| |
|
|
V.
Since the aim of these reflections has been to arrive at a deeper understanding of the practice of contemplation, it would seem appropriate to draw some practical considerations from them. While anyone but a classicist or a philosopher could be forgiven for having forgotten what theoria once meant, more is at stake in our having forgotten what it originally means. Its sources recall us to the original unity of thinking, seeing, wonder, and worship. This idea of theoria as a form of worship—as liturgical—prompts further reflection on the idea of a worship service as a theoretical spectacle. The same unease that greets the association of theory and (artistic) performance is often elicited by the idea of performance in public worship. While we expect theory to be non-participatory, or detached, we want worship to be as participatory as possible. To participate is not to be a mere spectator. It is to take part. To ensure participation, we assume, liturgy cannot become a spectacle.
The theoros was a spectator—and a participant. If theoretical observation was originally participatory, there must also be a sense in which participation can be observational—a sense in which seeing (or hearing) can itself be a form of worship. The kinds of experience in which the meaning of theoria originated should remind us of the difference between passive looking and participatory beholding. The latter is not merely spectatorial, though it does require a spectacle of a certain sort.32 The craftsman's work presents a spectacle (thea) in which the divine (thea) is itself present. As an epiphany of kosmos such spectacles allow the spectator to participate in this divine "presencing" just as the theoros was actively and experientially engaged in the realization or making visible of a divine order. A spectacle provides the occasion for this kind of participation when it is "seen with wondering eyes" (theaomai) or presents itself as "a wonder to behold" (thauma idesthai). That is, when it is beautifully wrought, or well made. It is by virtue of its harmonious composition that any work of art serves as a realization of the divine. The spectator may not possess the skill necessary to make such a thing—the skill necessary to create harmonia—but the possibility of participating in anything more than an entertaining show depends on the craftsman's ability to do so.
There is, of course, a vital sense in which the joining together of an assembled congregation in the actual making of music—as when a musician accompanies a hymn—is integral to its liturgical function. There is also an important sense in which music that is performed—as when an anthem is sung by a practiced choir—must be selected and presented in a way that invites participatory engagement. The word "accessible" is often used in this context without much thought for what it is that such performances might or might not enable human beings to access, or what the deepest form of participatory engagement is such spectacles might ultimately be. What could it mean to take part? What are we ultimately taking part in? As Schroeder-Sheker observes,
[T]raditions that include the singing of prayers as part of their
spiritual praxis hold this in common: if particular sacred music
is sung by a prepared community of liturgical singers in the most
appropriate way, at some level, heaven and earth are linked.33
Here, I take it, "appropriate" does not simply mean psychologically, culturally, or aesthetically accessible. If "the most appropriate way" is taken to mean the most artful way (in the ancient sense), it is indeed possible to understand how heaven and earth might be practically linked through the liturgical function of music, and why it is so important for the singers to be musically as well as spiritually prepared.34
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | Contents
|
|
|
|
