined excellent aesthetics with communication. George Whitefield's preaching was great aesthetics; he had a gripping voice, he could weave moving stories causing the crowd to groan and weep. His oratory power attracted crowds of five to ten thousand people.
Whether Whitefield's oratory, Willow Creek's drama, or Redeemer Presbyterian's more classical aesthetics, the object is to communicate a message that penetrates the head, the heart, and the will.
And that from a Reformed pastor who quotes Jonathan Edwards! (Laughter)
Contemporary pop music is not the only art that attracts non-Christians. I'm always puzzled when I hear pastors suggest this.
Our largest service at Redeemer is not the one we started with the contemporary band (though that could change). It's the one with traditional hymns and string quartets playing classical music. Perhaps that's because New York faces Europe more than the rest of the country. I've found the people of Manhattan like formality. They're used to cathedrals, art museums, symphonies. So many non-Christians feel safe in a liturgical service because at least there they know what's happening next. There are no surprises.
I've also found that many who, having rejected their Christian upbringing, come back to the faith often do so to a liturgical church. Those types of people tend to be a part of our country's intellectuals: university professors, writers, musical performers.
Dan Wakefield, a writer who moved to New York in the 1950s, was originally from Indiana. When he arrived here, he completely overturned his Baptist roots and became a Bohemian. In one of his books, he describes how he wanted nothing to do with the values of middle America. He completely rid himself of religion.
Now, however, he's near sixty years old, ostensibly needing spiritual meaning, and attends the Episcopal church. Why? Probably because to him the Episcopal church feels safe, it's connected with history, it doesn't feel like a fly-by-night operation, and, to him, it is more satisfying aesthetically.
So, historic liturgy appeals to a certain kind of person. It opens doors to the heart that the art of pop culture can't. Personally, I like both. Each form of art opens different doors into my soul.
One of the struggles pastors face is planning worship when both believers and "seekers" will attend. Can both wheat and tares worship together?
At Redeemer, we say that in the way we communicate to our audience, we are not targeting either believers or seekers. Ours is a worship service calling everyone to respond to the truths of God. We just do it in the vernacular.
In addition to good aesthetics, we attempt to make our worship accessible, which, in many ways, is also good aesthetics. Little things such as the words of the liturgy must be beautiful and understandable–even the words must have good aesthetics.
In historic liturgy, the congregation recites aloud more than in free-church styles. So the words to those forms have to be comprehensible. Our bulletin is actually a booklet, several pages thick, which includes the words and music to the hymns and responsive readings we'll be using, as well as quotes from such literary types like George Herbert, a 17th-century poet, and folk choruses. American folk tunes, amazingly, blend nicely in high-culture worship. The stronger musical line of folk music fits with the classical thrust of the service.
What part to you, as worship leader, play during the liturgy?
To worship in the vernacular, I explain more, saying, for example, "Let's read this passage of Scripture and then spend a few silent moments in confession." Then I'll explain what confession is. Or I say, "At the end of the sermon, I will be calling for a life commitment. Committing our life to God means … "
However, in reality, you can only do so much education and so much evangelism in a worship service. Therefore, a congregation needs venues outside of Sunday worship for both.
When you try to be aesthetically appealing week after week, is there a tyranny of each week having to be better than the last?
I don't feel the "can you top this" pressure some pastors say they feel. But still, just the pressure to create an equally good worship service each week can be powerful.
The pressure can cause me to react wrongly when a service doesn't come off the way I think it should. I'm a detail person, and occasionally I catch myself cringing when I feel a vocalist blew it or the microphone system goes haywire. That's not good. It indicates an over-emphasis on aesthetics.
We recently moved from a smaller facility where we packed out the place to an auditorium at Hunter College, a place that seats 2,200. Our largest service, however, is 800. That has dampened our worship energy, because acoustically, our singing cannot fill the expanses of the auditorium.
That has been frustrating. We purchased an organ, which helps, but we've had to accept the fact that until we fill the auditorium, our singing, aesthetically, will not meet our expectations. Some of our people were disappointed when we first moved in, but we didn't have any alternative.
Yet, just as people can have an aesthetic experience and not worship, they can also worship without good aesthetics.
I need to remember that. So I try to balance truth with love. I'm an advocate of good aesthetics but not in a way that is harsh. I'm committed to excellence but don't want to make it a non-negotiable. Aesthetics are negotiable, truth is not.
How do you arrange your service so people can worship with their mind, emotions, and will?
We break our service down into three cycles of seeing what God is worth and then giving him what he's worth. To begin the service, for example, I often give a devotional that focuses on some aspect of God. The following two pieces of music and then time of silence for confession allows people to respond: to give back to God what he's worth.
Elements of worship such as Scripture readings, exhortations, and sermons are vehicles to show people what God is worth. The offering, prayers of repentance and thanksgiving, and times of confession, of course, are there for people to respond to God.
As worship leader, what must you bring spiritually to Sunday morning?
Before Sunday, I must have been worshiping God throughout the week. I use, daily, Martin Luther's scheme of "garland" meditation, which he describes in a letter. I meditate until some thought of Scripture catches fire in my heart. I collect those thoughts, which stay radioactive all week, and use them in my worship leading the next Sunday. This prepares me to worship in concert with the congregation. My people can sense whether I am or not. I believe the church needs to see me worship, to see my affections being moved by the truth of God.
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