Worshipping on the Brink of War

Those of us who prepare and lead acts of worship should look with awe and humility at Ukrainian Christians, worshipping on the eve of the expected Russian invasion. But more than this, it behoves us to ask what sort of worship we might offer, should the UK ever find itself in a similar situation.

Would Unitarian worship fortify a people on the brink of war and occupation? 

I think we might struggle. Firstly, because of the difficulty we have even using the word ‘worship’. Despite training its ‘Worship Leaders’ in ‘Worship Studies’, our churches tend to offer ‘services’ not worship. What sort of service might we compose for the last Sunday before the arrival of tanks, missiles, troops and cyber warfare? And, hand on heart, do we think it would do any good?

Worshippers in Ukraine are on the verge of loss of life, destruction of property, and severe discomfort and anxiety, all with no end point. Many young people, mostly men, will take part in the fighting, and many of them will die. Worshippers are preparing to fight, to flee, or resist, or to see their loved ones facing the might of an overwhelming and lethal opponent. They are preparing for death. 

I think we all instinctively recognise that there is something in Orthodox Christian worship for people in such dire straits. But can we honestly say that Unitarian worship has the capacity to give a similar sense of comfort, strength or hope to people on the verge of a real crisis?

We didn’t get an answer to this question at the beginning of the Pandemic. This was when the elderly and unwell were extremely vulnerable, the way forward was uncertain, and the outcome seemed apocalyptic. And at such a time, corporate, spiritual solidarity was something that could not happen as we entered what was, let us not forget, a genuinely frightening national period. 

Religion should come to the fore in a crisis, but it was the first casualty of covid. Remember how, as we headed into the first lockdown, the Queen spoke to the nation, saying ‘we’ll meet again’? She was speaking to the generation that remembered the song, and revered her the most.  Her words, and the manner in which she delivered them, were deeply moving - and all the more so because public worship had suddenly evaporated. It gave us a glimpse of the emotional power that is available at such a moment of crisis, a latent power that lay untapped in faith communities that were suddenly unavailable. 

As I write, Her Majesty has covid with mild symptoms. She is triple jabbed and well looked after. Nevertheless, she is ninety-five. I hope she recovers and even gets to send herself a telegram. 

Ukraine is facing something worse than covid and worrying about more than the health of an elderly monarch. They expect great loss of life, including the young, and terrible hardship. And they are taking solace in worship. 

Orthodox worship is participatory not passive, and I doubt that this Sunday’s worship in Ukrainian churches was dominated by lengthy sermons. But sermons there will have been, and if they were lengthy, they would still have been shorter than the prayers and devotions. Worshippers facing a crisis want to hear about that which faces them all, not a reflection on something that once happened to the person in the pulpit, and how it has helped them to their latest set of opinions. And in Ukrainian sermons last Sunday, I trust that priests were talking of the sacred, not giving geopolitical analysis, or blaming the situation on the sins of their congregations’ government or ancestors. 

Why are Unitarians reluctant to call their Sunday services worship? Maybe the clue’s in the word. Services have themes, worship has an object - an object of worship. If churches do not offer an encounter with the transcendent, the sacred, with the very spirit of God, then what use would they be to a nation waiting to be violated? Use the building for shelter or food distribution, fine. But why go there to worship just before the bombs fall, if there is no one or no thing that is being worshipped?

Religion speaks to a reality that has been hidden from us in the West for much of the past fifty years: life is dangerous and uncertain. Terrible things happen, and people, families, communities and nations have to find a way to endure. Worship is, or should be, a huge help in this endeavour, and for much of human history no one has needed to point this out. Disease, war and childbirth always meant that no one went through life with the sort of unreality that we have today. The decline in religious observance does seem to mirror this temporary escape from danger. Worship, as is currently happening in Ukraine, is about meeting our deepest needs. But we have been living in a bubble, an illusion that we are secure. 

And yet life in the UK is dangerous for many people. Lives are traumatised, limited and cut short all the time. Worship and prayer is for desperate people. Does the whole nation have to be desperate at the same time for us to see this? The faithful of Ukraine are not so different from us, though they are a good deal less fortunate than us right now.  Were we to find ourselves ministering to a terrified community, what comfort could we give them? 

Let me be clear, watching them kneeling in the snow as they wait for war gives me a sense of the inadequacy of much western worship including Unitarianism, and this includes myself and my efforts. I don’t think any act of worship that I have prepared would be adequate to their situation. 

It may be that our worship is not fit for purpose. That would be a hard truth to swallow. But the painful truth would come with a gift, the opportunity to look again at what we believe and teach, and how we bring this all together in symbol and ritual on a Sunday. Can we think again about Sunday worship? Calling it ‘worship’ would be a good start. Can we rekindle our worship to the extent that it could offer strength, comfort and hope to a nation on the brink? After all, who’s to say that we won’t need to do just that one day?