Building For The Future
It was a cool and windy March morning. We had spent the night in Penzance, and were
now driving back up the Cornish peninsula, searching the guidebooks and the landscape
for signs of pre-Christian sacred sites. Already we had visited Stonehenge, Avebury, the West Kennet Long barrow, and Silbury Hill. We had tramped the fields and the
moor to visit the Men-An-Tol and various dolmens and standing stones. We had been
astounded by the size and complexity of these famous relics, mute witnesses to a
vital and vibrant religious system which had endured for centuries, even millennia. Now, our
trip drawing to a close, we were seeking for one more relic of by-gone days.
Consulting the guide book, Beverly commented that the monument we were looking for
should be right here, so I pulled the car onto the side of the road and we got out.
There had been light rain or heavy dew over night, leaving the grass wet and the
trees dark against a gray and overcast sky. The wind blew in from the ocean, sighing through
the trees. We stood for a long moment, scanning the horizon, searching for some
indication of how to move or which way to go. Then I saw it: at the top of a small
rise of ground stood a circle of low stones silhouetted against the horizon. There was
nothing and no one else around. The circle of stones stood in splendid isolation.
Except for the keening of the wind, nothing--not even a bird call--broke the silence.
Slowly we made our way through the wet grass up the small rise to the stones. As
we neared, it was clear that these stones were quite small compared to the massive
giants we had seen at Avebury and the circle itself was modest in circumference.
But unlike many of the stone circles we had seen, this one appeared to be complete. And the
solitary setting, the dark stones against a gray sky, the wind moaning through the
trees, all seemed to lend a solemnity to this place which was unlike any other we
had encountered. Though a monument to time long gone and a religious vision long submerged
under layers of hostile western theology, something seemed to have survived here,
in this lonely place.
I felt a sudden urge, almost a compulsion to walk into that space defined by the the
circle of silent stones. Quietly I moved toward the center of the circle and as
I neared it I noticed something lying on the ground. Moving closer, I was able to
make out the offering which had been left in that isolated place. Someone had carefully
woven a garland of spring wild flowers. And with equal care had placed it in the
precise center of the circle. Nor had it been there very long. The flowers were
fresh and bright. For someone this ancient monument was still a sacred place.
As I stood there, a shiver ran up my spine. There was a numinous quality to this
silent circle of weathered stones, here on a small ridge in Cornwall, a sense of
the holy as great as, perhaps greater than that captured by the soaring and vaulted
interiors of the Cathedrals at Wells or Exeter. And there, in the center was the evidence
that faith does not die and that the places built to house or to express a religious
response to the world retain the power to evoke that response, despite time and death
and the space between the stars. Whoever built that stone circle did so out of an immediate
and pressing need. Whoever built that stone circle, unwittingly, built for ages
long past imagining.
* * * *
Over the years we have been privileged to visit many temples, churches, sanctuaries.
Not all are still in use; some have represented what we currently recognize as religious;
most, just the same, have offered some perception of the sense of the holy, the values held by those who chose and designed and built those sites.
Some years before our trip to England, when our kids were young, we took a weekend
excursion about this time of the year down the spine of the Blue Ridge mountains
in Virginia, stopping to marvel at the Natural Bridge. We were there early enough
in the season and early enough in the day so that there were few other tourists swarming over
the area, chatting away, slurping and burping, having a field day at an "educational"
site, apparently oblivious to the wonder of that arch that once centered a community of earlier Americans in their shared valuing of the earth and its spectacular wonders.
(Since today is the birthday of Thomas Jefferson, we need to note here that he once
bought it, built a small cabin nearby and gloried in taking his visitors at Montecello to explore and experience it.) Despite its reputation as a tourist attraction.
It was, it still is holy ground.
A few years later, we set out one summer vacation to visit many of the so-called Indian
mounds in West Virginia and Ohio. Our kids, a little older now and fully conditioned
to the ho-hum marvels of 20th century technology and fast food, quickly decided that if you've seen one mound, you've seen them all. The wonder of the intention,
the technology, the cooperation and the endurance behind the earth works which prehistoric
Americans left on elevated places above rivers was lost on them that summer. I only hope one day they will remember and know that there they, too, stood on holy ground.
When we went south into Ohio where the terrain begins to roll toward the Ohio River,
we found our way on a little-traveled road into the woodlands saved from farming
by an apparently little-visited park. The focus of the park was the Great Serpent
Mound, a breathtaking prehistoric earthwork the full extent of which we could see only from
the high platform built for that purpose by the park authority. More complicated,
more interesting, and certainly more available than the circle of mounds we had visted a day or so before--those mounds now form part of a golf course, the human-built
serpentine mound of earth ended on one of its ends as a head with what looked to
be an egg in its mouth. There we were in a light summer drizzle looking down at
the old, old worldwide symbols of birth and death built out of the native earth on an elevated
site above a river. Here, too, we stood on holy ground.
* * * *
As I have thought about those mute stones standing in Cornwall, and the sense of connection
they evoked in me--a bridge between me and ancestors so distant I cannot trace the
connection; a bridge between me and this world which is my mother and my home--I
have found myself wondering what it is that makes a place sacred. It isn't just age
or mystery or grandeur. It is some other quality. I found myself thinking of my
earliest religious home, the church I remember from my earliest childhood. It certainly
was not a venerable structure, nor was it particularly beautiful or inherently mysterious.
My first religious home was located in a large storefront on Jonathan Street in
Hagerstown, Maryland. Across the large plate glass windows were wooden Venetian
blinds. At the far end of room was a stage draped with red velvet, and decorated with
an American Flag and the blood-red flag of the Salvation Army. On the stage stood
a single pulpit, one or two large chairs, and an old up-right piano. Sometimes there
were chairs for members of the corps' band.
The congregation sat on wooden folding chairs which had slatted bottoms and backs.
As one shifted one's weight on the chair, if one were not careful, it was not uncommon
to be pinched by the wooden slats of the seat. The chairs were too tall for children and I still remember sitting through long services, my legs dangling and swinging
from the chair. (Perhaps it was at this early age that I began my epic search for
a really comfortable church chair.) Certainly, there was nothing about this place
which was beautiful or breath-taking. Nor was there anything which promised endurance.
The space could have been reconverted to commercial use in less than a week.
And yet, it was sacred space. Something happened there that did not happen elsewhere;
something was incarnated there that could not be encountered just anywhere. Part
of it, of course, was the fervor, the excitement, the passion with which faith was
expressed. I can still, in my mind's eye, see the faces of women and men whose names
now escape me, weeping with grief and with joy in the midst of that place as they
shared their pain and their vast hope and expectation that under the eye of eternity
there was some larger meaning to the suffering and the disappointment which comprised such
a large part of life as they knew it. But it was more than this. The place was
sacred because we treated it as sacred space, in small ways as well as large. The
room was always scrupulously clean. There was no clutter hidden behind the red velvet drapes
on the stage. There was no dust on the floors. The windows behind the slatted blinds
were always sparkling clean. The chairs, uncomfortable, ugly, folding chairs were
always carefully arranged in neat rows with never a chair out of place. Hymnbooks
were placed precisely on every-other seat. The place was plain, simple, with an
inescapable air of poverty and of the temporary about it, but always it looked as
though someone loved it. It was made holy by what happened in that place and by an unspoken
conspiracy to treat it as if it were sacred space.
In the years which have passed, I have had occasion to worship, visit, conduct services
in a variety of different settings--in gothic churches, in rural chapels, in converted
living rooms, in New England meeting houses, in structures designed and built by the congregation. Some of them have been clearly sacred spaces, giving voice to
the faith, the commitment, the passion of the men and women who make it their religious
home. Others have served as witness to the failure of faith, to a kind of depression
of the spirit, to resignation and defeat. As I have attempted to understand the difference
between the two I am increasingly convinced that what makes a place sacred, what
invites the holy into a place is the determination, the will of the people who constitute the religious community. A vital and dynamic religious community treats its
space with a kind of respect and concern which is obvious to even the most casual
eye. It does not succumb to an edifice complex, but it understands that the physical
space is the context in which the religious vision is called forth, and that a vital church
will look as though someone loves it.
* * * *
We spoke last week of the first Universalist Church in Blanchester, Ohio, where we
first encountered this liberal religious movement forty years ago. David described
some of the focal points of the sanctuary, but he didn't mention a colleague's response
as he first entered the building-- "It would hold a lot of hay!" he exclaimed.
Nor did David mention the general grime of the ages which rounded the edges, nor
the pigeon guano heaped on the floor of the bell tower. Now and then I remember
of the biblical story about finding the Book of the Law in the Jerusalem temple while it was being
cleaned and repaired during the reign of King Josiah. In Blanchester and in some
other churches I have seen, I have often mused about the potential blessings that
might be discovered should a similar cleaning and repairs project be undertaken.
It is archaeology when we slice into ancient mounds and long barrows looking for artifacts
left by people long gone. But it is building for the future when a living congregation
seeks to renew and beautify its communal space so that it speaks to its children and its newcomers of the faith it bears and develops and expands.
* * * *
I sometimes think that the Unitarian Church in Summit suffers from a spiritual bipolar
disorder. We love this building. We want it to be maintained and kept well. We
argue over whether the ambience of these old chairs justifies the discomfort they
cause us. We have laughed together and we have wept together, we have argued together
and we have sung together in this space. Here we have celebrated marriages and welcomed
new life and confronted death. This is sacred space to us and most of us respond
in some inarticulate way to the physical setting which is this church and share a determination
to care for it. At the same time, we prefer not to think too much about the ugly,
dilapidated, inadequate space in which we house our program of religious education. For the most part, we seem to have decided that we can never make a silk purse
out of that sow's ear; that it will never match the power of this place and so we
put it out of our minds. I, however, find that knowing the conditions under which
our children meet, week after week, hangs like a shadow across this sacred space.
It can be no secret to anyone, I hope, that in the next few weeks we, as a congregation,
will be asked to decide what we shall do about that space we own on the corner of
Summit and Whitredge, that space where we educate our children, offer classes for
adults, and socialize with one another. For longer than I have been your minister we
have been trying to decide the future of that property and for the last six years
we have been wrestling with the city of Summit to obtain permission to make that
space, in its own way, a reflection of our religious community of which we can be justly proud.
Now, the town has accepted our plan--one developed after long discussion and debate
within the congregation. It is up to us to decide whether we have the will, the
determination, the resources to create up the street a facility which, like this one,
but in its own way, will reflect the optimism, the convictions, the hope which are
central to Unitarian Universalism.
As we enter this process, I would have you remember that we do not have the option
of creating a perfect reflection of our faith. That circle on the Cornish hillside
was not a perfect circle. That storefront church was not a perfect meeting place.
If you have have sat behind a pillar or tried to find a restroom in this building, you
know this is not a perfect building. Perfection is not an option and it is not our
goal. The goal in each of those examples, and the goal we should pursue is not perfection, but excellence--learning from all of our experiences, honoring our history, embracing
our limitations and then doing the very best we can with the opportunity and the
resources we have been given. I do not know what your decision will be, but I dream
of a time when our names are but vague memories, a time when a new generation will walk
in the space we have created and say, as I said of those who built that circle, as
we say of those who built this church, "They reached for excellence and they built
better than they knew."
The sermon in a Unitarian Universalist setting is never the last word
on any subject, but rather an invitation to further dialog.
You may want to read other visitors'
comments on David and Beverly Bumbaugh's "Building for the Future"
.
If you wish to add your own comments on this sermon, please
enter your name, e-mail address, city, state or province, country, and
of course your comments into the following form:
Send questions or comments about this form to
Bill Griffeth
Return to home page