Lenten Notes: Songs of Faith

{ Another week in Lent 2023, and another collection of thoughts about music. It’s my writing discipline for this year, after previous years of writing about the forty people who’ve influenced my life, forty windows I’ve looked through or at, and forty panoramic images that spurred daily reflections. I write primarily for myself, but publicly in this blog, so I’m an open book. A hymn book today.}

This jazz guy has only been to New Orleans once. And while there, we visited Preservation Hall and its traditional jazz music. And I saw what was, at the time, the most expensive dinner tab I’d seen, thanks to the wine choices of my Episcopal priest companions. What took me to New Orleans? A hymnal.

It was 1982 and the Episcopal Church was publishing its first new hymnal since the 1940 version. It took an act of the Episcopal General Convention to authorize the new official book of hymns, and the move wasn’t without controversy. I was hired to shoot some video at the New Orleans site of that year’s convention, and one of the interviews was with a member of the Standing Commission that edited the new book. It was the first time I’d given any thought to how a denomination’s hymnal came together.

Not surprisingly, it’s a lot of work: musically and theologically, but also to find that mystical balance between beloved old favorites and the newer music that would reflect contemporary expressions of faith. When you think about it, you simply can’t keep adding new hymns without cutting out some old ones; the book would be too heavy to hold. So, the publishers of denominational hymnals must make difficult decisions, and church folk are good at raising ruckuses. “How dare they drop my favorite hymn?”

“When was the last time you sang it?”

“Ages ago! The pastor never chooses it.”

“Sorry.”

In the preface to that “new” 1982 (think about that) Episcopal hymnal, I found this paragraph.

“The Hymnal 1982 retains the best of the past and sets forth many riches of our own time.  [The Standing Commission on Church Music] looked for theological orthodoxy, poetic beauty, and integrity of meaning. At the same time, the Commission was especially concerned that the hymnody affirm ‘the participation of all in the Body of Christ the Church, while recognizing our diverse natures of children of God.’ … Texts and music which reflect the pluralistic nature of the Church have been included, affording the use of Native American, Afro-American, Hispanic, and Asian material.”

The Hymnal 1982 Preface

And here we are 40 years later. Not being an Episcopalian, I’m unaware of a revised version of that 1982 collection, but surely something is in the works. The times, they are a-changin’. And so is singing the faith.

Our Presbyterian Church is still using the 1990 Presbyterian Hymnal, though it has been officially replaced  by the 2013 edition called Glory to God:The Presbyterian Hymnal. Most “major” denominations have their own hymnals, but other non-denominational hymnals are available and widely used, and many churches add “supplements,” usually newer hymns and/or even really, really old favorites folks can’t let go of– even if the language is terribly dated, or imperialistic, or racist.

In a conversation with another retired pastor the other night, I was impressed by her remark that younger church-goers find much of the language of popular, well-known hymns archaic (when was the last time you raised your Ebenezer?) and much of the music just plain worn-out, passé, or otherwise clunky. And that’s another issue today’s composers of songs of faith must grapple with: what’s “contemporary” music, anyway? Must it be hip-hop?

Back in the 1960s folk music seemed cutting edge in worship. You know, guitar masses. Today, there are some “cowboy” churches, and I’m sure the music there grew far from folk into solid Nashville. Then there was Peter Scholtes’ 1966 “Bossa Nova Mass,” which gave us the song, “They’ll Know We’re Christians by Our Love” AKA “We Are One in the Spirit.” There have been several jazz masses since the 1950s, but they seem (sadly for me) used more for special, occasional services. (Fine examples of jazz in worship are found at www.presbybop.com.)

What about rock music? Well, what kind of rock? Emo? Metal? Soft? Progressive, whatever that means? A Moody Blues Mass? A Springsteen service? The music of Pink, or punk, or Puth (as in Charlie)? We’d all have to sing in separate rooms in the education building, because choosing music to sing with one voice in a sanctuary would be impossible. (And in Room 6, you can sing “In the Garden” and “Power in the Blood” if you are into the old stuff.) Therefore, we all have to bend a little. Or blend a little.

Recently I visited the Freemason Street Baptist Church in Norfolk, VA and saw that they had published their own hard-bound hymnal. They are not alone in that endeavor, but I really liked looking through the result of their quest to provide a variety of choices for their congregation. No, there’s no hip-hop (that I could find in a quick perusal), but I suspect some hymns could at least swing a bit, given the jazz-loving pastor there. I read through the introductory pages and found a couple of quotations I really liked.

“Songs are funny things. They can slip across borders. Proliferate in prisons. Penetrate hard shells. I always believed that the right song at the right moment could change history.”

Pete Seeger

Pete Seeger said that, and those Baptist hymnal editors placed that comment under the heading “Changing the World.” Hymns might be able to help; faith certainly does. Thus, the editors add: In this sense, it is like the church itself, wrestling to balance its desire to preserve a beloved past, even as it honors Christ’s call to go out to serve the ever-changing world with new songs as well as old. The second quotation I liked in that hymnal comes from Zoltan Kodaly:

“It is not worth singing for ourselves; it is nicer if two people sing together. Then more people: hundreds, thousands, until the huge harmony can be heard in which we all just can be one, indeed.”

Found in the Hymnal of Freemason Street Baptist Church

Being one as we sing is a joyful challenge. So many wonderful voices mixed with folks who can’t carry a tune in a tuna casserole dish. But we have a faith well worth proclaiming in song and assorted joyful noises.

More on this tomorrow…

 

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 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 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 24

{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.

Excavated directly into solid rock, Helsinki’s Temppeliaukio church is commonly called “The Rock Church”

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.

 

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.