There is a temptation in the Roman Rite toward a rigidity of posture that mimics the manner of soldiers on the march. Perhaps the sobrietas of our worship can be misunderstood, leading some to mistake rigidity for reverence. Or perhaps rigidity and restrictive motion are embraced as the necessary antidote to, or even reparation for, the frivolity often witnessed in Novus Ordo Masses. In any case, serving the liturgy should be more akin to a dance than a march. Both are choreographed, to be sure, but the model, the motivation, and the end of liturgical movement remain distinct from that of soldiering.
In this regard, I’d like to submit a meditation on Psalm 27:4. “One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple.” If beauty is what the Psalmist longs to behold, then we must ask what that beauty consists in. The beauty of God is revealed in seeing Him for who He is—in the majesty of His being and the perfection of His character. And what is God’s character? The Evangelist says that “God is love (1Jn.4:8).” The beauty of God, then, is the love we see emanating from Him to the other Persons of the Trinity and, through Them, to us. If to gaze “on the beauty of the Lord” is to witness His love, then we must ask what His love looks like?
The Fathers of the late patristic era could speak of the perichoresis of the Trinity; literally, the mutual indwelling among Three Persons in love. The Lover, the Beloved and the Love exist in an eternal movement of mutual self-giving. In Scripture, this motion of love is often described in terms of running water, as in, “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy dwelling places of the Most High (Ps. 46:4),” or “God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us (Rm. 5:5),” or, “Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb (Rev. 22:1).” God’s love, like flowing water, undulates continuously from His Temple. This movement of love finds its highest expression, of course, in the crucifixion. He poured out His blood for the many, and blood and water poured from His side. Throughout Scripture, divine love is never depicted as inert, stilted or restrictive. It pours, flows, springs forth, descends, and overflows without measure. For this reason, modern commentators have likened God’s inner life of love to a kind of dance.
My point? A military parade may inspire admiration for discipline and precision, yet it rarely evokes the kind of beauty that draws one into loving communion. But one will gaze upon a couple dancing and recognize that beauty is found not simply in the movement itself, but in the love made visible through it—a beauty that, in turn, moves the beholder. In God’s own “dance” we find our model and our motivation for liturgical movement. Bound by love, and not mere duty, those serving the altar radiate God’s own beauty. Rhythm replaces rigidity, fluidity replaces abruptness, and every seamless motion flows naturally into the next—not because it abandons order, but because order has been colored by charity. Teach an altar server to love, and he will soon know how to serve. Love gives grace to discipline, beauty to precision, and harmony to every movement. In this we arrive at the true end of our worship in the house of the Lord: to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord until we begin to reflect it. For “having looked at them, with His Image alone, [He] clothed them in beauty.” To gaze upon the beauty of the Lord is finally to learn its rhythm. We serve, then, as those who are in love, and lovers dance.
¹ St. John of the Cross, Spiritual Canticle,1.5