A Fragrant Thread Through Christian History
There’s something rather extraordinary about walking into a church mid-Mass and being greeted by the sweet, resinous curl of incense smoke drifting towards the vaulted ceiling. It’s a scent that seems to bypass the brain entirely and speak directly to something more ancient, more visceral. One moment you’re a thoroughly modern person with a smartphone in your pocket; the next, you’re transported into a sensory experience shared by worshippers across two millennia. Rather marvellous, really.
Incense has been wafting through Christian worship since the early centuries of the Church, though its roots stretch back even further into Jewish temple ritual and beyond. Today, it remains a cherished element of Catholic, Orthodox, and Anglican liturgy—a fragrant thread connecting contemporary congregations to their spiritual ancestors. The smoke rises, the scent settles, and for a moment, the ordinary becomes numinous.
The Symbolism Behind the Smoke
Now, one might reasonably ask: why on earth are we setting things on fire in church? Fair question. But the symbolism of liturgical incense is rather more profound than mere atmospheric enhancement, though it does that rather well too.
Scripture is positively redolent with incense imagery. Psalm 141 offers perhaps the most direct connection: “Let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense; and the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice.” Here’s the heart of it—those ascending tendrils of smoke represent our prayers rising heavenward, carrying our petitions, thanksgivings, and praises into the divine presence. It’s a visual prayer, if you will, a physical manifestation of something otherwise invisible.
The Book of Revelation takes this imagery further, describing “golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints” (Rev 5:8). And throughout the Old Testament, incense appears as an offering of purification and consecration, setting apart the sacred from the profane. There’s also the rather charming notion that the smoke veils the mystery of the divine presence—much as the smoke filled the temple in Isaiah’s vision. We’re dealing with something simultaneously concealing and revealing, which is rather fitting for liturgical symbolism.
Tradition Meets Ceremony: Incense in the Liturgy
The practical employment of incense in worship is choreographed with considerable care. During Mass, you’ll typically see incense used at several key moments: the entrance procession, the Gospel reading, the preparation of gifts, and the elevation of the Eucharist. At Benediction, it’s used to honour the Blessed Sacrament. Funerals employ incense to honour the deceased, a final fragrant farewell acknowledging the sacredness of the body as a temple of the Holy Spirit.
The apparatus involved has its own delightful terminology. The thurible—that metal vessel swinging from chains—holds the burning charcoal and incense. The boat (so named because it rather resembles one) contains the unburned incense grains. The thurifer is the person wielding this aromatic arsenal, often processing with considerable solemnity and the occasional danger of knocking into pews. The celebrant receives the thurible, blesses it, and deploys the incense with varying degrees of vigour, depending on the feast day and, one suspects, personal enthusiasm.
There’s an art to the swing of a thurible—too timid and nothing happens; too enthusiastic and you’ve got a fire hazard and potentially concussed altar servers. It’s liturgical theatre at its finest.
Scents of the Sacred: Types and Ingredients
Not all incense is created equal, and the Church has developed quite sophisticated preferences over the centuries. Frankincense is the undisputed champion, the same resin offered by the Magi at Bethlehem. Its scent is complex—woody, slightly lemony, with a haunting sweetness that seems designed by Providence itself for liturgical use. Myrrh often accompanies it, bringing a warmer, earthier dimension.
Various churches blend these base resins with other ingredients to create signature scents. You might encounter benzoin for its vanilla-like warmth, or copal from the Americas with its cleaner, sharper profile. Some traditions add aromatic woods—sandalwood, cedar, agarwood—creating layers of fragrance that evolve as the incense burns.
Regional variations abound. Eastern Orthodox churches often favour deeply resinous blends with strong balsamic notes. Anglican churches might opt for something rather more restrained (naturally). Some monasteries maintain medieval recipes passed down through generations, guarding their formulae with the same seriousness afforded to secret sauce recipes.
The sensory experience is remarkably diverse. A high feast might call for a more opulent blend, whilst penitential seasons might employ something simpler, more austere. It’s olfactory theology, really—the nose knows what the liturgical calendar demands.
Sacred and Sensory: Why Quality Matters
Here’s where we must address something rather important: not all liturgical incense is fit for purpose. One has encountered some truly dreadful specimens over the years—harsh, chemical-smelling affairs that produce more coughing than contemplation. This simply won’t do.
The ingredients matter tremendously. Genuine resins harvested sustainably, proper processing, the absence of synthetic fillers and artificial fragrances—these aren’t merely aesthetic concerns. When incense is used in worship, it becomes part of the sacred action itself. Poor quality incense can be actively distracting, which rather defeats the purpose. High-quality liturgical incense is an essential element of many Christian ceremonies, symbolising prayer, purification, and reverence.
Craftsmanship in incense production involves understanding how resins behave when heated, how scents combine and develop, and how to achieve a clean burn that produces fragrant smoke rather than acrid fumes. The best ecclesiastical suppliers work with traditional methods, sourcing authentic materials and testing their blends rigorously. It’s a specialised art, and one worth supporting.
Conclusion: More Than Aromatics
In our determinedly disenchanted age, liturgical incense remains stubbornly, gloriously mystical. It refuses to be purely symbolic or entirely practical—it simply is, occupying that liminal space between earth and heaven, matter and spirit, the seen and the unseen.
When incense rises in worship, it carries with it centuries of tradition, layers of meaning, and the prayers of countless faithful. It reminds us that worship engages all the senses, that the physical and spiritual aren’t separate realms but intimately connected. The smoke ascends, catches the light, and disappears—rather like our lives, really, brief and beautiful and offered upward in hope.
In an age of virtual everything, there’s something rather profound about a practice that insists on materiality, on actual smoke from actual fire, on scent molecules drifting through actual air. Liturgical incense remains what it has always been: a bridge between heaven and earth, a prayer you can see and smell, a sacred gesture reaching towards the divine. And long may it continue to rise.
