In the fall of 2011, I was privileged to lead a group of parishioners from my church on a pilgrimage to a number of Virginia’s colonial churches.  One of our stops was at Grace Episcopal Church in Yorktown, a parish founded in 1697.  While we were there our host told us about their Eucharistic silver that dates from that same period in time.  She informed us that rather than putting their precious silver on display in some glass case—like a museum exhibit, they instead prefer to use it as it originally was intended—for worship every Sunday.  She told us that each time she holds that beautiful, 17^th century chalice in her hands and receives the communion wine, she is so moved by the thought of the people and the history the chalice symbolizes that she wants to turn and look out the windows of the church toward the cemetery, where so many members of the congregation are buried, and just say “thank you.”

Truly, her heartfelt gratitude is so stirring and delightful, yet, at the same time, uncommon.  It illustrates an aspect fundamental to the Christian tradition that we often forget—the abiding presence of the Communion of Saints.

The fact is: you and I are not alone.  We are part of a great continuum of believers that reaches back in time to a point we cannot even imagine and extends infinitely into a future we cannot foresee.  A passage from the Book of Revelation describes it as “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.” [Rev. 7:9]  It is a massive cloud of witnesses—witnesses to the redeeming, life-giving love of God: people seen and unseen, known and unknown, present in this life as well as in the life beyond.  Encircling us in love, enveloping us in prayer, empowering us by their presence, the saints of God support us all the day long, year in and year out, as we struggle to lead meaningful and righteous lives.

Unfortunately, it has fallen out of fashion to believe in the abiding presence of our spiritual kinfolk; a casualty of western, rational thinking.  Yet as Christians, we continue to profess with our mouths to believe that the dead do not simply cease to exist, that there is life after death, and that in the next life, the faithfully-departed do congregate as a communion of saints and actively exist.  But are we just giving lip-service to a quaint, romantic notion leftover from a silly, out-of-date, superstitious period of our history?

I argue that, contrary to what the popular culture would have us believe, we are not ignorant, overly-sentimental or superstitious, but, in fact, are very much enlightened to live with the conviction that these fundamental tenets of the Christian faith are true.  That instead, it is primitive and narrow-minded to believe that life consists solely of what occurs in this material world.  That unless something can be confirmed by scientific analysis, it cannot exist.  That the ego should be the dominant, guiding force in in all our actions and the world should revolve solely around our needs.  These are the marks of the misinformed, the misguided, and the deceived.

In the Gospel of St. Matthew, Jesus teaches an alternative way of engaging the world.  Through wisdom of the Beatitudes, our Lord offers us freedom from a life of self-centeredness and suffocation.  He points us toward a larger purpose.  He helps us to see that you and I can be part of a larger reality that extends beyond the limitations of our ego.  That our lives can be interwoven with the lives of others in an epic endeavor so much larger than ourselves.  That you and I are necessary and vital participants in God’s redemption of all creation.  That by actively engaging life, we will make a real difference in the betterment of this world.  To know this, to believe this inspires great comfort, it is empowering and motivating—a reason, a real purpose for living.  Truly, this is enlightenment, it is good news! [Matt. 5:1-12]

The second key point I want to make regarding the gratitude of our Yorktown host concerns the silver chalice itself.  There is an old saying about Episcopalians, that for us, “matter matters.”  In other words, we believe that God is capable of working through material things to achieve our salvation, which is why we have such high regard for the sacraments of baptism and Holy Eucharist.  This high regard extends to other tangible things as well, such as chalices, Bibles, stained glass windows and even church buildings.  We see these things as concrete, real-life manifestations of God’s love for us, our love for God, our regard for family, friends and neighbors, and our devotion to the Church.

Like the good folks in Yorktown, most Episcopalians are blessed with a rich material inheritance—a fabulous, historic place of worship that proclaims a long-standing and powerful ministry to the communities in which we live.  A beautiful church, built with natural materials, shaped by human hands, and offered to the glory of God.  It makes real the notion of the Communion of Saints.  All around are reminders—names and dates, tablets and plaques, the dead interred in the Columbarium—reminders of our spiritual ancestors who came before us and helped raise these churches up out of the earth.  The ministry of these saints forms the very foundation on which these sacred spaces are built.  Every time we gather for worship, the saints surround us.  Surely, these are places where generations of faithful Christians have come to know God, to experience God’s love and to share that love with others.  The very walls of our churches are saturated with prayer.

A virtuous quality that all saints share is that they do not draw attention to themselves, but instead point and direct all attention toward God.  The same can be said for our places of worship.  They point to something greater, more enduring and gratifying, more valuable, more precious than anything of this earth.

And that is the reason that silver chalice was created in the 17^th century and the same reason our churches were built over the years since then.  They were created by our forebears, the saints who precede us in our common spiritual journey, to help us know God.  In fact, the primary intention of church properties is to provide a myriad of opportunities for all who come to them to bump into God and fall deeper in love.  It is said that sacred space is not so much about space where something is done, as it is about space where Someone is encountered—with, of course, that Someone being God. 

The Communion of Saints are incredibly generous to us.  We receive an inheritance beyond measure.  Words fail to convey the magnitude of how wonderful, how thoughtful, how life-giving their gift of God’s love to us is—all except those used by the docent in Yorktown, which are, “thank you!”

The question is, “Will future generations be able to say the same about us?”

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 “Christianity and sacred space” – this is a concept that is difficult to clearly define so as to embrace the broad diversity of the Christian faith.  Ask an Eastern Orthodox or Roman Catholic and the answer will be very different from that of a Quaker or a Pentecostal.  The primary reason for this is the Christian biblical texts say next to nothing about space and the role it plays in the life of the faith tradition.  Consequently, many Christians would profess there is nothing intrinsically sacred about a particular place or building.  On the other hand, there are a large number of Christians who hold certain spaces to be quite holy and treat them with a great deal of reverence.  So the challenge is – can we find the “common denominator” that bridges this ambivalence and allows the conversation to continue.

I suggest that rather than beginning the discussion by talking about “sacred space” per se, it is more appropriate to begin by talking about “sacred person.”  This is because at its core, “sacred person” is the most significant aspect of Christianity.  And the particular sacred person who draws the majority of attention is Jesus of Nazareth, whom Christians regard as the “Christ,” the Messiah, the Anointed One of God.  For Christians, the person of Jesus is primary and all things “sacred” are defined through him.  The reason for this is that Christians believe that through Jesus the Christ, one is reconciled and reunited with the God of the Judeo-Christian Bible.

To summarize Christianity in 100 words or less, the Biblical tradition teaches that because of disobedience in Paradise – the Garden of Eden, humankind distorted its relationship with God and as a result lives in a dysfunctional state of separation from God.  For Christians, Jesus is the one – because of who he is and what he did – who redeems humankind and restores the fractured relationship it had with God.  As a result, it is important for Christians to know Jesus the Christ and through him come to know God.

Well, the logical question following such a statement is – “how does one come to know God through Jesus the Christ?”  The Christian tradition teaches five ways:

• By reading and engaging Holy Scripture, which is believed to be the Word of God.
• For some Christians, receiving the Sacraments, which include Baptism and Communion and are believed to be the material means of God’s favor for humankind.
• By participating in prayer and worship, which is one’s conscious response to God.
• By joining in a gathered community of believers, because Jesus is attributed to have said in the Gospel of Matthew that “where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them” [Matt. 18:20].
• And also by giving alms and serving those who are less fortunate, because the Christian biblical texts teach that in serving these folks, one also serves the Christ.

So, in order to accommodate and facilitate these spiritual practices, and by extension encourage the Divine experience, Christians found it necessary to design and build places of worship.  As a result, Christians have come to equate sacred space to places where they have experienced communion with God.

For example, an elderly gentleman once told me of a profound spiritual experience he had back in the 1940s in the days following the Second World War.  While in France, he had the opportunity to visit and worship in Chartres Cathedral.  When he entered the nave, he said he was brought to tears by the quality of light as it poured through the stained glass windows and filled the space.  He said he felt as though the light was entering his body and passing completely through, purifying him of his past failures, illuminating his mind and warming his soul.  Never in his life had he had such a profound experience of God, nor since. And since that time, whenever he is confronted by pain and suffering, he remembers the light of Chartres and an incredible sense of peace returns, allowing him to regain hope and continue with life.

Throughout the centuries, as Christians built places of worship, the shape they gave to their worship space was influenced by their notions of God.  Historically, the expression of two Divine characteristics exerted considerable influence on Christian architecture in all its diversity.  These two characteristics are – that Christians believe God to be both transcendent and immanent.

By transcendent, I mean the God who is responsible for all creation, who existed prior to and is distinct and apart from creation and therefore not constrained by its physicality.  This God transcends the grasp of human intelligence and is ineffable.  Its essence is purity and perfection.  Yet despite such magnificence, the transcendent God calls creation to itself and Christians believe calls them to become different people, transformed people.  That life is to be a journey, represented by stages of spiritual growth, where death is not the conclusion, but a point of transfiguration, when one transcends this material world and is reunited with the Godhead in heavenly bliss for eternity.  This is the God of Salvation and one to be pursued.

By immanent, I mean the God who is present in creation and active in human history.  Christians understand the immanent God as one who makes the Divine Self known in the common, imperfect activities of everyday life.  A God who is humble, approachable and unavoidable.  This is the God of the Incarnation, who is available and accessible in the present moment by all who seek to know it better.

Architecturally, these two attributes of God are represented by two geometric forms: the line and the circle.

The line gives shape to and reinforces the experience of a transcendent God.  One end, which is the starting point, represents the beginning of the spiritual journey, when one recognizes that he or she is living in a state of separation from God and then wants to move closer.  This point is symbolized by the exterior entrance or portal one must pass through to enter the worship space.  The other end of the line represents the conclusion, the culmination of the spiritual journey when one is reunited with God and is symbolized by the altar, the place where communion is celebrated.  Along the line, certain elements are strategically placed to represent progressive stages of spiritual growth:

• The baptismal font typically is positioned near the entrance, representing one’s acceptance of the faith and initiation into the community.
• Further along is the ambo or the lectern and pulpit – the place where Holy Scripture is read, prayers are offered, and sermons are given, that represent the deepening of one’s spiritual knowledge and experience as one matures in the faith.

In moving along the line through the worship space, one participates both physically and spiritually in this journey of salvation.  As a result, it is easy to assume the altar is the most sacred place in the entire worship space because it is where communion with God takes place.  Hence, the closer one is to the altar, the greater the degree of sacredness.  And over the centuries, this assumption played itself out in a variety of ways:

• Architectural embellishment
• Hierarchical seating
• Burial placement

The other geometric form, the circle, represents and reinforces the notion of an imminent God.  Rather than manifesting God as an experience one aspires to in the future tense, this form encourages the experience of God that occurs in midst of the gathered community at any given moment.  In other words, the emphasis is less on “doing” and more on “being.”  The focal point of a circle is its center and as a result, the center is the place where all the liturgical action happens.  The altar is positioned here, along with the ambo – the place where Holy Scripture is proclaimed and often the baptismal font.  As a result, the center point becomes the most sacred spot and the community gathers around it in circular fashion, equidistant from the center – representing equality among individuals and unity for the entire congregation.

These two aspects of God, as well as these two building forms, contrast sharply with each other.  Yet in looking at most Christian places of worship built throughout the centuries, one finds attempts to incorporate characteristics of each, but in varying degrees of emphasis.

While many Christians proclaim there is no biblical precedence for defining sacred space, this absence has not prevented some from naming and claiming space as sacred.

Jonathan Z. Smith, a historian of religion, argues “the presence of an indwelling divinity is not something we can ascertain, but the very erection of churches, the development of pilgrimages to the sites, and the reverence with which believers treat the sites have in effect sacralized the churches, imbuing them with sacred meaning.”

In other words, Smith argues that it is humans who declare something sacred, who set an object apart as holy, rather than God.  And this designation is based upon a shared intention, an action and/or perception.

For example: in the medieval Christian church, theologians viewed creation, in its fundamental state, to be “profane,” which is not to be equated with “dirty, impure, or corrupted,” but meaning “an absence of the divine presence, or common and mundane.”  This perception derived from the traditional view of all creation as “fallen,” existing in a state of separation from God.  As a result, part of the work of the church was to sanctify the landscape, “to claim it for Christ,” to make the profane world sacred by invoking the Spirit of God to inhabit and consecrate particular areas of it.  And by this joint venture with the Divine, the earth gradually would be transformed into a heavenly place.  Christians saw themselves as partners with God, assisting God in the completion and sanctification of the world of creation.

This notion helps explain the purpose behind such objects as high crosses on the landscape and walls around the perimeter of cathedral closes, church yards and cemeteries which define the boundaries of sacred precincts and holy ground.  These are clear demarcations of what is sacred from what is profane.

This notion also helps explain the tradition of cathedrals and churches as being places of sanctuary and safety, where freedom exists from aggression, violence and evil, apart from the world of the wicked.  Think of the image of the accused criminal, fleeing persecution, running to the door of the church, grabbing the handle and claiming sanctuary and protection.  Such a place is where the community believed God had jurisdiction above and beyond that of mere mortals.

These medieval distinctions of sacred and profane provided clear and powerful clarifications to the landscape and lives of Europeans whose world was strongly shaped by the Christian church.

But as the Protestant Reformation burst upon the church and challenged many practices of medieval Christianity, notions of what constituted sacred space were broken down, scrutinized, clarified, revised or discarded.  The hierarchical structure of the church was transformed by many communities into a more egalitarian one, so no longer is sacred space the privileged domain of a select few, but accessible to all.

An example: in the sacramental Christian traditions, such as the Anglican Church (of which I am a member), the Roman Catholic, Lutheran, Orthodox, to name a few – the area between the communion rail and the altar traditionally is called the “sanctuary” – the holiest part of a sacred space.  In the more Protestant traditions, the “sanctuary” refers to the entire worship space, including the area where the congregation sits.  For these folks, all of the church is equally holy.

Shifting perceptions of sacred space continue in Christianity, so that today, with heightened awareness of environmental sensibilities and a deepening respect for the natural world, the Christian church gradually is embracing the notion that all of creation is sacred and should be treated as such.

Architecturally, churches are being built that instead of turning the congregations’ attention away from the outside world and focusing inwardly; they now open themselves up to the outside world and invite the beauty of creation to assist in shaping its worship.

Michael Mayne, the former Dean of Westminster Abbey, once wrote, “The sacred has been defined as that to which we have access but which is not at our disposal.”  Perhaps, this statement helps explain the rich architectural heritage of the Christian church and its continuing search for sacred space.

 

Image – “Church of the Minorities II” by Lyonel Feininger, 1926

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During my first year at the School of Theology in Sewanee, I participated in a contemplative retreat at St. Mary’s Sewanee Retreat Center, just off Sherwood Road.  While walking the grounds in silence, I stumbled upon the cemetery of the Sisters of St. Mary’s Convent for the first time.  Here, set in the midst of the Mountain’s majestic forested canopy, was this little “jewel box” fashioned by human hands inspired by the Spirit of God.

The cemetery is a formal square of sacred ground bounded on each side by a low wall built of sandstone quarried from the surrounding mountain.  The plot is oriented with respect to the four cardinal directions of the compass, so each grave is positioned to face east allowing its inhabitant to greet the rising sun on the morning of the Second Coming of our Lord.  In the meantime, the rows of simple markers for each interred Sister are presided over by a handsomely-sculpted figure of the crucified Christ, raised in glory within a stone niche centered on the western wall.  Opposite the Crucifix and centered on the eastern wall is the lychgate.  Built of heavy-timbers in the form of a gable roof, this gateway grants access to the burial ground, but its low clearance encourages the living who visit to bow in reverence as they enter the precinct of the dead.

Here is a place: intentionally-shaped, exquisitely-fashioned from humble, indigenous materials and devoted to the most primordial act unique to our species and fundamental to our Christian faith – the burial of the dearly departed.  The mere nature of its existence is a sacramental expression of the beauty of the Incarnation in the midst of our fallen world.  It makes manifest the words of Jacob, who said, “Surely, the Lord is in this place and I did not know it.”

When I am fortunate to return to the Mountain, I try to visit the cemetery of the Sisters—not because I am particularly close to anyone buried there—but out of gratitude for what this sacred place awakened in me.  Never before had I felt drawn to name a place where I preferred my earthly remains to be interred.  But from the experience of this holy ground, I now know for me the Mountain is my gateway to heaven.

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