Another Place of Escape

[It’s Lent 2022, and I am writing each day about a sense of place. My previous post was about movie theaters as places to which we can escape. Today, a not-so-pleasant escape.]

A few years ago, we were in Bewdley, England looking for some family roots. We walked along the Severn River to a 1633 church where some of my forebears worshipped, and where we presume they are buried. In town, there was a small Riverside Market, complete with an organ grinder. Sadly, no dancing monkey. The village was quaint, nice shops, a museum, galleries, and pubs, and a picturesque railway station. As I looked through some of the photos I took, I ran across two images that really spoke to me in light of what’s happening in Eastern Europe as I write.

During World War 2, much of England suffered bombing from German aircraft. I can only image the fear of the citizens of London or little Bewdley where the air raid sirens screeched their warnings. To escape the bombardment, people rushed to shelters, some as large as underground railway stations; others so small they would accommodate only a family. Look at the shelter we found at a small museum. Imagine sitting on that bench for hours waiting for the all-clear. Or, waiting even longer. But it did provide escape for those fortunate enough to huddle there, consume some modest provisions, maybe play a game or read a book out loud to calm the children — or oneself.

During the Cold War in the 1950s and 1960s, some U.S. families had their own fallout shelters dug into backyards or buried in basements. The Civil Defense instructions offered suggestions for the well-equipped shelter, listing water, food (canned, dehydrated, or otherwise preserved), a radio and antenna, batteries, blankets, and…well, you know what you’d need. The moral dilemma of blocking entrance to any hapless neighbors (at gunpoint?) was debated hotly. Self-preservation versus sacrifice…no one I knew really wanted to ever face the situation. Having a shelter seemed to offer some degree of protection, but once the radiation had made it safe to emerge, what then? I’ll leave that nightmare to Netflix.

All this occurs to me as I watch the news of our global neighbors in the Ukraine packed into subway stations, cellars, any makeshift shelter available, to escape the carnage of war crimes.  Their faces reflect fear, anger, frustration, confusion, sadness. How terribly frightening for the children, but not only for the young — for all who only weeks ago went about their daily lives doubting an invasion would actually occur. And now, shelter. Packed so intimately together in terror. Safely? 

My mind goes to so-called “safe rooms” that the privileged/affluent have in their homes; and to storm shelters, like the one Dorothy missed climbing down in “The Wizard of Oz.” Or the bathtubs the desperate use to endure tornados. 

When are any of us really, truly “safe?” Whistling bombs, raging winds. God, how my heart aches for those who live in such fear. There they are again on the nightly news. Huddled. Safe. For now. but scared, and scarred for life.

I suppose we can all pray that someday such bomb shelters will be useful only for the curious who stoop into them in museums.

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 29

{ As I count the days of Lent 2021, and list the numbers in the sub-title of this Peace, Grace, and Jazz blog, I realize the numbers are not as much fun as finding the right words to invite readers into the posts. I copped out. Maybe next year my Lenten Discipline will be to simply go back to this year’s posts and rewrite the titles. But for now, we move on to the next of our forty sanctuary visits, a unique one at that.}

St. Dunstan’s-in-the-West Church, Fleet Street, London

I am careful about using the word “unique.” It’s used inappropriately so often that I think thrice about applying it to some of the images I’ve selected for this series. I think I used that word to describe Helsinki’s “Rock Church,” the one literally (there’s another word to use cautiously) carved in stone. And then there is this sanctuary: unique because it is like that breath mint– “Is it a candy mint or a breath mint? Wait! [click, click] It’s two mints rolled into one!” (You have to be of a certain age to remember that commercial.)

Here are two churches in one sanctuary. That’s not the unique thing. A number of churches share space these days. The church I served in Richmond, VA welcomed to its facilities a Korean congregation that was being organized in its neighborhood. We met at different times, shared some limited fellowship, but pretty much stayed out of each other’s way. As the Korean church grew, it eventually moved into its own building. When the Koreans met in our sanctuary for worship, no modifications were made to the space. We were all Presbyterians and had font, table, and pulpit in common.

But look at the chancel area in this photograph. Two distinct worship centers. And it’s been this way for over fifty years. The first church to occupy the 180 year-old building is still known as St. Dunstan’s-in-the-West, an Anglican Guild Church in the City of London, on Fleet Street. The church was organized around 1000 A. D. It was in that original church that John Warfield married Rachel Clarke on July 2, 1640. Chances are that you’ve never heard of John Warfield. I have. He was my maternal 9th Great-Grandfather. That family connection is what led us to this present church. I have to admit some disappointment that I wasn’t able to stand right where their wedding took place. That building is gone. Thus, a visit to the church’s present home.

When we entered and found that unique sanctuary design, we quickly learned that the Anglicans share the church with La Biserica Ortodoxã Românã din Londra – Parohía Românã Sf Gheorghe/St Dunstan — or, more simply, The Romanian Orthodox Church. If one is merely cynical about such things, one could say the arrangement is a good way to share the expense of a nearly two hundred year old building used by a typically dwindling British congregation. I prefer to see this through my rosy glasses, and affirm a welcoming ecumenism, Christians “one in the Spirit, one in the Lord” engaging in active grace and warm hospitality.

How this union came to be I do not know. The churches’ websites might have some historical details. But I can imagine the debate when it was suggested that the architecture of the sanctuary be radically altered (altared might work too, he typed with a smile) to accommodate the Romanian immigrant congregation and its rich symbolic ornamentation. Historic sanctuaries undergo renovations through the decades, but this change was something else!

We can assume that there are occasions when the individual congregations’ schedules hit a bump or conflict. But they’ve had fifty years to get used to one another, and to appreciate one another, and to show that people of faith, even those with different creeds, can share sacred space, participate in common witness, and work together in unified mission. My rosy glasses may influence my best guesses about these two churches in one building, but when I pray, “Thy Kingdom come…” that’s what I’m talkin’ about!

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 14

Photo Copyright 2018, JS Kellam

{It is Lent 2021, and with so many churches still closed or severely limited in attendance, I’m re-visiting sanctuaries I’ve worshipped in or at least visited, and writing some reflections of times spent in those sacred spaces.}

Happenstance. Chance. Good luck. That’s what led to the photo above. We just happened to be in the right church at the right time and caught the iconic image of a very British choir rehearsal. I credit TripAdvisor for the written description of the church.

Sherborne Abbey, otherwise the Abbey Church of St. Mary the Virgin, is a Church of England church in Sherborne in the English county of Dorset. It has been a Saxon cathedral, a Benedictine abbey church, and since 1539, a parish church.

The church’s webpage notes that a Christian community has worshipped on that site since 705 A.D. That makes our own church’s 200 year history into a fairly new church development. We had visited a number of churches in England, cathedrals and rural parishes, exploring family roots. These churches connect me with my own history, and it’s a profound feeling to stand at the font where, hundreds of years ago, an ancestor was baptized into the faith I profess, or was married at the very altar I was photographing. This church was one of those, and we counted on the doors being open on a weekday. (I previously mentioned that sometimes if the doors weren’t exactly open and indeed were locked, we’ve been known to find a way in.)

It was always a delight to find ourselves in a church where the organist was practicing. But this day, we were treated to the choir too. All men and boys, quite traditional. A heavenly sound echoing through the great sanctuary. (See below) To capture the sound, I used my Canon video camera, but pulled out my Nikon for the stills. No time to plan. Just hit the shutter.

Of course, the space is magnificent. And I’ll be writing more about this place before my forty day writing commitment is over. But today I am led to think about the first word I wrote above: happenstance. It has a sister: happenchance. The “hap” comes from Middle English referring to “fortune” or “chance.” The “stance” not surprisingly is an abbreviation of “circumstance.” (See? You can learn something new everyday.) By good fortune, then, we happened on this scene, and my camera worked.

There are many ways to look at things that just happen to happen. Good luck? OK. Coincidence? Perhaps. Those are both appropriate ways to look at how we arrived at Sherborne that day. Now, more profoundly, some would argue that God was the Director of this scene and we merely (unknowingly) followed our blocking for the comic/drama that is life, winding up where the Good Lord wanted us. Were we Presbyterians predestined to be in that church at that hour? I’m leaning more toward the idea of good fortune, or good juju (whatever that is). I would hope God had better things to do that afternoon than to help me get a good photo. (It is good, isn’t it!)

Now, suppose something had occurred in that space, in that hour or any minute within that time, with Jeff right there with eyes to see and ears to hear. Not just “something” but a dramatic event that profoundly had an impact on someone’s life. For example, imagine that my heart gave out as I gazed at the majestic architecture of the cathedral, and a 15 year old boy in the choir saw me collapse. And having just had a lesson in CPR in school, he rushed over and saved my life. Happenstance? No way. For me that would have been God’s hand at work. Holy direction. Divine timing.

I’ve believed this about good luck or coincidence for most of my life. I used to say that if a person passed by a phone booth (if you are young, look it up!) and happened to check the little change return for an unclaimed quarter (it was a dime when I first had this thought) and sure enough, there was a coin there — well, what good luck. But if finding that coin had a deeper meaning than extra change, say, one needed just that amount to get on a bus and get somewhere important just in the nick of time…well, that would be far more than mere good luck.

To assign divine involvement in the everyday-ness of our lives, or to think the Creator/Savior/Sustainer of the cosmos cares about us and counts the very hairs on our heads [Matthew 10:30] (that figuratively speaking , I hope), certainly affirms that “God is with us.” Everywhere and always. I know that. I’m not about to limit the limitless, eternal, and omni-everything God to my perceived boundaries and borders.

That said, let’s just give the Almighty a bit of credit for having designed some little happenchance (see? I used that word in a sentence!) occurrences or serendipities that make us smile without God demanding credit or pay back for such moments. A sliver of grace, maybe? I’ll let God have a moment off so that the universe spins its nice surprises without God lifting a finger or pulling the strings. God, I know you are able to lift and pull, but while I’m snapping the lucky photo or finding the abandoned quarter I’ll be thanking St. Augustine for writing this:

Nothing, then, comes about unless God wills it, either through permitting it to happen, or Himself (sic) performing it.

Maybe that “permitting” handles my happenstances?