It was Christmas, and the grandchildren were watching me open their gift to me. They said I would “really like it”, and I did. It was a bottle of Old Spice After Shave Lotion. I hadn’t seen that concoction for decades. It was common in the 50’s and 60’s, and I used it then. At least twenty times a day the jingle on the radio proclaimed it as “A fresh breeze from the seven seas”. I thanked the children, and they gave a dutiful “Ywelcum” over their shoulders as they tore back to the tree like lions to a carcass.
New Year’s Day came and went, the tree was put away, the bottle of Old Spice found a place to live in the bathroom cabinet, and time went by. Then one morning as I did my ablutions, the bottle caught my eye. On a whim I retrieved it and dashed some lotion on my face … and in a FLASH, the previous forty years melted away and I found myself standing once again at the ten-sink counter in the communal bathroom of my old college residence. It was a startlingly vivid sensation. I saw nine other guys also brushing their teeth and shaving their faces, and every face in the long mirror was familiar. Then, as suddenly as it came, the vision ended, and I was my older self in my own bathroom once more.
Our senses really do have an evocative power that can take us off guard and transport us momentarily through space and time. A familiar sight can bring unbidden memories flooding back. I can hear my mother’s voice in one of the mannerisms my daughter uses when she speaks. A hint of sage in the turkey dressing is reminiscent of Christmas in the old farmhouse back home. A friendly punch on the shoulder reminds me of a buddy in high school. Fleeting though such sensations may be, they can make us pause. They are fickle, to be sure. They cannot be induced. But when sight, sound, scent, taste or feel triggers them, they are authentic, and their effect can be profound.
Perhaps that is why I differ from the grandkids when they tell my Church is boring. For me, the Liturgy is powerfully evocative of God. It is rich with a subtle sensuality that moves me. It does not strive to make me emotional. It does not try to entertain me. It does not overwhelm me with raucous music. It does not contrive to conjure up a spiritual experience. In truth, is not that respectful reluctance to be manipulative precisely what renders Liturgy boring for the younger generation? But when our five senses converge in the Liturgy, when our liturgical ducks are all in a row as the saying goes, it is then that conditions are ripe for catching a vivid awareness of the living Christ in our midst.
And converge they can.
Visually, just being present for a service is a feast for the eyes, with vestments that change color with seasons and festivals, stained glass windows that tell sacred stories, colorful banners that offer devotional thoughts, the sign of the Cross made by the Priest at the Blessing, the Processional Cross being held plumb straight, and the coordinated movements and gestures of the liturgical assistants.
Our hearing is arrested by the sonorous tones of the organ, the choir, the congregational singing, the peal of the Sanctuary Gong, the sight and sound of baptismal water being poured from the ewer into the font, and even the experience of precious silence. They all tell us we are standing on Holy Ground.
Our sense of touch is awakened by the grip of another’s hand at the exchange of the Peace, and by the delicate weight of the Wafer on the tongue.
The sense of taste is engaged at that intense moment when a sip of wine touches our lips.
Our olfactory sense also places us in sacred surroundings by the distinctive ‘church smells’: furniture polish, bees’ wax candles, flowers, and on some occasions incense.
Within that environment of sense perceptions simultaneously attuned to God, if we consent to be open to God, the liturgy can open God to us. The combined evocative power of five senses can trigger a flash of insight, a moment of peace, a burst of understanding, a glimpse of glory, the gift of courage finally to accept something we cannot change, or a change of heart. When we share the mutual greeting of the Peace of Christ, the reality of it can become tangible.
That should not surprise us. We have every reason to believe that for those who knew our Lord in the flesh, encountering him was an incomparable sensual experience. His public ministry was replete with appeals to the senses.
Without a hint of excited demagoguery in his voice, people heard him as one who had authority, not as the scribes (Mark 1: 22). Beside the tomb on Easter morning, his familiar speaking of her name awakened Mary Magdalene’s recognition of the risen Lord (John 20: 16).
When healing people, Jesus frequently touched them. Consider how powerfully his tactile gift of sight impacted the man born blind (John 9: 1-12), or how his shocking touch of an ‘untouchable’ leper (Mark 1: 40-42) conveyed God’s love and acceptance.
Jesus also invoked the sense of taste. He fed 5,000 hungry people (Matthew 14: 13-21), and that made an impression. He produced wine for a wedding feast (John 2: 1-11) … roughly 120 – 180 gallons of it! That made an impression too! And, for the Sacrament of his living presence with us, he designated the elements of bread and wine and instructed us to eat and drink of it (Matthew 26: 26 – 29).
At the grave of Lazarus (John 11: 34 – 41) Jesus summarily dismissed the tomb’s stench of death, and in the Upper Room he permitted a woman to anoint his feet with a powerfully pungent perfume and commended her for her generous love (John 12: 1-3).
And, figuratively as well as literally, Jesus gave people sight. He illustrated his teaching with references to ordinary wonders like mustard seeds, trees, flowers, birds, and winds, and his parables are masterfully artistic sketches of ordinary and unforgettable people.
If there is any further doubt about the liturgy’s evocative power, the scriptures themselves attest to it with the accounts of two Jewish High Priests, Isaiah (Isaiah 6: 1-9) and Zechariah (Luke 1: 8-20), who experienced life-changing visions during the emotional intensity of performing their liturgical functions.
But perhaps even more telling evidence of liturgy’s enriching influence is that we have been missing it during the long months of this pandemic, and that we eagerly anticipate a return to ‘Church Normal’. Clearly, we have not been missing something that bores us to tears, but something that lifts us up.
Circumstances have taken from us the ability to gather, to be a community, and to experience the Holy Communion in person. Efforts to compensate for those losses have been valiant and laudable, but they aren’t the same. Being bereft of the sensual richness of liturgical services is … well, it’s boring. May it be available to us again soon, and may its return strike us like a fresh breeze from the seven seas.
Dale