I have only been to an Anglican church service a handful of times, but some of the most profound experiences I’ve had in church took place during an Anglican service. The most recent was my experience this past January when I took communion from the common cup for the very first time. With words I have affirmed the unity of the body of church, with words I have confessed that there is one holy and apostolic church, and with words I have recited Jesus’ prayer from John 17, but there is something very different that happens when you experience it, when you dramatize it, when you perform it. It was powerful.
I had a similar experience just this past weekend. I was down in Melbourne for a conference hosted by Ridley College called, Known by God. On Sunday I went to St Paul’s Cathedral in the center of the downtown area because one of the speakers from the conference was preaching there that morning. On the scale of high church to low church this one was fairly high. And throughout the service I kept thinking about how different a service like this is compared to the sort of churches I was raised up in. No doubt most people from those churches would have considered this Anglican service “Catholic,” considering the large stained glass images, the large pillars, the priestly robes, the Latin hymns, etc. But as I was thinking about how different the service was—all the while genuinely appreciating the liturgical atmosphere—I was so taken aback by one moment in particular during the liturgy.
The scripture readings went as normal; members of the congregation would go up and read from Isaiah and the Psalms. I had done this sort of scripture reading at my church in Scotland and that part was familiar. But then came time for the Gospel reading. Now let me pause for a brief moment. I have been to Catholic services before where the Gospel reading had considerable more prominence in the service and was given far more attention. For instance, the services I attended at the Notre Dame in Paris stand out; the Gospel book was held high in the air during the procession into the service. So I was accustomed to the idea of dramatically celebrating the reading of the Gospel. And I love the reminder to avoid taking the Gospels for granted. But, coming back to St Paul’s Cathedral in Melbourne, once the time for the Gospel reading came something happened that I did not anticipate. The robed priests and deacons took the large red Gospel book with its gold engravings of a lion, angel, ox, and eagle (symbolizing the four Gospels), and, instead of making their way to the lectern where the other scripture readings had taken place, they proceeded down the aisle towards the congregation and stopped halfway. And from within the midst of the congregation they did the Gospel reading. Everything else in the service took place at the front of the building, on the stage, up there, but not the Gospel reading. That took place here. Immediately I became misty eyed and had goosebumps all over. All I could think about was one thing.
The Gospel comes to us.
The Gospel reading was taken from John 3.1–17 which spoke of a God who loved the world and sent his Son to that world. The dramatic performance of taking the Gospel to the congregation made this crystal clear.
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