A young Lutheran minister responded to last week’s column, “One Pew, One Person.” He observed that the pew squatter is not unique to Roman Catholic congregations.
In his community, the pew squatter sits at either end of the pew exhibiting similar, if not identical, attitudes of those who come to Mass. Both Catholics and Lutherans sit at the end of the pew and settle in.
Because of the smallness of the church building where he is the pastor, they tend to sit at either or both ends of the pew. The middle of the pew is the nether world.
He sees it as some type of the development of organic liturgy.
More than likely, each religious tradition has its own version of choice seating. It probably has something to do with “territory.”
In essence, they shall not be budged.
Sacred space is not restricted to Sunday morning worship.
Members of religious orders who gather three or four times a day in the community’s designated prayer space—choir stalls, chapel chairs or pews, or maybe even prayer pillows—quickly assume a personal geography delineated by the space where each member sits, stands, and kneels.
In most of these communities there are no officially assigned seats other than where the community’s superior and council members would sit.
Traditionally, reverence is given to the older members of the community, who had claimed their space a long time ago.
Members of such a community know where to sit and where not to sit for fear of incurring the wrath of a senior member. It gives new meaning to the dictum “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
There is another area that is sacrosanct in church territory. It is the gallery, usually in the west end of the church building, where a very large, very expensive organ is erected.
At least a dozen times now in my dwindling organist career, I have climbed numerous steps up a staircase in a prestigious church where the organ god or goddess pontificates.
In order to play the organ at a friend’s wedding or for the wedding of an offspring of married friends, it was necessary to secure permission to penetrate the inviolable space of the organ gallery.
That usually entailed speaking with the reigning organist, charm the secretary of the church, and sometimes bribe the head of maintenance to unlock the doors of the gallery to permit me access to the great behemoth of organ construction.
I can’t trust myself to play such an organ cold, that is to say, without at least one hour of preparation. It takes that long for me to become familiar with the organ with its own idiosyncrasies.
Happily, my repertory is limited to Pachelbel’s “Canon,” Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of *** Desiring,” and like repertory. Usually, my playing these pieces and others in the same level of difficulty lessens the anxiety of the resident musician.
He or she no longer feels threatened, and we become pals I insist that the normal stipend the resident organ receives for such a gig is still given to him or her.
All is well. There is peace in the gallery.
Territory disputes have been around ever since Israel entered Cana, ever since 1492 and 1620, ever since the questionable neighbors moved down the block from us.
Territory—has anyone invaded yours recently?
