Peace, Grace, and Jazz!

{It’s day 10 of Lent 2021. And another visit (there’ll be 40, y’know) to a sanctuary. Since many of us are not actually present in such worship spaces, I’m revisiting some of the churches in which I’ve worshipped, toured, or otherwise occupied.}

A couple of entries ago, I mentioned the boisterous fun a group of theological grad students offered prospective seminary recruits in the school chapel. And I noted that many folks prefer their sanctuaries to be restricted to more pious, that is, worshipful purposes. A chuckle during the children’s sermon is as far as levity should go on Sunday mornings, or any other time one is pew-bound.

But look at this church pew! Good grief, there’s a mouse crawling up the woodwork! We’ve all heard references to church mice. There it is. And it’s not alone. As a docent led us on a tour of Southwell Minster Cathedral in Nottinghamshire, England, she pointed out that mouse and a couple of others. Someone had a sense of humor, I commented. Yes, and his name was Robert Thompson (1876-1955). Or, “Mouseman.” Or, “Mousey.” Yes, he became known as Robert Mousey Thompson. He was a woodcarver from the north Yorkshire village of Kilburn, and he told people that he was “poor as a church mouse.” So, mice appeared in the furniture he fashioned for family homes and houses of worship.

I photographed only a couple of his mice, but the guide claims there are 28 of those rodents scattered throughout the grand church. She also told us that the church sponsored a children’s event called “Minster Mouse Day,” and that one of the activities for about 100 children was trying to find as many of the mice as they could. Plus, there was a scavenger hunt for other interesting things in the cathedral. Fun, huh? The event (is it annual?) was designed to bring children and their families into the church, showing the church’s friendliness and hospitality, and making sure the community knew the cathedral was a vibrant and alive place, not just an imposing piece of local architectural beauty.

Mice are not the only signs of light-heartedness in such grand places. As we’ve gaped in awe at the wondrous old church buildings we’ve entered, we’ve laughed at strange faces carved in granite, and gargoyles with scary and silly countenances. Sometimes the craftspeople would include the images of family members and neighbors, or church dignitaries in less-than-dignified poses, carved into stone or wood. We can almost hear the workers laughing as they saw for the first time the images they would lift into place for ages to come.

We do tend to take church too seriously, don’t we? Sure, it is a place where we encounter the profound mystery of the Divine. Kneeling in prayer at a memorial service, being summoned to acts of justice by prophetic preaching, breaking bread on the night of Jesus’ betrayal, being moved to tears by stories of faith…not much funny there. But when we sing of “The Lord of the Dance,” or understand for the first time the humor of something Jesus said to his followers (books have been written about the Lord’s sense of humor), hearing the  laughter of 100 children running from pew to pew looking for church mice — there you go: light-heartedness. 

If God can have some fun with gigantic Leviathan (Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of Psalm 104:26 calls the huge monster God’s “pet dragon!”), surely having a small church mouse or a very big laugh in church is cause for holy delight. After all, Easter will be here soon and joy will ring forth in sanctuaries around the world.

In the meantime, it may be Lent. But I hope you’ll find something to smile about on this day 9. 

Oh, and thanks, “Mousey.”

{Each day in the 2021 Lenten season, I am writing about “sanctuaries.” Places of worship, prayer, peace, and praise. Places we suspect, yea, hope are holy.}

Yesterday’s brief visit to that glorious Haarlem cathedral leads closer to home now. At least back in the USA. The chapel pictured here is that of a Trappist Monastery in northern Virginia, Holy Cross Abbey. Since my last visit many years ago, this space has been renovated, but when I took this photo , I was the one who needed renovation. Thus my visit to that 1200 acre farm for spiritual renewal, breathing in the silence and peace of the monastic community.

My first visit to Holy Cross Abbey was with a small group of seminary classmates. Think it odd that a Presbyterian seminary professor would encourage members of his class to spend a weekend there? It was an opportunity to dialogue with the Trappist guest master about ecumenicity, the monastic traditions, and the value of “interior prayer.” After those very fruitful hours, which included worship in that modest chapel, the guest master invited us back anytime, noting that retreats were available for only what amounted to a free will offering. Room, board, serenity, reading time…for whatever one could afford to pay. I returned year after year, week-long summer sojourns that began the very month of my ordination as a Presbyterian minister.

While meals were served family style mid-day and evening, breakfast was on your own. I’d awaken whenever, knowing full well I had missed both the first “office” of the morning (was it 5:30 a.m.?) as well as the 7:30 a.m. Mass. I’d have a bowl of cereal, some juice, and toast, and then walk a half mile or so to the chapel for meditation and prayer. The rest of the day would be spent reading books to study and others for pleasure. (No, study was never a pleasure for me.) I might also listen to cassette tapes of Thomas Merton’s lectures to novitiates at his home monastery at the Abbey of Gethsemane in Kentucky. I also spent a lot of time walking the paths, roads, and fields that surrounded the guest house.

The monks gathered in the chapel several times each day, leaving behind their duties in the commercial bakery, the farm, or the monastery itself. I have recordings I made of the monks chanting during those “offices” or “hours.” With many of the monks having spent decades there, when they sang their unison chants it was as if there were one voice echoing through the sanctuary. While the photo shows a small electronic organ in the dark to the right, I’m not sure I ever heard it played. Generally the only “instrument” heard between the acapella songs was a pitch pipe. 

I could write pages about those retreats. (I’ve already written about Fr. Stephen, the guest master for my years at the guest house; that entry was in my first Lenten series “Forty I Have Followed.”) But today I write of that little chapel. The services were always open to the public, meaning that not only were guest house residents invited, but so were devoted Catholics from the surrounding towns. The morning Mass (which I did attend about once per visit) drew most of those visitors from town, but the daily offices were mostly attended by the Trappists and retreatants. If I were to total up my time spent in the chapel though, most of my hours there were spent in quiet solitude. I tried to visit that sanctuary several times a day. At first, I just got used to the silence, and the sitting. Just sitting. At the beginning of each retreat, there were two challenges. One was leaving the car radio off. I use the term too lightly in this context, but I was addicted to radio: the music, the talk shows, the babble. But once on the monastery grounds, my radio remained off. The second challenge was just stopping. Preparing for the retreats meant pre-taping a couple of weeks of radio programs and getting them in the mail. Driving from Richmond, once I found the road along the Shenandoah that led to the welcoming Holy Cross sign, I faced decompression. So, Monday and Tuesday in the chapel, just sitting there…well, that took some getting used to.

And then, fed by Merton and Fr. Stephen and the music of the choir, I’d finally settle in and could use the chapel time for meditation, scripture reading, and prayer. Occasionally an elderly monk would shuffle into the chapel, kneel, and sit in the choir seats, and silently pray. The only sounds were birdcalls from the farm and its fields, now and then a tractor or mower (black and white garbed Trappists on red Farmall tractors mowing green fields, colors of labor, with  interior prayers aimed heaven-ward  even as the monks worked the farm), and sometimes that shuffling/sitting/praying monk would snore, not often, but often enough that I remember it. Otherwise, silence. A powerful peace.

So not every sanctuary is filled with pipe organs, sung praises, the Word proclaimed, and prayers spoken or shouted amid stained glass and under sparkling chandeliers. I remember this simple space as being a place where the Voice whispers, “Be still, and know that I am God.” 

At the end of my retreat, I would bid goodbye to Fr. Stephen with a monastic hug, pack my car, drive beyond the cloister fence, and park at the chapel lot. I would visit that space one last time, and sit. And pray. And be filled with gratitude.

{My theme during these forty days of Lent 2021 may as well be “Sanctuaries I Have Known.” Since our COVID-induced isolation keeps us from those places of worship, it seems right and proper (is that redundant?) to revisit church sanctuaries both lofty and humble.} 

I have some family heritage roots in The Netherlands. We enjoyed traipsing around Dordrecht, Amsterdam, and Haarlem to sightsee. If a cathedral or small church had an open door we peeked in or took the tour. While my wife Joan is the professional church organist, I too am a fan of the “king of the instruments.” So when we discovered that our trip coincided with an international pipe organ competition, we made a special journey to Haarlem’s Grote Kerk, or Sint-Bavokerk, once a Roman Catholic cathedral, now a Reformed Protestant congregation. Our timing was just right. We arrived just before a concert began, and there is the organ we heard that day. 

It is an organ that was played by Mendelssohn, Handel, and by a ten-year-old kid named Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Work was begun on the organ in 1735, and with many modifications through the ages, we were listening that day to one of the world’s most historic instruments. With no cautions that my video recording was prohibited, my soundtrack still rings with the power of that magnificent instrument, or as best my modest sound system can reproduce the music played that day.

Our family joke is that for every jazz concert Joan attends with me, I need to go with her to an organ concert. (When I try to reason that the use of a Hammond B-3 in a jazz setting has to count in my favor, Joan rolls her eyes.) In reality, I’m way ahead with the jazz venues, but honestly, I don’t mind catching up on organ recitals at all. I’m a fan of HUGE  things like locomotives, cruise ships, and massive pipe organs like the Haarlem instrument pictured here. 

Since I’m not spending time doing extensive research for these daily posts (I do have a life), I’ll just quote a Wikipedia entry here:  

(This organ) was built by the Amsterdam organ builder Christian Müller, with stucco decorations by the Amsterdam artist Jan van Logteren, between 1735 and 1738. Upon completion it was the largest organ in the world with 60 voices and 32-foot pedal-towers.

Stucco decorations… how this instrument dominates the sanctuary visually as well as aurally! We’ve heard in other pipe organ contexts that the lowest bass sounds produced by these massive organs have so rattled the rafters and undermined the mortar of ancient churches that the music seemed to threaten the structural integrity of the buildings. (When part of a ceiling decoration, a plaster floret, fell onto the pews of one church in our area, someone blamed the organ. Architectural engineers said it was more likely it was the heavy truck traffic that rambled by on the city streets.) Nonetheless, I say pull out all the stops and let’s hear that baby sing! While I keep an eye on the ceiling.

Sadly, these great pipe organs require constant care, and are expensive to begin with. If new sanctuaries are built these days, it’s unlikely any congregation can budget millions of dollars for such an instrument. More likely, some electronic box of digital toys will try its best to imitate the pipe organ sound for worship. Or, as our older generations pass away, the organ sound will seem a quaint bow to a pious past, and digitized praise bands (or the real thing if there are musicians in the house) will lead the praise and voice the laments. Another major difficulty: finding organists. Trained organists. Those amazing people who keep both hands and both feet playing while singing along with hymns, and who can inspire us with preludes and postludes “solo deo gloria,” to the glory of God alone.

I have been blessed by the music of many church organists in the communities of faith I’ve served. Looking back, I realize that the churches I’ve labored in had actual pipe organs, no electronics. So, to Virginia Allen, Grace Chandler, Jane Townsend, Karen Miller, Doris Dunlap, and Heather Ingraham, thank you for your music. Some of you are in heaven listening to that 10 year old who grew up and wrote music you played. And at least one of you (you know who you are) is correcting him.

I write this just a few weeks after the death of one of the world’s finest organists and master teachers of the instrument, John Weaver. What a privilege to have had him as our organist for our summer services at the small church I served in Vermont. He spent his summer vacations playing our modest pipe organ and leading our choirs. And offering kind words of support and encouragement to this enthralled pastor. Thank you, John. Teach Mendelssohn a few tricks.

Finally, my heartfelt and eternal gratitude to my personal organist, Joan. To our mutual credit, we never worked in the same church. Yet, countless times I’d call from my study, “Oh, Music Lady! Is this hymn sing-able?” Or, “I need a solid hymn about healing. What do you suggest?” I’d heard Joan play the magnificent Moeller organ at Westminster College and I figured it’d be a good idea to ask her out. My best idea ever. Now thank we all our God, with heart, and hands (and feet) and voices….!

{Each day during Lent 2021 I am writing about sanctuaries, especially since we aren’t seeing many of them these days. I miss worshipping in the sanctuary of our local church, and that leads me to look back at how much many of those sacred spaces meant “home” to me. Some were home for a few years; others for an hour.}

Last year during Lent my writing theme was “windows.” And the stained glass window in this old photo was the focus of a story you can find at jeffkellam.wordpress.com/2020/04/01/ . Today, a slightly different view of that whole room.

This was the sanctuary of Schauffler Hall on the campus of Union Presbyterian Seminary. When I was a student there, the school was known as Union Theological Seminary in Virginia, and Schauffler was the home of classrooms, the radio station, the Audio Visual Center, and this sanctuary. (The whole building was radically and beautifully transformed into the seminary library a few years ago.)

During my years there, this balconied sanctuary was rarely used. Most worship services and “practice preaching” classes were held in the main administration building’s Watts Chapel, a more intimate space for daily chapel and teaching. Schauffler was the setting for an annual lecture series (“Sprunts”) and commencement, as well as special events that attracted a crowd too large for Watts Chapel.

By the time I was a student at the school, the pipe organ had long since disappeared, and a baby grand piano provided accompaniment for singing. And what singing there was! Now this was back before the majority of seminary students were women, so the hymns that filled that space were sung by male voices. Imagine a male chorus of two or three hundred strong, and that was the sound that visitors exclaimed about. When an event brought local church folk to campus and they heard men singing, well, it was something they didn’t hear ordinarily from the men meekly mumbling hymns in their congregations. Those days are over, at least in Schauffler.

Oddly, for someone who spent three years in “training” there, and another few years working on the campus, I have only three memories of that room. One was my graduation. (Again, see the link above.) Since I had missed my college graduation, a story in itself, it was important to me that my parents witnessed the awarding of my degree. Back then, it was officially a Bachelor of Divinity degree. Four years of college (a B.A.) and then three years of graduate school — and another Bachelor’s?! Not long after, a post card arrived in the mailboxes of all who had earned the B.D. informing us that the degree had been magically transformed into a Masters degree. Well, OK then. Where’s my hood?

The second memory was treating that room as nothing more than a hallway, a shortcut from one end of the building to another. One would think that a sanctuary would be a special place, even as I’ve referred to it above, a “sacred” space. A place set apart for worship of the Almighty, or to hear the holy texts read and expounded upon, or a place of quiet prayer — or lifting joyful songs. When I grew up, one didn’t treat the church sanctuary as just another room in the church. We couldn’t even have a youth fellowship dance in the fellowship hall in the basement below the worship space. You just don’t dance under that sanctuary! Even in college, the chapel seemed truly “set apart,” a place where at almost anytime, someone might be kneeling in prayer, and if you did cut through there on the way from one place to another…well, you didn’t speak and walked quietly through. And at college, that chapel was filled every Sunday night for Vespers with a choir of 120 voices and prominent guest speakers.

But for the most part, Schauffler Chapel was relegated most of the time to being just a big empty hallway, not at all a sacred venue set apart for worship.

Memory number three. I suppose I should mention the well-known scholars and theologians who read their lectures to us at Sprunts. Or, the fact that that annual lecture series was a delightful reunion time for alumni to gather and inquire about what churches might be open to their candidacy should they be ready to move. But something else leapt to mind: a talent show one Saturday night based on “A Prairie Home Companion.” It was staged in that larger space for the whole seminary community (and that included students from the neighboring Presbyterian School of Christian Education) as well as scores of “inquirers” who had been invited to campus as potential students preparing for ministry. I was one of the emcees, and I remember the laughter that filled that hall, skits and songs so funny we wiped away tears of pure joy! The scriptures say that some of the fruits of the Spirit are joy, love, faith, and peace, and they were so alive that night, in that space once set apart for worship. (Another fruit, self-control, not so evident.) So, when I see that photo, I remember the rowdy fun we had in the presence of God.

Our church has a similar “show” each year (and it will resume once we have mastered the pandemic) and there are some folks who get nervous, or downright put out, that we use the sanctuary as theater space. Everyone acknowledges that it’s for a good cause — it’s a fundraiser for One Great Hour of Sharing. But singing “secular” songs, playing jazz tunes, telling funny stories or acting out silly skits? My “Bob and Ray” routines? Not appropriate. Not at all. But I disagree. As far as I know, our sense of humor, our delight in fun, our efforts at re-creation — those gifts come from the same God whom we gather to worship in that space. I believe there’s a glimpse of heaven in smiling faces, laughing eyes, and joy-filled singing. I doubt God is too stern to welcome good-humored gifts to the altar of any sanctuary.

That photo at the top shows an empty, silent room. But you should have heard it when…

{Each day during Lent 2021, I’m writing reflections based on some of the church sanctuaries I’ve visited or practically lived in. I’m not so much interested in the architecture of the buildings but in the “living, breathing faith” that has been nurtured in those sacred spaces.}

Pictured here is a church that no longer exists. For a time, as it struggled to live and breathe, I was its interim pastor. I was assigned to play that role, being a member of the Presbytery’s Commission on the Ministry in 1976. At the time, I was considered “non-parish clergy,” that is, I had been ordained to a position that did not include serving a local church in a pastoral role. I worked in mass media and this church needed someone to step in for that time between pastors. I was asked to serve there for three months.

With some reluctance, I agreed to play a pastoral role for the first time at the Calvary Church. Since I had been feeling a call to media ministry during college and throughout seminary, I hadn’t taken some of the classes that might have served me well as a pastor. Plus, I was already working full time producing radio programming for the area Presbyterian Churches. I was told the responsibilities and hours would be limited. So besides some office hours at the church, preparing and leading Sunday worship, and some occasional visitation — well, the church wouldn’t expect much more from me. There was a modest honorarium too. Three months? Sure.

A year later, I finally had to leave. Three months had become six, and then, what the heck…another six. But after that, it was clearly time to leave. I have to admit that I did appreciate the church’s welcome, the congregation’s patience with an inexperienced pastor, and the professional and personal growth experiences that fed my understanding of the work of the pastor. However, eventually I would find myself starting sermons on Saturday nights, scribbling my scattered words on legal pads, and rambling through the proclamation of the Word bleary-eyed the next morning. Budgeting my time was becoming too difficult. So, a year was more than enough.

Now there were some good times there. I remember a good relationship with the children of the church, providing pastoral care in hospitals, finding creative ways to shape worship services during the nation’s bicentennial year, and generally growing into a role I had never considered having. (The only controversy I recall was some debate over whether to let people going to a neighboring Little League ball field use our parking lot. Permission granted. The church was a good neighbor.)

As I mentioned at the start, that church no longer exists. There may have been one more full-time called pastor there, but in a few years the church was closed, with the remaining members joining a larger Presbyterian congregation not too far away. Some said that the church was doomed from the start. See that building? It was one of four (or five?) churches with the same architecture (same Colonial design, same floor plan) “planted” in developing neighborhoods throughout the greater Richmond area. I think the others survived, even thrived. But Calvary Church had two major stumbling blocks that it could not overcome. First, an interstate highway cut through the area, somewhat isolating the church from part of its neighborhood. Second, instead of being surrounded by single family homes, large apartment complexes were built nearby. One might assume that with the new influx of residents in the immediate area, there would be lots of potential new members. It turns out that (at that time anyway) people who lived in the apartments considered themselves only temporary neighbors, unlikely to put down roots and subsequently join a church.

Membership dropped to a point where that church was no longer sustainable. Now this was quite some time ago, but I recall that a new Presbyterian congregation with a non-traditional worship style and program used the building for a few years. But when I did a recent search of the Presbytery’s website, I saw no evidence of a continuing Presbyterian presence there.

I used to kid my fellow members of the Presbytery back then that the first church I had served as pastor died a slow death…and I’d add, “through no fault of my own.” While many churches have been anchors of their communities for decades and centuries, others fade from memory. The wrong place at the wrong time? Poor leadership? (It happens.) A changing cultural pattern? When we toured Europe, we saw huge hulks of magnificent structures that were obviously once churches, even cathedrals, but are now standing empty, or used for some other purpose: museums, eateries, visitors’ centers. Corporately, we are a less religious people these days, and we need fewer and smaller places to call home.

When I retired, I was on a “supply preachers list,” so that congregations without pastors could call on us retired folk to “fill the pulpit” on Sundays. I went from one nearly empty church to another, and heard their stories of their glory days, back when the pews with filled, there were scores of children in Sunday School, and the fellowship hall was filled with chatter, laughter, and dishes-to-pass. Oh, and what a choir they had! Back then. Way back. I remember seeing one church’s nursery: four cribs, some very old story books, and a sad little stuffed animal that hadn’t been played with in a generation.

Many of those churches just keep holding on. They have a faithful remnant, maybe some little endowment that pays a weekly preacher, perhaps just some stubbornness to carry on until there’s no one left to turn out the lights and lock the door. They do worship, maybe have some donuts and coffee afterward, but have no mission, no outreach, no Sunday School or Bible study. I’d drive to those churches and pass by a neighboring church with lots of cars in the parking lots and wonder why the struggling little congregation doesn’t just fold up and join their neighbors in singing full-throated hymns, feeding the hungry, and engaging in mission and outreach. I still wonder.

Churches are living, breathing organisms. And eventually, every such organism must die. No one’s at fault. It’s just the way life is. Calvary served it’s purpose for as long as it could. And then it blended into other churches and its people found their fellowship resurrected among others who lived and breathed faith in different sacred spaces.

I wasn’t at Calvary long. Calvary wasn’t there long. But we all grew in God’s love and still keep the faith. Outside the box.

{Many of us are missing the beauty and warmth of our church sanctuaries these days. I’ve chosen to write each day in Lent 2021 about some of those sacred spaces I’ve experienced here and there over the years. How’s that for being general enough to open the door to write about any thought that pops up?}

Most of my ministry at Richmond’s Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church took place in the basement. For maybe thirty years I’d enter the back door off the parking lot, often very late at night, and head downstairs into what the old guard there called “the radio room.” For me it was the radio studio as well as my office much of that time. My initial years in media ministry were based there, in the room that housed Richmond’s very first radio station WBBL. [I’ve over-written about those years on my older blog at http://www.celebrationrock.wordpress.com . You’ll have to scroll back to the opening entries to read every exciting chapter of the WBBL-Jeff Kellam story.]

While not officially on the church staff (except for two years which I’ll mention below), I did feel quite at home at Grace Covenant. I’d sit in on the morning coffee breaks munching on Clarence Whitley’s daily ration of glazed donuts, I’d peek into the dark furnace room custodians’ “office,” and greet the white-jacketed Randolph and Leroy (Black men whose last names, sadly, were unknown to the vast majority of church members), and I thoroughly enjoyed the collegiality of the ministers, musicians, and educators on staff there. Mostly though I worked alone down a dead end hallway writing, recording, and editing my radio programs.

Then there were the two years I was called to be on the church staff. It was so short a tenure I don’t even recall my official title. I was to be the pastor to youth, use newly purchased video equipment to contribute to the wider ministry of the congregation, and preach on occasion. With pastor and associate pastor already sharing that preaching role, I recall only three or four times I stood in that substantial pulpit on a Sunday morning. It’s those occasions I’m prompted to write about today.

Looking back, I think that the cavernous Grace Covenant sanctuary was probably the largest I’d ever preached in. The bad news was that as a communicator, seeing the familiar faces of the church members I had gotten to know over the previous years made it difficult to “connect” with my listeners. Everyone seemed so far away! The good news was that among the church members were a number of my seminary professors, whose faces I was happy to lose in the crowd. Preaching to at least two prominent theology professors was scary as hell (to put it theologically). That situation was made much worse one Sunday, when after the service, I emerged from a stairwell to hear one of my former professors remark to one of the church Elders, “Well, there wasn’t much depth there.” When they saw me, it was obvious they’d rather not have seen me. Maybe the prof was referring to Sunday School? Or Cayuga Lake? No. I’m fairly certain it was my sermon.

Actually, I remember the theme of only one sermon I preached there. I had interviewed (for radio) another professor, one who appreciated my ministry and my friendship I hasten to add, and we had talked about the importance of Mary, Jesus’ mother, in Roman Catholic theology. And how that professor was a member of a “society” that studied the Catholic teachings about Mary…and how the Protestant Church would do well to give Mary a more prominent place in Reformed theology. Within a few weeks of that radio broadcast, I was in the pulpit at Grace Covenant preaching on the text, “But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Apparently, though, I hadn’t been deep enough.

Also among the congregants there on a few Sunday mornings, when he was able to break away from his work in Washington, D.C., was long-time church member Lewis Powell, Jr., Associate Justice of the U. S. Supreme Court. More good news: I didn’t know he’d been there for my sermon until after the worship service when I was introduced to him (or him to me?). He’d been just another lost face in the crowd. Justice Powell was kind and didn’t mention anything about the lack of depth in my sermon.

I have many other Grace Covenant memories, but the one I close with today goes back to one of our first contacts with that church. Joan and I had heard that the church choir would be performing Brahms’ “A German Requiem.” We had sung that work in college and asked to join the Grace Covenant choir for that experience. It was the beginning of a long appreciation for the music ministry of that church, and for the musicians, both on staff and volunteer, who contributed to a rich and lasting legacy of organ, choir, and hand bell music to our faith journey.

As I finish this off today, I reflect on how much “depth” is indeed an important component of preaching. The point of an educated clergy is that one expects such church leaders to be scholarly in preparation, thoughtful in the homiletical process of shaping our words about The Word, and effective in the “delivery” of what we assume to be an inspired text to eager listeners (if not the frozen chosen). Furthermore, I have the feeling, based on long experience, that if “depth” is all there is in a sermon, and heart is missing, and “story” is ignored, listeners (more likely to be frozen than eager next time) won’t have a clue how to describe the good news they heard to others they meet in coming days.

That’s why being scholarly, thoughtful and inspiring must rest on a prayerful foundation. Prayer-full.

Tomorrow…a more modest setting: a church on life support.

{This is the fourth in a series of forty reflections written in the season of Lent 2021. My focus this year is on sanctuaries, since many of us haven’t seen one in some time.}

I didn’t mean to use baptismal fonts as a theme the first few days of Lent. That’s the thing about my Lenten writing: I don’t mean to do much of anything; I just go where the Spirit leads, and if that sounds too pious, then I just go where I go. (And I allow myself to use both a colon and a semi-colon in the same sentence. Dr. Bleasby, my Freshman Composition prof isn’t around to grade me. Bless his heart.)

When we visited Santa Fe, New Mexico on a weekday, we found the doors of First Presbyterian Church open and, hearing the organist rehearsing, we were drawn to the light-filled sanctuary. We immediately noticed the placement of the baptismal font. Look. It’s right there in the middle of the church, and on a Sunday morning, in the very midst of the people. The pews around it were even shorter not just so that worshippers could get by on their way to the front seats (as if that would be problematic), but so that the child of God being baptized would be welcomed into the faith community, the Body of Christ, surrounded by those who would vow to nurture that child in the life and teachings of Jesus.

Most churches have the font “up front” near the table (or altar in some churches) and pulpit, a trinitarian arrangement of the liturgical symbols of Word and Sacrament. Other churches place the font at the main entrance of the sanctuary so that worshippers are reminded of their baptisms as they enter. And some congregations have made arrangements for the font to be moveable. When our son was baptized in a church without anchored pews (that is to say, moveable chairs), the font was moved from the front of the sanctuary to the middle, with the chairs placed in a circle around it. Admittedly, that made the baptism the central focus of the service that morning, with hymns, sermon, and liturgy reminding everyone of the holy sacrament of welcome and washing. It was a refreshing change of liturgical choreography that day.

Another thing we noticed when we saw this font: a clear, full pitcher of water as if at any moment that community of faith would gladly welcome someone into the global, yea cosmic, fellowship of believers. Ready and waiting, a reservoir of welcoming, all systems go. No silly cap covering the font as if someone might pilfer the water or some yukky debris fall into the basin. (Imagine if you will Jesus saying to John the Baptizer, “Um, is this river water crystal clear? I’ve heard about this Jordan!”) No, there’s water in the font, just waiting for a child of any age to join in singing Fred Kaan’s wonderful hymn “Out of Deep, Unordered Water.”

Out of deep, unordered water
God created light and land,
World of bird and beast and, later,
In God’s image, woman, man.
There is water in the river
Bringing life to tree and plant.
Let creation praise its giver;
There is water in the font.

Welcome home, this church is singing. We have some light, we have some water, we have sanctuary. All we need is you. Again, welcome!

(These forty blog entries, from Ash Wednesday to Easter, follow a theme believe it or not. While one year I wrote reflections prompted by forty coffee mugs in the Kellam kitchen, this year I’m letting visits to church sanctuaries guide my thoughts.)

Yesterday I wrote of my baptism, the sacrament that began my faith journey. Today another church, another font. And I will try my best not to be too critical of another culture’s “take” on the baptism rites. 

We were in Copenhagen and as is our custom when traveling, we visited several churches. Some folks like museums, others pubs, and some like shopping. We gape at cathedrals and wander through village churches. We’ve even broken into a few, but that’s another story or two. The baptismal font pictured here is in a large church connected with the Church of Denmark. It was a Sunday morning and we chose this sanctuary to worship in, even knowing we wouldn’t understand a word that was spoken. Our experience has been that most liturgical churches have a particular flow to the service, with praise hymns leading to a time of confession and an assurance of pardon, and then to scripture passages and sermon, and various forms of response, such as an offering and a benediction. So, whether we know the native language, we nonetheless know enough of what’s going on to offer our voices and ears to worship the One who has drawn us into a community of faith.

That said, we did understand the Danish pastor when he clearly referenced “C. S. Lewis” in his sermon! That was it. “C. S. Lewis.” I recall two other things quite clearly. The choir, a small ensemble of young adult voices, was jarringly outstanding. And there was no offering. No plate passed.

The church was sparsely attended, except for several pews in the right front of the sanctuary where a number of families were seated. We realized there would be a series of baptisms that morning. The families gathered around the substantial font, the words were spoken, the babies sprinkled, and pictures posed. (Not a fan of that myself, but hey…different strokes, right?)

After the service we introduced ourselves to the pastor, assuming correctly that he spoke some English. He was very glad to meet with two touring Americans, and just a little impressed that we came to church not knowing the language. We joked about the C. S. Lewis reference. And asked some questions about the service. That talented choir was paid. There was no offering because the Church of Denmark is supported by national taxes, not free-will offerings or pledges. And when I expressed wonder at the number of children baptized that morning, the pastor explained that he would probably not see any of those folks back in church until perhaps Christmas, if then. They had brought their children as more a “rite of passage” that their taxes had paid for, rather than a commitment of faith or an understanding that they were promising to nurture their children in ways to follow Jesus.

The pastor, it turns out, was in a temporary assignment there, and in explaining how the state church was run seemed half-embarrassed. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes as he described that the larger than usual crowd that morning was there mostly for the baptismal social occasion and the brunch that might follow.

[Before we feel too self-righteous about our own church’s traditions, I’ll point out that many Americans have their children baptized more as some rite of passage or family expectation than from purely religious motives. You know…a call comes into the church office from someone whose name is a distant memory to church staff. “When can we come in and have our baby done? Better yet, could the pastor come by and do it on Saturday afternoon when my Aunt Viola is here in town?” Sigh. Grace…remember, Jeff, grace.]

One other thing about that font. It’s impressive, isn’t it? But after worship a sign (what language? I don’t remember) was placed over the large bowl that said something to the effect, “Do Not Touch.” Off limits, in other words. We were reminded of another imposing font that had a cover chained over it, lest someone tamper with it in some way. For a symbol that ordinarily and warmly stands for welcome, well…I have no words.

Back home, and back in the present moment, I’m thinking about that sacrament of belonging in the age of the pandemic. I know many church weddings are on hold, funerals postponed, and faith communities finding new ways to offer sacraments and rituals at a safe distance. Yesterday I mentioned the word “resolute.” My hope is that we will be resolute, steadfast, determined… that we will persist in the welcoming and nurturing work of the people. And if that means baptizing a child of faith (of any age) shivering outside, kneeling on a yoga mat, with only a symbolic representation of the faith community present (but distanced) as the pastor says the words and applies the water wearing rubber gloves, so be it. A faith journey that begins in COVID time may well lead to a life that infects the whole cosmos with faith, hope, and love.

Yes! So be it!

Lent 2021, day 2. Yesterday’s ashes are washed away. The echoes of Psalm 51 grow faint: “Create in me a clean heart; put a new and right spirit within me.” Or, “Renew within me a resolute spirit,” as in the New Jerusalem Bible. Resolute. Determined. As in, “I’ve really got to do better.” Help.

If we’d met in person last night at Union Presbyterian Church, we would have moved forward, in penitence, to receive the ashes of last year’s palm branches. But due to the pandemic, there was no Palm Sunday observance last year; thus, no palms to burn. No ashes. And, of course, this year the Ash Wednesday service was only electronically cast into our homes. The ashes came in the mail in a tiny glassine envelope and we applied the smudgy cross to our foreheads in the privacy of our living room. When the service was over, we changed channels and watched a PBS documentary on the Black church. And then a Jeopardy rerun. Not exactly “resolute.”

If we had been in church with our faith family last night, the ashes would have been applied within a few feet of where I literally began my faith journey. See the baptismal font? That’s where my journey began. Maybe not that exact marble font. I don’t know when that one arrived at Union Church. I know that when I was baptized there the sanctuary looked quite different. About four years after my baptism, a major renovation took place, and I hasten to add that it had nothing to do with my having been baptized there. (As in: The ritual washing of the unruly Kellam kid has moved the church to put a new and right architectural look within the church?) So, that might not be the actual piece of liturgical furniture at which my parents tossed me back into God’s arms with their vows, but when I glance at that font, I remember my baptism in that sanctuary. Not the details; just that I was baptized.

Like most who were baptized as infants or toddlers, I do not recall the occasion, the event, the ritual, the Sacrament, the water, the words. I’ve heard that with my parents’ vows and the pastor’s prayers, Rev. Hayes took a red rose, dipped it into the font’s petite pool and placed it on my forehead and said something like, “Jeffrey Stanton Kellam, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

And then, according to the brand new 1946 Presbyterian Book of Common Worship, the pastor would have added this blessing: The blessing of God Almighty, Son, and Holy Ghost, descend upon thee, and dwell in thine heart for ever. And then these words would have been addressed to the congregation:

“This child is now received into Christ’s Church: And you, the people of this congregation in receiving this child promise with God’s help to be his sponsor to the end that he may confess Christ as his Lord and Savior and come at last to His eternal kingdom…”

I had a sponsor! And I must say that my parents and my sponsor did indeed encourage me along the journey, prayerfully, faithfully, and enduringly. And when I moved from one stage of that journey to another, many years and miles from that baptismal moment, that church family or the others who knowingly or unknowingly nurtured my faith along the way kept God’s promises. They were resolute. And for that I am grateful. Eternally.

As I said up top…the ashes are washed off from last night. But the baptismal water, though ages ago physically evaporated, still mystically makes its mark on me. I remain a child of God. And still seek that clean heart, that new and right spirit. Within.

Tomorrow, I’ll write of another font, one we saw in Europe, where the sponsor is the state and the vows may ring empty.

It’s Lent again.

And for the past several years, I’ve written an essay (of sorts) on each of the forty days of Lent. The first stories I told were about the “Forty I Have Followed,” forty persons who had — and still are — influencing my personal faith journey. Another year, I told some stories about my ministry in the churches I served in one capacity or another. One Lent, I surveyed our kitchen cupboard and found that we had over forty coffee mugs! So, naturally, I wrote something that each of the forty chosen ones suggested to me. That was a fun year. Last year, I posted photos of forty windows and each prompted some (or too many) words. Only once did I fail to complete forty essays during Lent. I started writing about the musical pieces that were important to me in some way, from old hymns to new jazz. I was a couple of weeks in, and we left the country. There was no way to write a few paragraphs every day while we traveled, so it was a broken discipline. But the trip was terrific.

So, here I am again, writing primarily for myself, but knowing that some readers might find their way here out of curiosity, boredom, or interest in the topic. Oh, the topic? Frankly, it’s not really focused yet. I’ve been thinking about all the churches and worship settings, sacred spaces and those four walls many of us aren’t allowed to enter these days due to…well, you know. But I am hesitant to say my theme will be churchiness. Or, the profound events, dreams, and nightmares that occurred to me within the confines of sanctuaries and classrooms over close to three-quarters of a century. We all know, most of us anyway, that the Church is more than a building. That’s more evident these days thanks to our isolation, quarantine, and precautionary measures caused by…well, you know. We’ll be living or a few more months at least in parishes of Zoomterians, Googlepalians, and Facebookists.

Still, though technically and theologically the Church is People, I’m thinking these days about the living rooms we call sanctuaries, the buildings we refer to as our church homes, and the faith that lives and breathes within and without the walls in which we live, move, and have our church meetings. Thus the photos above. And more to come. And words that will sharpen the focus tomorrow.

It is Lent. Again. But not forever…like last year.