Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Tonight, after church, I came back into the sanctuary to get our stuff after everyone else was already out in other parts of the church. The platform lights were off, the candles blown out, but the room lights still glowed a dim yellow, and it was very quiet.

The smell of smoke from the candles lingered in the air, a holy smell, a smell from my childhood. I remember that smell mixed with the sweet scent of wine. The two go together in my mind, and they belong in a quiet sanctuary, a holy place, a very different place than the sanctuary tonight. But not so different:


Mom and her friend were washing communion dishes in the sacristy closet. The room lights in the sanctuary were off, and most of the people gone. The platform lights were still on, however, because they were not done with the altar. There were linens to be changed after the communion dishes were washed, the wine poured out on the ground, and the leftover wafers stored for the next communion service.

I was in the sanctuary on the platform. I could hear the quiet murmur of the women in the closet. And I could see the altar. It had lots of things arranged on it. As a child, I neither fully understand, nor attempted to understand their significance. As an adult, I am glad I had the experience. I am grateful that I understand.

As a 10-year-old, I thought the liturgy was boring, meaningless recitation. As a 29-year-old, I begin to appreciate the symbolism. Without variance, it became rote. But without symbolism, it becomes a religion of the mind only.

We worshipped with all our senses. From the black altar colors of Good Friday to the brilliant white and gold of Easter morning was a tremendous visual leap. The altar area was full of visual symbols. A large Bible was propped up and opened to a particularly meaningful passage. Two individual candles, the meaning of which I've forgotten sat on either side of it. Two candelabra on either side of the altar led upward by stair-steps. They were lit from the top down, to symbolize that God came down to us. The heavy solid metal Celtic cross sat in the middle of the altar, a reflection of the enormous stained glass window behind it, that was itself reflected again in the processional cross sitting to the right of the altar area. Above it hung the eternal flame. It never goes out, a constant reminder that God is always present with us. On either side of the altar were the special shelves for the two fresh flower arrangements that decorated the altar each Sunday. The heavy metal vases were empty. Last Sunday's flowers had been bought by a member of the congregation to commemorate a special event in their life, perhaps a child's birth, anniversary, or parent's death. After the service they were delivered to another church member in the hospital or shut in.

Stained glass windows ran down both sides of the sanctuary. Between them hung light fixtures that gave soft lighting during the sermon. The room lights were turned up during the rest of the service. Light was an integral part of our visual worship. The lights were dimmed on Christmas Eve, and candles were lit to symbolize the light Christ brought into a dark world. During Tenebrae on Good Friday, the various lights were gradually extinguished until all was left in complete darkness. But the eternal flame remained. Even in this darkness, God has not left us alone. On this night, all objects on the altar were covered by black veils, and the service took place after dark outside. On Easter morning, everything was lit and glistening, the veils removed, and all lights and candles lit.

The sounds of the organ, choir, flute, and piano lent a solemn or joyful auditory aspect to our worship, as the event required. The slow, somber chanting of Psalms prophesying the death of the Messiah melded with ancient hymns in a minor key on Good Friday: "Stricken, smitten, and afflicted, see Him dying on the tree. 'Tis the Christ, by man rejected. Yes, my soul, 'tis He, 'tis He." The Easter morning processional was accompanied by the majestic and victorious sounds of "Lift high the cross, the love of Christ proclaim 'til all the world adore His sacred name." The traditional German carols sung at Advent and Christmas time are still sung in our house, sometimes in two languages. "From Heav'n above to earth I come to bear good news to ev'ry home. Glad tidings of great joy I bring, whereof I now will say and sing." And we rejoiced in the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost with the words "Come, Holy Spirit. Dark is the hour. We need your healing, your love, and your might pow'r. Move now among us. Stir us, we pray. Come, Holy Spirit. Revive your church today."

I have never forgotten the music of the liturgy. There are many Bible passages I remember because I memorized them to music in the liturgy. "Our help is in the name of the Lord. Who made heaven and earth." Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." "Holy, holy, holy Lord God of Sabaoth. Heaven and earth are full of Thy glory. Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna in the highest. Blessed is He, blessed is He, blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord." "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace according to Thy word. For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people...."

There were other sounds as well. The strepitus, the sound of the closing of Christ's sepulchre in the darkness following Tenebrae, is probably the most memorable. The sound of the glass communion cups in their holders, the chimes the organ played during silent prayer, and of course the sound of the reading of Scriptures, singing of hymns, responsive reading, and preaching.

Flowers, smoke from candles, wine and grape juice, and the new wood of the ceiling all combined to produce a particular smell that I don't think I've smelled anywhere else.

Grape juice or wine, and communion wafers were obviously a vital part of worship. And communion was celebrated twice a month, with extras for certain church days, like Christmas (yes, we went to CHURCH on Christmas Day!) Easter, and New Year's Eve.

There were tactile ways to worship as well. The surroundings were rich, the carpet thick and soft, the pew pads soft, the pew backs smoothly polished. There was texture everywhere. Iron railings beside the lectern and pulpit, water in the baptistery, brick on the wall, rough stained glass pieces on the windows, banners and hangings on the altar and at the front of the church. The whole room was a study in texture. A feast for the eyes, but also for the hands. The offering plates were cold, gleaming brass. The Christmas Eve candles were warm, pliable wax. The hymnals with their satin bookmarks, the communion cups, the altar rail, the pencils and attendance cards. These were all things we touched.

But maybe more than any of these things, I remember the quiet. It was extraordinarily quiet during the service. Of course there were the normal rustlings that any large group of people will make, but there was no talking, whispering, very little coughing. Small children sat as quiet as the elderly through every service. I know. I was one. I remember the stillness of those services. We were coming before a holy God, and He deserved honor and solemn praise. Of course people visited in the sanctuary before and after the services, but once everyone had gone, the room took on a stillness. That was when I noticed things like the smell of smoke and wine. On Christmas Eve, the smoke hung so heavy from all those candles that my eyes would sometimes smart and sting. Poinsettias are somehow linked with that in my mind.


Yes, we worshiped with all our senses. So did the Children of Israel in the Old Testament. There were bells, horns, incense, blood, water, rich tapestries, perfume, candles, censors, bread, meat, smoke. John says even the disciples worshiped Jesus with their senses: "what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands..." (I John 1:1).

Today, I worshiped with a body of people I am honored to call my brothers and sisters. I raised my hands in awe of Almighty God (something I would never have dared in the solemnity of my previous church) as I sang, "My chains are gone, I've been set free!" I heard more than half (for once) of a sermon three times longer, and much more meaningful to me than anything there. I heard people saying "Yes. Amen!" throughout the message. I listened as a man stood up spontaneously in the service and testified to his freedom in Christ. And I felt privileged to be a part of it.

And yet I wondered how much we have missed by leaving behind the centuries-old traditions of the Church. Sometimes it seems as if our only tradition is to have no tradition at all. But how much fuller might our worship be if we used all our senses to accomplish it? Research overwhelmingly indicates that children learn best when all their senses are stimulated. I believe this carries over to adults as well. God made us sensory creatures, and somehow when we use all of our God-given senses, we partake more fully. And speaking of children, how can we expect them to want to know and understand a God who requires them to sit still and quiet for an hour listening to adults sing and talk? A religion of the mind alone will not work for those to whom Christ said the Kingdom of Heaven belongs.

A liturgy, the rites of the church, these are not requirements of faith. They are not indispensable. But they are accompaniments, aids, teaching tools. They leave strong impressions and lasting memories. And sometimes remembering the smell of smoke and wine makes me feel like smoke is in my eyes.