Peace, Grace, and Jazz!

{In this Lenten season, I’ve been writing about sanctuaries I’ve worshipped in or sometimes merely visited on various vacations. Today marks the first “rerun,” that is, the first time I’ve returned to a church I’d previously written about. The first time, I noted the massive pipe organ; today we look up to that vaulted ceiling.}

This is the ceiling of Haarlem’s Grote Kerk, or Sint-Bavokerk, once a Roman Catholic cathedral, now a Reformed Protestant congregation. We are looking at the wooden ceiling in the crossing of the church, the section commissioned in 1500. Notes about this church indicate that its interior has been repainted numerous times, so that explains why the colors are fresh and and the sights overhead so bright. Joan and I stand in awe of these impressive churches.

[A warm family memory of the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. springs to mind. We had taken our two young (then!) children to the National Zoo, and when we wanted to pull them away from the giraffes and elephants and tigers so we could get to the cathedral before closing time, they whined with disappointment. Of course they did; who wants to leave the zoo to see a church? But when they first entered the staggeringly magnificent space, in unison they went, “Wow!” Yes, it was awesome.]

So we were looking up, a quite natural thing to do when there is so much up there to gape at, and I saw what looked like a clock that had lost a hand. Seemed natural enough, given the age of the structure. But I’ve learned that the clock is perfectly intact. When the crossing was added to the previously constructed sections of the cathedral, clocks only needed one hand. Time-keeping wasn’t as precise in those days. The clock pictured here (and clocks of its era) were run by a lever escapement regulated by a flywheel or balanced weights going back and forth on a spring. The pendulum hadn’t been invented yet; that would come in the 1650s. And with the pendulum came more precise timekeeping. Since the Grote Kerk crossing had been commissioned in 1500, the clock we see up there was a century and a half away from being obsolete.

Because of the old mechanism, the clocks of that era didn’t keep time to the minute. If the time were within 15 minutes, that was about normal. So, the quarter hour was an adequate measure and one hand was enough to “tell the time.” I’m imagining a cathedral parishioner looking up there during a sermon, and wondering how long the preacher/priest is going to run on that morning. How different things were back then, time-wise. Services in that sanctuary weren’t expected to run exactly one hour before people got antsy. The 60 minute time slot for a church service didn’t come until the age of broadcasting. It was only then that precise timing was set for church or much of anything else in day-to-day life.

In this pandemic era, when our sanctuaries are closed or at least very limited in attendance, many of us are watching services on our various electronic devices. And many pastors who have adapted their worship services for streaming or replay on various platforms have modified the components of the service in order to fit the shorter attention span of “viewers” (who were once called “worshippers”). Sermons are brief(er), there are fewer musical contributions, and many traditional parts of the service are missing. One wonders: when things move to a new normal, how willing will folks be to go back to what we had thought was a typical hour-long service?

Beyond the church setting, thinking about that one-handed clock and the imprecise timing of one’s daily activities, I wonder whether the stress or the rhythm of life might have been more laid back in those days. Life had to be more casual. I’ll get there when I get there. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. Some time. Hour glasses and sun dials were good enough guides for the day’s work, and those one-handed clocks.

There’s a song I’m hearing right now. It runs exactly three minutes and thirty-three seconds. “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” Does anybody really care? About time?

So this is a test…a preview of Celebration Rock archival recordings. Given the popularity of one of the most frequently featured artists on Celebration Rock, I thought I’d start with Carole King. Let’s see if it works!

I produced the program for the Presbyterian churches of Central Virginia, so there are some interpretations of the lyrics that are mine, not necessarily what the featured artists had in mind when they recorded the songs. And at the end of the program, I give an address that is, after all these years, defunct! Don’t write. Oh, and often I added to the program, usually toward the start, a segment produced by our denomination, Bill Huie’s “What’s It All About?” That series is mentioned in my earlier blog, at the link below.

The album “Simple Things” was released in 1977, so I assume that’s the year Celebration Rock #505 was produced. By this time, the program was syndicated in a clunky way, with my duplicating the hour-long 10½ inch tape reels and mailing them out to a handful of stations. 

The whole Celebration Rock story, from it’s genesis as “Showcase” on an AM rock station in Richmond, Virginia to its full syndication days and finally to its reversion to a local program twenty years later– all that is told on my earlier blog at  www.celebrationrock.wordpress.com . 

{This is an annual thing for me: writing each day in Lent, with ideas that occur without planning, intention, or other bother. This year, I’m looking through my photo files for pics of sanctuaries in which I’ve worshipped or passed through on a vacation. Today, we revisit the overall theme of my blog: Peace, Grace, and Jazz.}

Joy to the world! In addition to the Lord’s coming, as the Christmas carol notes, a famous follower of Jesus brought joy to the world through his music. His legacy continues to resound worldwide in small clubs and cathedrals. His name was Dave. Brubeck.

There was a time when all one had to say in jazz circles was “Brubeck,” and everyone knew the pianist, his style, his tunes, his sometimes mystical innovation, and “Take Five.” These days, his sons carry the Brubeck name into the world of music. Darius plays piano, Matt is a cellist, Dan plays percussion, and Chris plays bass and trombone, and probably anything else he wants.

But, of course, the recordings of the jazz master himself will live on, and the genius of the man will be evident to generations to come. And the joy!

At his memorial service on May 11, 2013, his beloved wife of 70 years Iola said of the many notes she had received after his death, “I noticed that one word `joy’ kept coming into those letters over and over. They expressed the deep joy his music had brought to their lives. I hope that this afternoon we can capture some of that joy.”

Joy did indeed fill the great sanctuary of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City that day. Joy in the midst of grief, joy interrupting grief, joy even putting it to rest. It took a church that size to hold the 2000 Brubeck admirers, and to barely contain the music that celebrated Dave Brubeck’s life. I love that image I’ve posted here. There is one of Brubeck’s sons, Chris, along with Paquito D’Rivera and Randy Brecker, just three among the likes of Chick Corea, Roy Hargrove, Branford Marsalis, and the only surviving member of the original Dave Brubeck Quartet, Eugene Wright. When Tony Bennett was introduced, I confess I kind of lost it. I guess I was emotionally caught up in the whole service and having one more “legend” come to the podium just sealed it for me. I wasn’t used to being that close to greatness. (My friend Bill Carter, a pastor and jazz pianist who had a personal relationship to Brubeck, had invited me to go with him to sit in the family section of the cathedral pews. When I gasped at Bennett’s introduction, Bill looked at me with some concern. The pastor in him was being, well, pastoral; the jazz musician in him was unfazed. He’d shared the joy of music with some of these greats.)

A couple of things occurred to me as I thought about that sacred space, reported to be the world’s sixth largest church. For one thing, Brubeck’s music had a home there. Many jazz fans are unaware that Dave Brubeck (who joined the Roman Catholic Church rather late in life) wrote many religious compositions. I learned this decades ago when an engineer at a radio station gave me a reel-to-reel recording of Brubeck’s “A Light in the Wilderness,” a 1968 oratorio perfect for Lent: the temptations and teachings of Jesus. I subsequently played “Forty Days” on my jazz shows. Then there was “Gates of Justice,” incorporating the words of Isaiah and Martin Luther King, Jr., and later “La Fiesta de la Posada” and “To Hope! A Celebration.” And more…with lyrics by his wife Iola. From prophecy to joy, his sacred works fit the cathedral scene perfectly.

But that sanctuary at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine is no stranger to the music we might (reluctantly) label “secular.” From classical concerts to folk songs, from the Paul Winter Consort concerts to organist David Briggs playing “Variations on Take the A Train,” the worship space becomes a concert hall for the God-given gifts of musicians of every genre. More joy to the world. Take a walk into one of the side chapels of this church and you’ll find a white grand piano. It was Duke Ellington’s. (Ellington himself also composed sacred music.)

To be sure, there’s a lot of musical flotsam and jetsam out there, disposable stuff that someone thinks is wonderful. (I’ve heard many Christian concert performers say, “The Lord gave me this song…” After hearing it, I’m thinking maybe the Lord just didn’t want it anymore.) But labels like “sacred” and “secular” don’t do justice to the gift of music or the Giver of all good gifts. If that music brings more joy into the sanctuary or into the world, “Solo Deo gloria!”

{Here’s the 25th “essay” suggested by photos of church sanctuaries, pictures I’ve taken over the years and over the miles. This writing exercise is my Lenten discipline for 2021. Sure beats the forty coffee mugs I wrote about a few years ago, huh?}

Sacred Heart Ukrainian Catholic Church was constructed in 1977 in Johnson City, NY. Since I had written about Helsinki’s “Rock Church” yesterday, I thought writing about the local church casually referred to as “the wooden church” would be an appropriate follow-up. This particular church is so stunning I have to show more than one view.

According to the church’s website, the first Ukrainian immigrants in the Binghamton, NY area were young girls who worked in the cigar factories at the turn of the 20th century. No doubt another draw for immigrants were the Endicott Johnson Shoe factories. The churches in this area of upstate New York still reflect a rich variety of architectural styles that add gold domes and stone towers to the skylines of the Southern Tier of the state. This Ukrainian Catholic Church certainly ranks among the most unusual gems in the area.

As I look again at these pictures taken in 2013, I am reminded of the occasion that drew us into that warm wood interior. The Preservation Association of the Southern Tier (PAST) sponsors tours of various locations from time to time, and tours of religious sites draw hundreds of visitors to local churches, synagogues, and Islamic Centers. Driving through any city or village, we see the steeples of downtown cathedrals or notice quaint clapboard churches along the roads. While we might be curious about the interiors, it’s unlikely many of us would try the doors to see if we could peek in. As a Presbyterian kid, I remember walking by the downtown Catholic church on a summer day and looking through the open doors to see what I could see. Not much. Candles and statues. I didn’t feel comfortable actually going in. I wasn’t sure it was proper. Even now, as an adult, I would feel uncertain about walking into the space of a worshipping community where mere curiosity had drawn me. Too nosey?

But the PAST organization provides the opportunity for religious communities to open their doors to the curious or to the genuine seeker, one who might very well be looking for a spiritual home. On that Sunday in May, shortly after most churches had concluded their worship services, PAST had arranged for several hours of open doors and tours. Historic structures attracted many of us, but so did more modern architecture, as well as places re-purposed for religious groups. With a map in hand with addresses and descriptions of the buildings open to visitors, we were able to drive around all afternoon, and see a soaring Gothic sanctuary, a synagogue, a church in a former bowling alley, and the “wooden church” pictured here. At the small John Hus Presbyterian Church in Binghamton, some church members sang a Czech hymn that reminded us of the immigrants who had founded the congregation, and whose families still attend.  Many sites offered docents who noted interior architectural features or interpreted the theological beliefs of the worshipping community. Sometimes there’d be a brief organ recital or choir offering.

I’m sure many of those who welcomed visitors on the PAST tours were hoping that with the mystery of what was inside the buildings solved, a few folks would return for worship, or having learned of outreach and service opportunities might have discovered a place to put new found faith into action in their neighborhoods.

A couple of years, we hosted PAST tours at our own church, and greeted many area residents who admitted they had driven by the Dutch-inspired stone building for years and were finally glad to look inside. Since ours was the very first church in the county, our church museum drew many folks interested in local history. Plus, there were cookies.

As we enjoyed the visual feast of that Ukrainian Catholic Church, the priest offered details of the church’s beginnings in the community as well as the historical background and theology of Ukrainian Catholics (as distinct from Roman Catholics). We’re looking forward to the end of this pandemic pause so that we can resume our visits to more sanctuaries soon. The Preservation Association of the Southern Tier has done us the favor of organizing tours that give us a deeper appreciation for treasured buildings and our neighbors’ faith expressions. 

Tomorrow, in keeping with the overall name of my blog (“Peace, Grace, and Jazz”), we head to New York City for some jazz at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

{Each day in Lent 2021, I am looking through my personal photo files for images of sanctuaries. With the pandemic keeping many of us from those sacred spaces, I am letting the images fuel some written reflections.}

Yesterday I wrote of a church that was meant to be “rock solid” after a previous wooden building was blown down in a storm. Today, we look at a church that is literally carved into solid rock. In the heart of Helsinki, Finland is the Temppeliaukio church, completed in 1969. It is a wonder, both primitive and contemporary at the same time. Obviously, if you want the details of its construction, there’s a search machine for that. (Especially interesting is the ceiling dome made of 13 miles of coiled copper plate ribbon!) As I write these Lenten posts, I’m not doing deep research; I’m letting my mind wander over the images and typing off the top of my head. You can deal with it.

What strikes me looking at this photo, one of many we took that day, is the “congregation.” This was not a Sunday service of worship in that unique sanctuary. It was a weekday crowd of tourists. Whenever Joan and I travel, if it’s a Sunday and the schedule allows it, we go to church, becoming part of a worshipping community. But much of the time we’re traveling, we seek out churches to visit just because we love the architecture of sanctuaries large and small, and one never knows when one might hear an organist practicing, or meet a docent eager to tell the church’s story. I’ve noticed that if the sanctuary is busy with tourists, some are indeed gaping at high arches or high altars, walking the aisles and aiming cameras, chatting about artworks or studying stained glass. But there are always a few people there treating the space as sacred.

No matter the church, there are some people sitting quietly in the pews, some with heads bowed and others simply staring ahead experiencing their own silence, even in the din of noisy tourists moving about the aisles. I especially noticed this on an early cruise when we recognized some crew members coming into a Catholic church amid the crowd of guided tours. Many were Filipino, some Hispanic…all devout Roman Catholics. They crossed themselves with holy water as they entered and went straight into the pews to pray. Some lighted candles before exiting. They treated the church as a spiritual home away from home, and met God there. 

Apart from that initial experience, when we visit those places of prayer and devotion, there are always people sitting in the pews while others of us are snapping our pics and reading the guidebook. I know there are locals who come to church every time the doors are open. And there are others who may have come to sightsee, but who are moved to take a seat even for a short time to meditate, to pray, to commune with their Lord, or just to rest in that temporary peace.

Often Joan and I do that too. We carve out a bit of Sabbath space in what is often a busy, even hectic, travel schedule. To be sure, there are times we are in church spaces not overrun by other tourists, and the quiet, the beauty, the need to simply stop — that moves us to remember we are in “sanctuary.” And we pause there.

In the photo above, just a glimpse into the space carved in rock, most of the people are taking pictures (as was I obviously), and some walking around gaping at the unusual architectural features. But I see two or three just being. Being there. In their own space. There were others outside my lens’ range. They see the space with different eyes.

“How lovely is thy dwelling place, O Lord.” A place not always built of stone or wood, of course. Sometimes that place is in a wooded glen, or on a mountaintop, or in a corner of one’s own home. But lovely. And never lonely.

{Who reads these italicized introductions? Since you are, they are meant to introduce my Lenten theme for 2021, and lead the reader into a sanctuary of my choosing. Thanks for reading this…and what follows.}

The hulking remains of that Gothic church appear to be ancient ruins of a medieval cathedral, the likes of which we’ve seen throughout England, Scotland, and other areas of Europe. But this was never a church. Though it was meant to be. Located in the town of St. George’s in Bermuda, this structure is a testament to “best laid plans,” financial failures, and church in-fighting. On the way up the hill where “The Unfinished Church” has stood for well over a century, there is an historical marker naming the site “The Folly of St. George,” not exactly what the founders had in mind when they wanted to replace another church in town.

Around 1874 (various accounts offer inconsistent dates), a storm destroyed St. Peters Church. Built in wood post construction with a thatched roof of palmetto leaves, it didn’t stand a chance against those common Bermudan winds. Shortly thereafter, the Anglican community, taking a cue from the three little pigs perhaps, determined to build a solid rock church that would withstand high winds and hurricanes. Designed by William Hay, the Scottish-born architect who would later draw the plans for the cathedral in Hamilton, the church would be named St. George’s. But by 1899, with construction well under way, the church was abandoned.

The less-than-documented story is that three things contributed to the Anglicans never worshipping in their sanctuary. There were financial struggles, in-fighting among the church members, and the final blow, quite literally, was a hurricane in 1926 that knocked down some of the unfinished construction. Whatever last hopes for the church’s life were, as noted, blown away. Since that time, what had been the dream of a substantial Gothic church building became simply a popular Bermuda tourist attraction. (Even that was interrupted for a few years recently when visitors were banned from entering the ruins due to the instability of the stone pillars and walls.)

This could well be a chicken/egg situation. Was it the in-fighting that contributed to the financial problems of funding the new church? Or, did the money issues bring in-fighting among the Anglican community in St. George’s? I’ve read that some of the dissent in the parish had to do with the church design itself. Not surprisingly, some folks just wanted the new church to look like the old one. What a surprise! If people don’t agree with the design, then they won’t fund it. So there. Again, not having done deep research for this Lenten series of mine, I’ll admit that the financial concerns may have been rooted in wider conditions over which the church had little control.

My own upstate New York church has roots going back to a Dutch Reformed community that began meeting in a log structure in 1791. Within a few years, the church closed due to financial reasons, but also due to an epidemic of malaria. In 1819, the church was re-organized by Presbyterians who had the resources to build a “proper” church on the original site. While the church eventually moved closer to the heart of the growing village, we will meet near that first site for our outdoor, socially-distanced Easter services. My point is that nearly every faith community since the Apostle Paul began his new church developments (as we call them today) has faced financial stress. And other threats over which the community has little influence. Some churches survive. Some don’t. Ours did. St. George’s didn’t.

As for the in-fighting? Again, even from the days of the earliest Christian communities (read the Book of Acts), the family has had its squabbles, sometimes over doctrine, other times over the color of the new carpet. On the denominational level or within the local church, people of faith hold differing opinions and attitudes. And often, it gets personal. There are arguments over the minister’s style of, well, you name it: preaching, visiting, administration, even clothing. Even I, wonderful as I am in so many ways (just ask my wife), was the victim of a posse in one of the churches I served. Maybe not in-fighting per se, but certainly a threat to the church’s general spiritual health. But we all survived. St. George’s didn’t.

And the evidence stands there as a foreboding waste of rocks.

So, now some clarification from the website of the current and historic (and surviving) church of St. Peter’s, which, it turns out, was resurrected after that 1874 storm. It is over 400 years old, being the oldest Anglican Church outside the British Isles, and the oldest Protestant church in continuous use in the New World. As for that in-fighting so long ago, it wasn’t just over the design of the new church; it involved familiar disagreements over high church (Anglican) or low church (Protestant) theology. And the financial thing? While the ill-fated St. George’s church languished unfinished, the diocese needed funding for the new cathedral in Hamilton, and there just wasn’t enough money to go around. Maybe the big winner in all this was William Hay. He got to design both churches, the one in Hamilton in which worshippers gather in a magnificent towering sanctuary, and the one pictured here, in which curious tourists walk the grassy floor, gaze up at the sky, and wonder at the folly that faith couldn’t finish.

{Forty days in Lent, forty visits to church and chapel sanctuaries. Since Lent doesn’t include Sundays, I get tomorrow off! But today, here’s a church that plays a very special part in our (Jeff and Joan) life story.}

The photos I post in this series have an electronic/digital “timestamp” embedded in the file, if those pics were taken with a newer camera. Older photos such as this one have only memory as a timestamp. And I can stamp this one right down to the year, the date, and the hour. It’s our wedding. And that handsome sanctuary belongs to the Carmel Presbyterian Church, Glenside, Pennsylvania, Joan’s home church.

We couldn’t have asked for a lovelier setting for such a significant day, a day so long ago that the woman are wearing hats! There was a time that a church wedding was the typical occasion for the sharing of vows. These days, not so much. And not just because of the pandemic. With fewer people involved in church life, and certainly far fewer “young people,” churches aren’t overwhelmed with Saturday weddings as was the case in earlier generations. 

If couples are opting to be married at all, many are choosing gardens, parks, hotels, resorts, beaches…not churches. On the other hand, some couples for whom shared faith is a foundation of their relationship, feel quite at home making their promises in a church sanctuary, and within the context of a worship service.

Even when I was in “non-parish” ministry, couples would inquire about my presiding at their weddings. It didn’t matter to me if the wedding were on a river bank, under the old oak tree, in a living room, or in a hotel ballroom (or in a shopping center atrium — but that’s a different story!). Whatever the setting, I was glad to work with couples in premarital counseling and then design a worship service in which their vows would be spoken. That was the contract I made with them. No worship service? No Jeff for the wedding. No exceptions. You don’t want God involved in this? Get a justice of the peace or a ship’s captain.

Now I was very open to tinkering with the Presbyterian wedding service to tailor the ceremony to the couple’s own faith backgrounds and traditions. I’d officiated at the wedding of a Jew and a Unitarian, a Catholic and an “undecided.” Needless to add that the Catholic and the Jew weren’t particularly “active” in their faith practices, or I wouldn’t have been asked to work with them. But we labored hard on the vocabulary of the service to the point where I could be true to my own theology while showing openness to their beliefs. If I didn’t perceive God smiling on the whole process, I’d know I’d failed in our struggle to find common ground. (When I suggested to the Jewish woman that we use the prayer the Jewish rabbi Jesus taught his followers, she replied, “Oh, that’s a beautiful prayer; a friend taught it to me when I was a child. I’d like to use it.”) God smiled a lot.

Here’s where I admit, 21 days into this journey, that “sanctuary” is more than a big room in a church building. We create sanctuary wherever we make a holy space for worship. That river bank became a sanctuary, set apart for a time, for sacred vows of marriage. The ballroom of Chicago’s Drake Hotel became a sanctuary that Saturday afternoon. The botanical garden too. And under the old oak. There was a call to worship, prayers, music, promises said, and a benediction pronounced over the couple and the gathered family and friends who no doubt called God by many, many names…or none. Two became one, and we all became one in our blessing of their promises, hopes, and dreams.

Back to those big rooms. One church I served was in a tourist mecca of sorts. Out-of-towners would call the church and ask if they could be married in our beautiful setting. I’d explain that they probably had the wrong church. Ours wasn’t the storybook church they saw on the village website. “Oh, never mind then; do you have the number for the pretty church?” And sometimes when folks did have the right church, wherever I was installed, they’d want to “improve” on the sanctuary by loading it up with so many ferns one needed a pith helmet to find the pulpit. That’s if they hadn’t been successful in asking that the church’s liturgical furniture be moved “out of the way.” We won’t have room for the eight bridesmaids if that big font thing is there! Frankly, I wouldn’t budge. It’s a church, it’s our worship space, it’s my place. Get over it. (Doesn’t sound very welcoming or pastoral, huh? Pardon me for not wanting to be “used” or my church thought of as merely another pretty face.)

I may only have one or two more weddings in me. As an officiant, that is. My own personal marriage, the one that began in that worship space above, has celebrated its 53rd year. We couldn’t have “only just begun” in a more beautiful worship setting. But leading another couple into their vows? They’d have to be very special. And related to me! For them, I’d create a sanctuary anyplace, anytime.

Next in this series, an unfinished sanctuary. Rather permanently unfinished.

{When I started this series of Lenten writings, I wondered if I’d have forty “sanctuary” stories in me, or at least in my collection of personal photos. I rarely plan ahead, but recently made a list of potential entries. Turns out, I have more than enough to write about for the next half of this journey toward Easter. So, here we go again…this time, something more personal.}

Pictured here is our “virtual” church. We do belong to a “real” church family, and look forward to gathering with those folks sometime after Easter, when the pandemic has slowed enough to allow a safe return. Until then, we let YouTube transport us to this church in western Pennsylvania, First Presbyterian Church in Greensburg.

[We do watch our own church’s service on Sunday too, I hasten to add.]

I took this photo as we prepared for my son’s wedding rehearsal in this sanctuary. He teaches at a nearby college and chose this congregation as his church home, partially because of the choir. (Choirs of his previous churches in other locations were like magnets drawing Jim into membership.) Turns out, the minister is a good guy too, with sermons and worship leadership reflecting a warm-hearted and well-grounded theologian, teacher, and pastor.

With son Jim taking on leadership roles in that church, we were naturally curious about what we’d find when the pandemic moved us to TV/recliner worship on Sunday mornings. So after viewing our own service, we switched to FPC Greensburg and found our second church home. Part of the attraction there is that Jim and his wife sing in the vocal ensemble in that choir loft under the stained glass window. When we feel so isolated from loved ones these days, especially those miles and hours away, it’s downright comforting to see and hear Jim and Shannan each week. Masks and distancing provide some protection, while not hindering the beauty of the music. The ensemble is made up of the younger and less vulnerable members of the full chancel choir, and having sung together over the past year, no one has contracted the virus. Thank God for that.

Aside from the personal interest in those two particular choir members, there is that pipe organ. The instrument’s pipes are not visible in this photo, but the sound is, as one might expect in a sanctuary this size, magnificent. Powerful. Pure delight to the organist whose recliner is next to mine. The musician who plays the instrument also directs the ensemble, and to our ears the music he selects each week is perfect. That’s high praise coming as it does from Joan and me (who remind me of Statler and Waldorf…you know: the two cranky critics in the Muppet balcony) as we watch TV church. We admit to being church folk “of a particular age,” so the classical organ pieces and majestic choral settings feed us spiritually, with the Word profoundly proclaimed in music echoing through gothic halls.

A word here about those words: real and virtual. We know what reality is, right? But that word so prominent these days, virtual — as in virtual church, virtual Communion, virtual this and everything. My dictionary says it’s something existing or resulting in effect or essence, though not in actual fact or form. When we say something like, “Virtually everyone in the town was there,” we know that it only seemed that the whole population showed up. I called FPC Greensburg our virtual church, not our “actual” or “real” church. Yet, what happens in that sanctuary, the message and music, the prayers and liturgies — it’s “real” to us, though transmitted digitally into our home. When churches offer “virtual” versions of Holy Communion (as our Presbyterian denomination has OK’d), though the pastor has said the Words of Institution and broken the bread and poured the cup in some distant place, as we partake the symbolic meal is real, the whole act is spiritually fulfilling as if we were two pews in front of the sanctuary table. Yes, it does seem odd. But no more odd I suppose than drinking grape juice and calling it wine, or pretending a precisely cubed piece of white bread is somehow “the body of Christ.” Even in face-to-face worship, then, isn’t that bread the “virtual” body of Christ? Even for Roman Catholics for whom it is “real?”

My, how confusing our language is. That’s why there’s music! There’s nothing virtual about the power of music to inspire, to touch the heart, or to impart feelings of lament or praise. Even if that music comes from a record’s groove or magnetic particles of recording tape or those mysterious digits on my MP3 player. Something vibrates from an instrument or vocal chord and those vibrations are reproduced from my tweeter/woofer/or earbuds. The inspiration is transmitted from the heart/mind of the composer to us, maybe centuries distant, but “real.” Good vibrations, for sure.

So, worshipping at a distance with the Greensburg congregation, experiencing Jim and Shannan in the choir loft, hearing Martin preach (and quote the same theological minds I would have quoted!) and having that pipe organ rattle through my sub-woofer — well, there is more than essence, more than virtuality; it’s authentic worship to our hungry souls. Good vibrations!

{Today marks the halfway point in Lent 2021. (It may be that the halfway point in Lent 2020 was sometime in late October, but let’s move on.) Each day I am posting a photo of a church sanctuary, having chosen that theme to write on because I’ve missed being in one for so long.}

The collage shows the Helsinki Domkirke (Helsinki Cathedral). The WordPress alignment doesn’t allow for the size/shape of the original pictures, but the illustrations will suffice to prompt today’s written reflection. As we tour the sanctuaries during my personal Lenten tour, now and then I pause to look at some small detail. Today it is the little notebook we found near the entrance aisle of the church.

Knowing that the cathedral is a tourist destination, the church offers a place where people from the global Christian community can record their version of the Lord’s Prayer. Page after page, that notebook is filled with handwritten translations of the prayer Jesus taught his disciples to use as a model for their own prayers. While it’s too small to read here, the printed prayer pictured is in the language of Sesotho, one of the eleven official languages of South Africa.

What strikes me now is how welcoming that modest loose leaf binder is. There is the impressive structure looking over Helsinki’s Senate Square, and inside a clean architectural style, open and bright with light. It’s not at all as ornate as many cathedrals we’ve visited; the simplicity of its sanctuary is nonetheless stunning. And then there is that notebook that says (not in so many words), “You are welcome here; we respect your language, your culture, your place in the world-wide community of faith. Please tell us how you pray the prayer we all have in common.” Page after page, translations we could not read, but a prayer we knew by heart.

Another thing that struck us in the Domkirke was one more sign of welcome. It was a children’s play area right off the sanctuary proper. Big stuffed animals, toys, books, play rugs (the ones with village streets printed on them), crayons…a small space, but accessible and welcoming to the little ones who no doubt would make their presence known on Sunday mornings. Yet, that sound (happy or not) reminds worshippers that there is in that church new life to nurture, children who will one day learn to pray Jesus’ prayer.

Of course, we were also awed by the classic design of the pipe organ, the art works, the lovely chancel area, the light coming down from the rotunda window, and in general, the neoclassical elegance of Carl Ludvig Engel’s 1852 architectural design. Yet, when we remember that visit, it’s easily the loose leaf pages of prayers that stand out.

{We are almost halfway there…that is, day 19 of our 40 day journey in Lent 2021. I am posting pictures and descriptions of church sanctuaries, noting that due to the pandemic many of us miss being present in such places set apart for worship, devotion, and prayer.}

Here is the Iona Abbey Church on the Isle of Iona in Scotland. The Celts refer to this whole island as a “thin place,” one of those too rare locations where the spiritual and physical realms touch, or blend, as if separated only by the most fragile veil. When one has a pilgrimage at Iona, one understands.

We spent a week at Iona, staying in the Abbey proper, hiking the weekly day-long “pilgrimage” around the island, worshipping in this medieval church, going to daily programs (akin to a continuing education course), and learning the songs of the Wild Goose Music Group. We ate the simple and very healthy meals in the refectory, and did our assigned chores without complaint. I shot video of the pilgrimage, something I really should put up on YouTube. We’ll see about that.

There is a resident community at the Abbey, as well as visitors who sign on for short lengths of time to live on the grounds and take part in the shared life there. Of course, there are also tourists who stop by for informal tours of the Abbey and the beautiful isle itself. It was St. Columba who came to the island in 563 A.D. to found a Christian community. The full history of Iona Abbey is worth an on-line search, and I won’t go into that here, except to note that the Abbey Church I photographed during our stay dates from the 13th century. (And it is thought that the Book of Kells originated in the Iona community.)

Here’s what I found especially impressive about worship in this space. First, there is the history. Look where we are. Look what has led us here. We are very aware of the dedication of those who have revitalized the crumbling Abbey into a vital, living and breathing faith community. (I keep using that ‘c’ word, but looking at synonyms for community isn’t helpful. Sect? Fellowship? Cult? Society? No.) And in the midst of that long heritage, there are the contemporary songs of Iona, the prayers focused on the here-and-now, and leadership shared by clergy and laity of various traditions.

During the week, one service centers on healing, another on justice and peace. The Iona Community believes that prayer and politics belong together as do confession (because we all play a part in the injustices of the world) and commitment to action. To that end, there is a service of commitment too, with the explanation coming from the Iona Abbey Worship Book:

…the call to commitment to Jesus is at the same time a call to commitment to all that Jesus identifies himself with…to the brothers and sisters throughout the world who journey with Jesus…a commitment to the suffering and poor of the world with whom Jesus inseparably identified himself…to caring for the earth, sea and sky which God called into being through the Word.

That worship time can never be seen as separate from the rest of the Iona journey. There’s a thin place between the worship offered in that sacred space and the servanthood offered in our life away from Iona. As the songs we sing linger in our memories and our hearts (so singable!), the words remind us wherever we go beyond the Abbey that Christ goes with us, pushes us, pulls us, walks beside us, points us toward places of ministry.

This closing prayer comes from Celtic Prayers from Iona, by J. Philip Newell:

Bless to me, O God 
the earth beneath my feet. 
Bless to me, O God
the path on which I go.
Bless to me, O God
the people whom I meet.
O God of all gods,
bless to me my life.