Remembering Dennis Benson

Today (June 8) I learned that it was the birthday of my late friend and media mentor Dennis Benson. I thought it might be good to post (or re-post?) a radio program I did back in the best days of “Celebration Rock.” I have written of Dennis on both my original Celebration Rock blog and on this later one as well. So, I needn’t add many words here, except to say that he remains in my memory one of the most ambitious, talented, creative, and dedicated leaders in mass media ministry.

This particular “Celebration Rock” program is one of my favorites among the scores I still have in my tape-to-CD-to-MP3 library of hour long radio programs I produced for the Presbyterian Church. Actually, I have two specials that featured Dennis Benson. One was based on his travels with Alice Cooper! Dennis had somehow gotten invited to join the Cooper band on tour for about a week’s time. I asked if he’d share some reflections on that tour and he sent me a cassette tape (our magic means of audio communication back then) with his commentary. I added some Alice Cooper LP cuts to his words and wound up with a program one of my grandsons has treasured for years!

The program I’m embedding here is based on Dennis’ book Making Tracks: Meditations along the Jogging Trail. (Dennis, creative guy that he was, picked up on almost every popular trend, baptized that trend, and added his Christian perspective to it: from Star Wars to WWF (wrestling) to, in this case, jogging.) For this show, Dennis took his trusty cassette recorder (again, the cassette!) as he ran through his Pittsburgh area neighborhood. A victim and survivor of childhood polio, he admitted to an unusual gait, and running through some wintery slush took its toll on his lungs, but amid the heavy breathing, his running commentary (see what I did there?) provided inspiration for me to sort through my library of hit music to find gems to carry us all through the hour. “Running on Empty,” “It Keeps You Runnin’,” “Feelin’ Stronger Every Day,” and “Run that Body Down” were among the cuts I used for the hour. Of course, I also added my own commentary too.

Now, Dennis and I were miles apart throughout our parallel ministries in radio. We didn’t talk often, but shared mutual affection. I had heard that Dennis was disappointed that I had eventually left church media to go into parish ministry halfway through my career. But I would hope he’s smiling that this deep into my retirement I am once again involved in using electronic media for ministry: a monthly TV interview, yes, and using video to tell stories. But, like Dennis would have, I am engaged in the latest thing…podcasting. (Google “The Spirit of Jazz” podcast with Presbybop Jazz’s Bill Carter.)

Here’s to you, Dennis, with profound gratitude for all you did and all you are, still, and always. Dear reader, click on the link below and listen to Dennis make tracks!

 

It Was 60 Years Ago…

When I first retired and had time on my hands, I started a WordPress blog to record some memories related to my syndicated radio program “Celebration Rock.” That blog has been dorment for sometime, except for an occasional piece that I add to remind myself that it is there. I over-wrote every imaginable detail related to the program, and then moved on to this blog “Peace, Grace, and Jazz,” where the writing can cover anything remotely related to, well, peace, grace, and jazz.

A couple of years ago, I sprung for the actual PAID subscription to WordPress so that I could add some audio content. After all, I made my ministry one of listening, so it seemed like a good idea to expend the funds to expand. (A little glitch I haven’t bothered to correct: I added audio to the wrong blog; I had meant to add Celebration Rock audio clips to the first blog and mistakenly added the audio to the present one. So be it.

While this blog is most active during Lent (when I use the blog for an annual Lenten writing discipline), now and then I am moved to record some thoughts that I consider worth sharing, even if only for my progeny to read after my earthly presence has evaporated. Mostly, as you may have surmised, I write mostly for myself. But I encourasge your curiosity in looking (or listening) in.

As 2023 dawned, I realized that it was sixty years ago that I first spoke into a radio microphone. At the time, it was just an extracurricular college activity. I had no idea that those hours spent in the college radio studio would lead to six decades (and counting) of broadcasting.

For the next few entries here, I will reflect on what it meant to be “on the air.” I’m not writing frequently; just as the muse strikes. (But please don’t hold the muse accountable for everything you may read in the space, okay?)

I admit that some of what I write here may already have been covered to some extent in the “Celebration Rock” blog, or previously in this one. Heck, consider it a rerun and let’s move on. So, stay tuned.

 

Our Church Place

{In previous years, I used the forty days in Lent to write reflections on various themes (panoramas=wideness in God’s mercy; windows; sanctuary, etc.) and all had some spiritual connection with the Lenten season. But this year, the whole practice has turned autobiographical. Oh, well.}

In writing about the Kellam family’s sojourn on South Liberty Avenue, I’ve centered on the 200 year-old house we lived in, and previously on the neighborhood itself. Today, I look across the street to the church that stands at the corner of East Main and South Liberty. In 2019, that congregation celebrated its Bicentennial, with most of those years right on that corner.

This old postcard of Union Presbyterian Church shows our family’s home in the lower right-hand corner — the yellow house.

In the church yard on that Upstate New York corner, there is a small stone monument to the union of the troops of Revolutionary War generals Clinton and Sullivan. (In the postcard above, the marker is in the lower right-hand corner.) The uniting of the forces near that spot (kind of blurry geographical mapping I suspect), gave the town and village its name: Union. And when the village of Union merged with the larger village of Endicott in 1921, the First Presbyterian Society of the Town of Union saw a problem. Endicott’s Presbyterian Church also called itself “First.” While the Union church had deeper roots, growing out of a 1792 Dutch Reformed Church, the Union Presbyterians decided on a new church name: Union Presbyterian Church. So, enough church history.

When my parents began dating they attended Union Presbyterian. And they eventually married there, just before World War 2. Their newlywed apartment was just a few blocks to the east of the church, and after the war their first home was a few blocks to the west. How active they were in the first years of their marriage I don’t know. But when Dad returned from the Philippines and met me at the age of 18 months, it was soon after that I was baptized at Union Pres. When the young family later moved across the river, a Methodist Church was just down the hill from their new home, and they became somewhat active there — for awhile. I have few memories of church life back then, so I’m guessing it wasn’t difficult to transfer their membership back to Union Pres. soon after they moved back to Endicott, right across the street from that imposing stone structure. (Three moves within nine years — the result of a growing family.)

The sanctuary, altered a few times
since original construction

I was in fifth grade when Dad walked me up the front sidewalk to my first Sunday School class there. (When Dad was in his final days, I wrote him a letter noting my gratitude for his loving guidance in my life, and I told him how vividly I recalled that first short walk to the church, and how it started me on a decades-long walk, in faith and ministry.) I felt at home immediately that morning. Sunday School, worship services, and in 7th grade the “Junior High Fellowship” became weekly routines for this youth. In many ways, I felt closer to church friends than to schoolmates. Even in those early youth group years, we youth were given leadership roles, and in our senior high years each of us had to choose a topic and lead the discussion (with the help of the Westminster Fellowship Kit from the denomination). So, I was learning leadership.

David, Carole, Jeff, and Don — 1962 Youth group

As I look back, it’s clear that we weren’t the kind of family that occupied the same long pew every Sunday. In fact, I don’t remember our ever sitting as a family of eight in church. Mom used to say that after getting the six of us kids ready for church, she was content to rest at home for the hour. Dad, though active in the community on several levels, was not big into large gatherings, and later told us how he thought singing in church was silly, an unmeaning insult to my wife the church musician. They smiled about that when Dad realized what he had said. But the point is that Dad’s introversion meant that he served as an usher on occasion, and perhaps a committee, but was more content to keep his spirituality less corporate, more private.

A recent Pentecost Sunday

In ninth grade, when filling out a vocational interest form for planning my high school curriculum, I had dentistry and scientific writing as my first two choices, both suggested by the school guidance counselor based on my grades in math and science. I remember this scene vividly. Dad is sitting in a wingback chair, holding his newspaper in one hand, the form in the other. “What do you want to put down for number 3?” he asked.

“How about the ministry?” I ventured.

“Are you sure?” Well, at that age, who is? But if this wasn’t a “call,” it was at least a nudge, and as my math and science grades plummeted…the rest is history. Once my pastor Wilbur Kerr and youth leaders learned of my interest, I felt loving support, but no real pressure. Their support continued through college and seminary, until I was eventually ordained in that church in 1969. Baptized, confirmed, and ordained in the church in which my parents were married. No wonder I write about this “place” in my life.

I’ve written previously of the church youth group trips to New York City, Boston, and Washington, DC. Were they bribes to get us to go to church each week? Or rewards for good attendance? I’m going with the second choice there. I almost didn’t get to go on the last trip in high school, due to a lack of “points.” Because of my Sunday morning drug store job, I missed Sunday School a lot. Besides, I remember Bill Carmine, the senior high teacher asking me not to respond to one of his Sunday School questions, saying, “Jeff, don’t you answer, you’re already brain-washed.” So, gosh, if I can’t be the star of the class… But, grace prevailed, and I got to go, along with both my brothers, to Washington.

Youth group in NYC

I have to mention Mrs. Beach here. Mabel Beach was an evangelical Presbyterian, fervent in her encouragement of young people in the church. While I never succumbed to her prodding me to join the youth choir (my voice was changing and I felt awkward singing), she was so very encouraging of my call to ministry. I still have a letter she wrote me in college, words of support, plus a $5 bill so I could buy a good dinner away from the school cafeteria mystery meat. When I flunked out of college (too many extracurriculars and too few good grades), she never lost faith in me. Nor did the pastor Gerald Hertzog. Mrs. Beach was always so proud that three of us youth within two years went into the ministry from that church.

Fast forward several years. Having just retired from active ministry and having moved back to the area, I was scouting out churches to see where we might worship. Joan was still working as a church musician, so I went back to Union Presbyterian on my own to see what things were like many decades after my ordination there. I settled into a pew and to my surprise, there was Marilyn Bombard! She and Al had been the youth group’s adult advisors in my junior/senior high days. Wow! I was home. The pastor’s sermon was one I might have written (how odd to say that), the words of the liturgy were from Iona, and the feel of the congregation was welcoming. When Joan retired too, we became part of the church family there, with Joan even chairing the Bicentennial planning committee. I teach the adult church school class and serve as Parish Associate to the pastor The Rev. Pat Raube.

The days of the church youth selling Christmas trees and serving spaghetti dinners may be long past, but I still see a vibrant congregation having weathered the pandemic, standing tall at the corner of Main and Liberty.

For your consideration: do you have a community of faith to thank for spiritual development and nurture? Or, sadly perhaps, one that you have survived or successfully distanced yourself from? Not all folks have good memories of childhood churches, nor positive experiences with present faith communities. Yet others have been inspired to serve next door neighbors and the global village, walking in light, living in hope, and leaning on grace. More Power to you!

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 40

{The is the last day of Lent 2021. And my last daily posting of sanctuary images and writings prompted by those photos. I am tempted to return to my past Lenten writings, those from previous years with themes that ranged from “wideness of God’s mercy” as seen in panoramic pics to that recent year with forty coffee mugs — to see what I had written on other Holy Saturdays. That temptation passed when I realized it was a cop-out. I need to resist re-running past material. Today’s image has been in the planning stages for several days. The writing? No clue as to where I’m going in the next hour or so!”}

Today I return to The Netherlands, and to Haarlem’s Grote Kerk, or Sint-Bavokerk, once a Roman Catholic cathedral, now a Reformed Protestant congregation. Instead of looking upward to the lofty peaked ceiling with its intricate design pointing heavenward, or up to the magnificent pipe organ chamber that sings praises even without a key being touched, I look down. To the floor. and to the tombs, or at least the graves marked by these huge heavy slabs.

For maybe 500 years someone has lain locked under those carved ledger-stones. I’m guessing that the slot in each marker is for opening up the grave for burial. Many of those stone slabs are beautifully decorated, though the designs have been worn away with centuries of worshippers walking on them. Some have dates, names, symbols, titles.

I understand that while customs vary, there may be a touch of prestige involved with placement inside the church sanctuary. The closer to the altar, the better. Or, the closer to the most important dearly departed who have earned their proximity to the holiest place in the church, the better. If the altar area is reserved for the saints (and/or the most prominent of citizenry), then being buried closer to them signaled some higher nobility. And if one hadn’t reached such notoriety by pure reputation, then one’s family might be able to buy some pricier real estate on the floor.

(I don’t remember who told me — maybe a childhood friend? — but I was advised that it was bad luck, or at least disrespectful to step on a grave in our church cemetery. One can hardly avoid such a transgression while walking cathedral aisles where nearly every step would be like stomping on a sidewalk crack and breaking your…well, you know the rest.)

I’ve read that one bit of rationale for being buried in the actual church rather than in the surrounding church yard is that if one is depending on the prayers of others to eventually spring you from purgatory, it is better that those prayers be prompted everytime someone sees your grave and is reminded to add you to their prayer list. If you were interred outside in the cemetery, visits might be very few, perhaps only annually. But with your grave right underfoot as one entered the church each Sunday, there’d be that frequent reminder that you required some prayerful attention.

At my age, I do think of death more often than I did when I was younger and somewhat carefree. (I was never totally free of cares; my Dad was a worrier and I have that gene.) My wife Joan and I have thought about what to do with our no-longer-useful bodies, and where a grave for us might be when we die (“God forbid,” as our insurance agent Barney Bass used to say — and you gotta trust an agent named Barney, right?). We’ve decided. And soon we may as well invest in the plot. It’ll be outside, in nature’s beauty, which this past year was snow-covered for months on end.

Speaking of end, my instructions for my obituary are few. But of utmost importance is mentioning my actual death. I will die. I will not “pass away.” I will not “be reunited with [anybody].” (I don’t think that’s even Biblical.) I will not “pass into the arms of Jesus” who I assume has his hands full finding parking spaces for the really, really faithful. I will not move “from this mortal coil,” which sounds like a broken Slinky. I will die. Dead. Maybe I will see those who have gone before. (“…Gone…?” There; even I did it. “Died” before.) Maybe a lot of things.

There’s no denying it, though I would prefer to. See… Jesus died. Dead. And buried. Instead of “Holy Saturday” maybe we should just call this “Tomb-day.” I mentioned in my italicized introduction that I was tempted to go back and see what I had written on my previous Day 40 of Lent posts. I’m betting that I wrote of the disciples laying low, fearful that what happened to Jesus might happen to them if they were named co-conspirators. I may have noted that I would have been with them, huddled against discovery, shaking in my sandals. But today, I’m more interested in what was going on with Jesus that Saturday.

Nothing. He was entombed. But I do have these questions. Fully human, fully God, the creed says. So, was there any secret spiritual communication going on? Did Jesus dream? No, he wasn’t asleep; he was dead. Because if he was merely asleep, then the resurrection wasn’t real. It was more a resuscitation, and that doesn’t make for Easter, more an EMT medal of some kind. My cousin Dave was headed to the ministry early in his college days, but decided on science instead, and taught college botany his whole career. Yet, he still seemed to consider God a reality. But not life after death. “I’ve taught biology all my life, and I know full well what happens when something dies. It dies. Deteriorates. End of story.” Dave now knows one way or the other. I hope he was pleasantly surprised. (But that’s tomorrow’s story, not today’s, and you will have to write it yourself. Lent will be over and so will these writings.)

As I said, I do have some questions. Death is such a mystery. Our elderly Vermont farmer friend had one question for his pastor after his wife’s death, and he posed it to me many times. “I don’t understand. Where is Marion? Where is she?” Albert had been an aircraft mechanic during WW2, and as a long-time farmer his knowledge of mechanics and agriculture and woodworking made him a man of many talents. He knew time and space and things. But he had to know where, in death, Marion was. I tried over and over to explain that beyond our physical death there was no physical place, no measure of time or acreage, that all was in the mysterious (to me) realm of pure spirituality. Albert wasn’t having it. And I wasn’t really getting it myself. As I said: mystery.

Oh, there’s a lot in the Bible about graves opening up, trumpets blowing, the dead rising up. But that was all written when even those God-inspired writers thought the heavens were a canopy with holes through which light shine penetrated, and the earth was flat, and viruses were demons, and some people were ritually unclean and untouchable. That’s why there’s no book of the Bible that is titled, “Here’s What You’ll Find in God’s Heaven.” (You’re right. I don’t take the Book of Revelation(s) as a literal map to doom and glory.)

Here’s where I must lean on God’s continual and constant message of grace. Love. Abundant life. God is good, and God is with us. As God was with Jesus even behind that rock that locked the tomb.

I keep wanting to say that when Jesus made his post-resurrection appearances, he didn’t tell… anyone anything about… but, see, that is still in tomorrow’s morning sunrise, not for discussion on Tomb-day. We have to remain here in the dark awhile longer.

And avoid stepping on ledger-stones lest we wake the dead. Or send our mothers to chiropractors.

{An italicized postscript: I know I have written lightly about a profoundly sad part of everyone’s life. We have lived through a year of loss, with headlines day after day announcing the deaths of strangers, friends, family members, and neighbors, to a deadly pandemic. Hearts have broken, tears shed, and emptiness endured, and even with vaccination protocols, there is no definite end in sight. Even on Easter Sunday, that day that explodes with promise, that lights up with new life, the newspaper obituary pages will note the sorrow of survivors, those left behind to grieve. I have lost family members, not to a pandemic, but to the natural death that ends even younger lives. And at my age, I will encounter the deaths of former classmates, neighbors, good friends, and family members more frequently until my own last breath. I know how to take it seriously. And the profound mystery of it all both haunts and encourages me. I have always considered myself a creative, imaginative person, but here’s what I cannot imagine: my own non-existence. I would rather hold to that which I know, and that is faith, living and breathing faith. Thank you, Jesus.}

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 34

{During Lent 2021, I’ve been perusing my photo files, choosing pics of church sanctuaries, and writing random reflections prompted by the images, while drinking fair trade coffee. OK, that last phrase was irrelevant. The main thing is that the pandemic has kept many of us away from the sanctuaries that welcomed us as people of faith, and this blog is one way to reconnect with those special places.}

Pictured here is the sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church, Champaign, IL. I took the photo, but have never been in the room. Throughout the global pandemic, we have worshipped with many congregations via video streaming, and this church is one of our favorites. (So, my camera was aimed at the TV screen.) On this day before Palm Sunday I thought this image might be appropriate. See the guy in the back there? He’s waving a palm branch. All by his lonesome.

That’s one of my best friends, the Rev. Matt Matthews. He’s the “Senior Pastor,” something difficult for me to grasp since I’ve known him since his college days, just a couple of years ago. Or three decades? Anyway, he’s the head of staff there, and you’d think he could have found some underling to wave that branch, but there he is. Hosanna, and all that.

The scene pictured here was from a year ago when churches were beginning ro realize that things would be different for some time to come. As Lent 2020 was nearing an end (an end that really didn’t seem to arrive), Palm Sunday insisted on happening. (Church calendars don’t pay attention to mere human events or circumstances…wars, pandemics, whatever…Christmas and Easter persist on their quirky schedules.) The usual procedure for many churches of all kinds of stripes is to buy palms of some sort (unless they happen to grow nearby, and here in Upstate New York they don’t), hand them out to parishioners and force even the introverts to leave their pews and march around the sanctuary singing “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.” Some shouting of Hosanna! is also encouraged. Did I say “around the sanctuary?” Yes, it says so just above this query. Many churches take the parade a bit further; they parade around the block, or around the periphery of the church exterior, a public display of affection for Jesus.

Matt’s parade last year was kind of abbreviated. He was by himself. He didn’t march. He just stood there and waved. And smiled. Because he has a warm sense of humor and an endearing connection to his church folk. He was inviting us, the worshipping congregation at home in recliners, drinking coffee or tea, maybe still in PJs, but nonetheless eager for the story of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem to be re-told — he was inviting us to virtually gather around the Word, listen for new understanding, and say our prayers. The church’s cantor sang the hymn, a puppet asked the questions the church’s youngsters might have asked about the palms, Matt sat casually in the front pew and spoke with us what he had discerned about the celebration from his study of the Book. (He didn’t actually preach. “Preaching” assumes a group to whom a sermon is projected, loudly enough to reach the back of the room and the wandering mind. Matt as much as conversed with us, though that verb infers an exchange of words between two parties. Still, as he informally shared his thoughts, we did nod, hum an affirmation, maybe even mutter an amen.)

Hosanna in the highest heaven! Hosanna is one of those words reserved for church. It’s not part of normal speech or common vocabulary. I have yet to hear someone shout the word upon seeing the new Corvette or Lady Gaga video. (Though “Halleluia” is far more common, and though I’m not allowed to utter it during Lent, I didn’t; I typed it. Gee, I hope you’re not reading this aloud.) But on Palm Sunday, virtual or not, the hosannas echo through the centuries, and the joyous acclamation shouted and sung at Jesus’ arrival in the holy city is repeated by the global community of faith. If Jesus were coming to town today, we might wave our lighted cellphones, or giant foam pointy fingers (“You’re number one!) or pom poms. There’d be some entrepreneurs selling light sticks and glow rings, too. But back then, the custom was plucking palm branches from trees and laying them before the entering dignitary or waving them overhead.

Hosanna in the highest heaven! The highest heaven! The gospel writers see Jesus as the one who joins earth and heaven, the lowest earth (the meek, the poor, the hungry, the humblest child) and the highest heaven (that would be Godself). Hurrah! Hooray! How soon, within days, the shouts would be, “Crucify him!” Like the turn of a card.

Before I end here, a note about that empty (except for Matt) sanctuary. It doesn’t indicate at all that Matt’s church is empty. Its mission continues, and it is ambitious under the guidance of Matt’s beloved, The Rev. Rachel Matthews, the church’s Mission Coordinator. A praise band often joins the organist and cantor in leading music for streamed worship. The multicultural congregation hears the scriptures read in French as well as English each week, and that Word is proclaimed orally and actively, with FPC Champaign’s church life continuing to reflect a living and breathing faith through these challenging times. Social justice, the arts, campus ministry — those are part of the outreach of a vital church. Matt even sends a daily email to each church member and friend, offering news, pastoral concerns, mission invitations, prayers and poetry, and just awful humor. (Insert smiley face here! Or one that grimmaces.)

Hosanna, then, to the Jesus who is alive and well in that congregation! If I had a palm, I’d wave it!

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 33

{A sanctuary visit each day in Lent 2021…photos from my files, writings off-the-cuff.}

Just spend a couple of minutes gazing at that glimpse of spectacular art work. One would think such art would be found in a museum, not a church. One would be right. It is indeed a museum. But it wasn’t always. It is still known as “The Church on Spilled Blood.” To be clear, a former church.

We might assume the reference to “spilled blood” would refer to Jesus and his crucifixion. But it doesn’t. Here’s the Wikipedia description:

The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood (Russian: Церковь Спаса на Крови, Tserkovʹ Spasa na Krovi) is a former Russian Orthodox church in Saint Petersburg, Russia which currently functions as a secular museum. The structure was constructed between 1883 and 1907. It is one of Saint Petersburg’s major attractions. The church was erected on the site where political nihilists assassinated Emperor Alexander II in March 1881. The church was funded by the Romanov imperial family in honor of Alexander II, and the suffix “on [Spilled] Blood” refers to his assassination.

Unlike some of the awe-inspiring sanctuaries we’ve been in, because this is a tourist attraction there were no people sitting quietly in pews as parading visitors gaped at architecture or sculpture or other artworks intended to draw worshippers toward God. First, there were no pews. Second, the crowd within that once-sacred space was huge. Many of us were on guided tours and we were forced to keep moving lest we lose our guides in the masses. The din of the throng was like the sound of the wind, constant, and in that space, annoying. Really annoying. Pausing for prayer in that atmosphere was almost impossible.

When I think of the artists who were commissioned to depict the whole story of “salvation history” on every surface of that church, and when I imagine their pride in their work, the joy of creativity mixed with the practical labors of mixing paints, applying plaster, cleaning brushes, cutting and setting mosaic tiles in place — how devastated they would be that we today are only allowed to walk briskly through the halls merely glancing at the still-brilliant colors as light pours in from above. We only skim the testament they offer.

Were those artists well-compensated for their work, or was this forced labor? Were they believers, devoted to the faith their efforts would serve to inspire? Or, was this just a job that would lead to the next one, perhaps painting the bedroom of a Saint Petersburg merchant? Were the artists aware of the theological meaning behind each image, or…? I wonder. Perhaps no matter their motivation or vocation, they might have assumed their work would last for a century or more. Not many of us can say that of our labors.

This space was once a sanctuary, height, width, and depth set apart for divine worship. I can imagine the deep voices of Russian men chanting the liturgy. I can see the vested priests lifting the chalice high and saying the ancient words, echos of Jesus’ voice in the upper room on his last night. I imagine worshippers standing there watching it all, the shining beauty of the walls and pillars transporting them high above their daily cares, some moved to tears when awe pierces the heart. [That experience of being transported by elegance beyond one’s routine or, worse, daily drudgery reminds me of the grand movie palaces in the age of the Great Depression in the U.S. where the “show” began as one entered the theater itself. The intention was to transport the public into a fantastic grandeur, maybe a Moorish garden with twinkling stars overhead, marble columns and stained glass, rich fabrics and garish colors. The films were one thing, but the greatest escape was in the auditorium’s architecture.]

Certainly such churches as this one will never be built again. It is both impractical, and unethical. If we expect such magnificence in our modern (and modest) places of worship, the day is coming when the church usher will hand us our virtual reality headsets. We’ll put them over our eyes, adjust the earbuds, and stare ahead as 8K images take us away to heaven’s gates with angelic surround sound. Will God be waiting? I suppose that depends on the programmers.

One lesson I take away from my own ruminations on all this: when I see the overwhelming power of such beauty in that former church, I am newly aware that experiences of worship must speak to the senses, to the heart, as well as to the mind. Eyes, ears, taste, and smell. Iconology, music, the wine and the incense — and let us not forget the touch. Even in this day when touching is risky, appropriate occasions for embracing, the laying on of hands, the simple handshake…all celebrate the joy and wonder of being human, the glory of God in humanity fully alive.

Next week, on Maundy Thursday, I’ll show you something profound in its stark simplicity, and that image will awaken the senses as well. Different strokes, you see.

But tomorrow in this series, a man stands alone in the back of his church, waving something…something green.

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 27

{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?

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 26

{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.}

Chris Brubeck (bass), Paquito D’Rivera (clarinet), and Randy Brecker (trumpet)

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!”

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 25

{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.

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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.

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 23

{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.