Worship from the Transepts

Illustration from Glossary of Medieval Art and Architecture © Department of History of Art and Architecture University of Pittsburgh. Used by permission.

Large Gothic churches were designed in the shape of a cross, as are some churches today, including my own home church, West End United Methodist Church in Nashville. Our sanctuary is large, and I usually sit in the nave area with most worshipers, eight or ten pews from the front, next to the center aisle. A few weeks ago, however, arriving late for worship, we found seating in the transept, a part of our sanctuary in which I had never before worshiped.

The transepts always seemed to me to be too far away, located on the edge of worship rather than in its center. From there, you couldn't see what was going on very well, nor could you hear our grand and glorious choir and organ at their best. The table, pastor, pulpit, liturgists, choir, and soloists all seemed to face the worshipers in the nave rather than those in the hinterlands of the transepts.

Apparently those worshipers who populate the transepts suffer from the same disease that afflicts those who sit in the nave, one symptom of which is the desire to sit in the back rows. Thus, as my wife and I hurriedly took our seats that Sunday morning in the transepts, I was dismayed to have to sit in the front pew of the transept. As it turned out, this was quite an unexpected blessing. For a variety of reasons, I was able to worship with an entirely new perspective. The transept offered a new visual, aural, and perceptual worship experience to me.

On a large scale, I saw for the first time the beauty of perspective and overall design of our sanctuary as I could now see huge arches looming above me, tapering off to a series of increasingly smaller arches as they faded in perspective toward the rear of the sanctuary. While I could no longer see the magnificent front stained glass window, I could now see windows on the sides and behind the west balcony that I could never see from my seat in the nave. The new images, their beauty, the brilliant color, and details as the sunlight streamed through them were quite moving. I was reminded that these images in stained glass were once the Word of God for medieval people who could not and did not read Scripture. Also from my new seat, I could now see and orient myself as part of the entire worshiping congregation in a way that I could not in the nave, for here I could see the west balcony, the entire nave, much of the chancel, the opposite transept, and some of the choir and apse. (I am reminded of a wonderful column that used to appear in Worship Arts titled "Lapses in the Apses," written by Dr. Horace T. Allen, now retired Professor of Worship at Boston University.)

At mid-range, I could actually see the faces of the people rather than the back and sides of their heads. I could observe what they did as part of worship, their singing, praying, yawning, napping, and other activities. I could observe their emotional response to what was happening in worship. As the young children gathered at the front to be escorted to Children's Church, rather than just a group of children, I could now see their smiles or frowns, hear their voices, see their hand holding and arm poking. As the organ played alone, I could actually hear the voices of individual pipes and ranks, even the direction of the musical line as it physically and directionally made its way through a rank of pipes. I was also aware of being closer to the center, in particular to the area called the "crossing," where the nave, choir, and transept intersect. In most cruciform churches, that is the center of worship, where the Communion Table is also located, as it is in my church. In some large churches, the architect plans a burial location beneath the floor of the crossing, either for himself or some prominent person. And in my front row of the transept, I was much closer to this holy center than from my usual nave seat.

But the most dramatic difference in worshiping in the transepts for me was what I observed at close range. I could now see, ponder, and appreciate the designs and details of the Communion rail kneeling cushions that someone had so lovingly fashioned by hand. For the first time, I took in the details of the marble baptismal font that we use for every baptism and wondered who was Henry Beach Carré (1871-1928), whose name and dates are engraved upon it. I very much enjoyed the closeness to the speakers and leaders of worship, including the liturgists in the lectern that was located right in front of the opposite transept. I was most struck by my closeness to the pulpit, which loomed high above and immediately in front of me. I heard the creaking of the seven or eight steps as the pastor climbed up into it to deliver his sermon. Rather than a figure off in the distance preaching to a large crowd with the help of a sound system, he was now right in front and above, speaking to me in his natural voice. I could now see his every facial expression, the tensing and relaxing of his muscles, and the nuances of body language and gesture — details that were missed by those in the nave. He even, it seemed, exchanged a look of personal recognition and greeting with me, something that could never occur in the nave. It was all so close and intimate, as if I were part of the sermon, as if we were participating in a conversation rather than occupying separate spaces and experiences within the sermon and sanctuary. The impact of his sermon was much more immediate, more compelling, more personalized, than any sermon simply heard or listened to in the nave.

I don't know if I'll regularly take a seat in the transept for worship now or not. Perhaps I should take a lesson from this new perspective in worship and try out other locations in the sanctuary. As people who practice, teach, create, and deeply cherish the varied arts in worship, it might benefit all of us to experience worship in a new location. I can recommend it.