Living and Breathing Faith: Day 19

{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.}

Iona Abbey

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.

 

Lenten Windows: Darkening Jesus

During Lent 2020 I am pulling 40 pictures from my files to prompt some writing. I’d hardly call these essays “meditations” or devotionals. They are just quick thoughts that are more or less inspired by the windows I’ve photographed.

I’ve had to reduce the size of this photo due to its blur. I had a very inexpensive camera and the light was dim, and this was the result. Not a work of art, but a reminder of a time and place long gone.

The “room” is no longer there. This was the sanctuary of Schauffler Hall on the campus of what is now Union Presbyterian Seminary in Richmond, Virginia. The building still stands but the interior has been transformed from classroom and worship space to the school’s impressive “new” library. My seminary graduation took place in this sanctuary, under that stained glass window. And that day is what this entry is about.

Within the main proscenium-like arch of the chancel area are three Gothic-arched “windows.” The one in the middle holds a stained glass representation of Jesus, his arms outstretched in welcome. The other two arches were organ cases, the instrument long gone by the time I was in school. One thing to note about the actual window is that it is an interior window, with a hallway and classrooms behind it. It is lighted (or was) by fluorescent tubes. In this photo, you can see that only part of the window “works,” that is, the lower bulbs are either dim or just plain off. Jesus is seen then in what video pros call a “head and shoulders shot.”

It was 1969, and our senior class at what was then Union Theological Seminary in Virginia was meeting about the shape and direction our graduation ceremony would take. Remember the time. Viet Nam. The civil rights movement. The Martin Luther King, Jr.  and Robert F. Kennedy assassinations had been the year before. The shootings at Kent State were fresh in our class’ memory. Turmoil at every turn. At one point in our planning, thoughts moved from who our speakers would be and what hymns we wanted…to the Jesus window. “Can we keep the lights turned off?” someone asked.

Why? “Because some of us are bothered by how ‘white’ Jesus is in that stained glass. He wasn’t white; his skin color would have been much darker.” This was the first some of us had noticed the hue of this glass-faced Jesus. I don’t recall that the discussion was at all heated, but there was some give and take, not to say debate. Eventually we voted.

And the decision was that our class would ask that the fluorescent lights would remain off. That would mean the fair-skinned Jesus of the window wouldn’t stand out, and the darkened glass, for those who actually looked at his face that afternoon, would be, well, dark.

Richmond, the one-time Capital of the Confederacy, was changing. Its white establishment would, in a handful of years, cede leadership to its sizable African-American citizenry. The City Council would have black membership, and in 1977 the city’s first African-American mayor was elected. In some ways, the seminary and local Presbyterian leaders helped early on with the local civil rights movement, with the city’s evening newspaper especially complaining about the liberal extremism of the Presbytery, some seminary professors, and even our Presbyterian camp which had  integrated in the late 1950s.

We in the UTS Class of 1969 wanted to make a statement, subtle as it may have been, that we were being racially sensitive by, well, darkening Jesus. Graduation came, and the sanctuary was filled with faculty, classmates, families, and friends. And then, you know what they say about the best-laid plans? Something unexpected happened. (Tune in tomorrow…no, I’ll go on.)

As the service progressed, with carefully-crafted liturgy, inspiring speakers, loud hymns (people loved hearing seminarians sing!), the interior Jesus window remained in the “off” position. Until it didn’t. Suddenly, the window came alive with flickering fluorescents lighting up all of Jesus, top to bottom. Had someone not gotten the message? Was a rebel (pardon the expression) student responsible? Surely no one from the administration would violate the vote of the senior class.

Turns out, it was an innocent, inadvertent act. Someone standing near the entry doors of the sanctuary had rubbed up against a wall switch, an ordinary array of light switches that controlled the overhead lights, as well as the stained glass window of Jesus. The perpetrator certainly had no idea what he or she had done as Jesus lit up.

All that discussion, so deeply meaningful…that important vote among classmates…the communication of the vote to the seminary administration (and perhaps their own serious discussion about the window)… this conscientious act expressing our sensitivity to issues of racial justice… it was all undone by someone backing into a light switch.

I don’t recall that anyone flinched when the lights blinked on. I don’t think someone rushed over to turn the window off again. But I will always remember how one little thing can reverse the best of intentions.

What happened to the window when the building was gutted and renovated I haven’t a clue. If it was rescued and donated to a church somewhere, I hope on an outside wall it sees the light of day and that it doesn’t depend on artificial lighting. The Light of the World deserves better. And maybe they can tint that glass face a little darker color.

 

 

 

 

Lenten Windows: Thin Places

We enter the last two weeks of Lent, and I post another of the forty photos of windows I’ve looked through, into, and at. Usually by this time in Lent, I’m growing a bit desperate to keep at it. But this year, I continue to enjoy looking.

Today’s “window” view is different from previous posts. The window I’m writing about isn’t the one in view in the lower left. It’s the window through which I’m looking. Which probably looks just like the one at the lower left. Both windows, the seen and the unseen, look out from the Iona Abbey. Iona is a tiny island off the southwest coast of Mull in the Inner Hebrides. It’s known as the “cradle of Christianity in Scotland.”

In 563, an Irish pilgrim we know as St. Columba arrived to form what he hoped would be the perfect monastic faith community. Ages passed, history happened, and the stone church built around 800 A.D. (that replaced wooden buildings ravaged by time and Vikings) was rebuilt from 1200-1400 and, again, history happened*, and in 1938 the Rev. George MacLeod founded the Iona Community which thrives today as a spiritual residential community, retreat center, and conference host.

Joan and I lived within that ecumenical community for only a week-long “programme” one summer, but its influence on our lives continues to inspire. Living in the Abbey buildings, worshipping in the Abbey church, eating, singing, and conferring with the others in retreat that week — and then joining in the weekly pilgrimage around the island, a day-long hike we’ve documented in a video — this experience convinced us that the Rev. MacLeod was right in describing Iona as a “thin place.”

A thin place. That is, where the divide between heaven and earth, between the spiritual and the physical, or the sacred and secular, is very, very thin. A one-time member of the resident group Neil Paynter wrote (in an Iona-published devotional book titled This Is the Day:

Iona is ‘a thin place’ as George MacLeod said, and just as the barrier between the spiritual and the material is like tissue paper in places, emotional and social barriers between people can thin and dissolve and tear away. There’s an intensity to living , working and worshipping together that can quickly open people up, and sometimes make them feel vulnerable…There’s the magic and wonder and beauty of nature all around which can suddenly open people’s eyes to the sacred beauty and uniqueness of others around them.

Iona Abbey and its various buildings and components (i.e., a Glasgow office and headquarters for its “Wild Goose Worship Group” and publishing house) is no warm spiritual cocoon, however. That ‘thin place’ understanding at Iona applies to the so-called divide between one’s personal faith and ‘social action,’ or our own inner peace and issues of global ‘peace and justice.’

To illustrate that point, Ron Ferguson (in the same book quoted above) recounts a story from George MacLeod:

A boy threw a stone at the stained glass window of the Incarnation. It nicked out the ‘E’ in the word HIGHEST in the text, ‘GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST.’ Thus, till unfortunately it was mended, it read, ‘GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGH ST.’

High Street being the main drag in Edinburgh.

So, MacLeod proclaimed the cross must be raised not only on the church steeple, but in the marketplace, both cathedral and Main Street. Faith must be lived in the midst of un-faith, hope amid the hopeless, love amongst the unlovely (my words, not MacLeod’s). Services at the Abbey included prayers for healing, for justice and peace, and for commitment to serve ‘the least of these.’ And those of us ‘in retreat’ or studying in a ‘programme’ for the week? We had work assignments, from assisting in the kitchen and serving meals at table, to helping with maintenance in the residence. (My job was cleaning the showers.) You see, a thin place between being served and serving.

Years after our brief time there, when I was looking for ‘a church to retire to,’ I visited a church where the liturgy, so refreshing and poetic and yet down-to-earth, clearly was from an Iona worship resource. I was immediately at home there, and we’ve settled there. (A previous post about my home church tells much more!) The songs of Iona accompanied our worship in the Abbey chapel. Even along the day-long pilgrimage over the island we stopped at various sacred sites and sang together. (John Bell and Graham Maule are the earthly source of the thin-place songs.)

The view out our Abbey window looked out at an historic place, with grass often trimmed by local sheep and the waters plied by fishing boats and played in by dolphins. The hot water bottles supplied by the Abbey community kept our feet warm at night, and the presence of the Holy Spirit among a beloved and loving community kept hearts warmed with renewed faith. And we are forever grateful.

[*As usual, you can find the historical and theological foundations of Iona by doing a simple web search.]

St. Columba in stained glass

 

 

Lenten Windows: The View

Each day during Lent (2020) I am posting an image of a window, a photo I took once upon a time. And I’m springing from the photo to a written reflection. Because.

Here is a church window that has found its beauty in what we see beyond it. Like an icon. In fact, for this particular church, the window has become “iconic.” That is, it found its way to its stationery for many years, and into more than one church publication. The architecture of the window has become identified with the church’s identity, though we know that it is true that there is more to this church than the building.

I know, because I was part of this congregation’s ministry for many years. The church was a pioneer in being what we now call open and welcoming and affirming, and its social justice ministries are myriad. Its music is inspiring and educational offerings are exceptional. Still, there is that window.

With clear glass, it looks out on the world, as does the whole church. It also lets the wonder of nature pour in, especially in autumn (as you can see). Visitors enter from underneath the window, unaware that it is there, but at the end of the service, they turn to leave, and voila! There it is, the huge window and its lovely view. Better, in this instance, than stained glass.

And those crosses. They are not the first thing one sees, but once you see them you can’t not see them. They are a reminder that this window is not in an office building or a school, but in a place where the cross is always between us and our world. The spiritually  perceptive Christian always has the cross, the empty cross, in view, and not only in church windows and sanctuaries. One can watch a film, read a book, see a play, view a neighborhood, engage a city, serve the world, and know that the cross adds a deeper meaning to our perceptions. God so loved the world…

[This window is above the entrance of the Bon Air Presbyterian Church, Richmond, Virginia. In my first year of seminary, I was assigned to “shadow” the pastor there, that is, meet with him on occasion, make pastoral calls with him, and generally watch him at work in his ministry. In my first year after ordination, this church joined in my community youth ministry giving moral and financial support. Having moved into the neighborhood, our family chose Bon Air as our church home. And in my last years in Richmond, I served as Associate Pastor there. It was a good ride. A very good ride.]