Change
Don’t grouse. Change is inevitable. Find the positive— explore the differences. First, I need to identify holy space. What do I mean when I use the phrase? I’ll start with what I don’t mean.
I do not anticipate thunder and lightning, nor do I envision divine intervention or the angels joining the choir. Nor do I believe that every time I enter or visit a particular place I will be drawn into a holy space.
I am not seeking some sort of high— a spiritual nirvana.
In fact if I scout my memory for those moments that I felt that indeed this is a holy place or a holy space —they are almost all outside. The first was an Easter Sunrise Service at Harper’s Ferry where a group of women sang Amazing Grace with only the breeze as accompaniment. Then after a hike up Old Rag Mountain in Virginia four friends rested on the top and read psalms.
When we were at the Grand Canyon, a National Parks ministry group held an outdoor service at the rim of the canyon. I only passed by the group , but felt the spirit of the moment. And there were times when I felt the presence of the holy in the scenery of the Southwest.
While I worship in a building, sing hymns, take communion, listen to a sermon— what I experienced outside was different. it was palpable.
To wend my way back to the beginning. Today the sanctuary of church was different— the pews were gone, the lights were ratcheted up, and everyone was on the same horizontal level. Perhaps there is a raised platform on order?
Change was the itch that hung around. I’m short and I couldn’t see over or around the folks in front. The lights no longer had that soft enveloping feeling. And by removing some elements of the room the acoustics were different. I found it difficult to hear folks on the other side of the sanctuary.
The people were the same, but—for me— it all felt different. Probably folks who were used to gargoyles felt the same way when churches changed their architecture— probably most of those folks were gone by then so the didn’t have to deal with gargoyless churches.
Now I can see the gray roots, the wrinkles around someone’s eyes. Now I will just add to the words I don’t hear and wonder why people mutter.
Yet, I’m certain that with time I will adjust. Fortunately the bulbs have not been amped up in the parlor. So on days that I think that too much has been altered I can go into the parlor, take a book off the shelf and read something holy.
I’ll adjust and maybe someday I will no longer remember the period of discomfort. And when I want to commune with the holy I can go outside and find a pond or lake or ocean. Or I can examine a leaf or draw a tree or sit on a rock and watch the waves repeat their dance.
I do not anticipate thunder and lightning, nor do I envision divine intervention or the angels joining the choir. Nor do I believe that every time I enter or visit a particular place I will be drawn into a holy space.
I am not seeking some sort of high— a spiritual nirvana.
In fact if I scout my memory for those moments that I felt that indeed this is a holy place or a holy space —they are almost all outside. The first was an Easter Sunrise Service at Harper’s Ferry where a group of women sang Amazing Grace with only the breeze as accompaniment. Then after a hike up Old Rag Mountain in Virginia four friends rested on the top and read psalms.
When we were at the Grand Canyon, a National Parks ministry group held an outdoor service at the rim of the canyon. I only passed by the group , but felt the spirit of the moment. And there were times when I felt the presence of the holy in the scenery of the Southwest.
While I worship in a building, sing hymns, take communion, listen to a sermon— what I experienced outside was different. it was palpable.
To wend my way back to the beginning. Today the sanctuary of church was different— the pews were gone, the lights were ratcheted up, and everyone was on the same horizontal level. Perhaps there is a raised platform on order?
Change was the itch that hung around. I’m short and I couldn’t see over or around the folks in front. The lights no longer had that soft enveloping feeling. And by removing some elements of the room the acoustics were different. I found it difficult to hear folks on the other side of the sanctuary.
The people were the same, but—for me— it all felt different. Probably folks who were used to gargoyles felt the same way when churches changed their architecture— probably most of those folks were gone by then so the didn’t have to deal with gargoyless churches.
Now I can see the gray roots, the wrinkles around someone’s eyes. Now I will just add to the words I don’t hear and wonder why people mutter.
Yet, I’m certain that with time I will adjust. Fortunately the bulbs have not been amped up in the parlor. So on days that I think that too much has been altered I can go into the parlor, take a book off the shelf and read something holy.
I’ll adjust and maybe someday I will no longer remember the period of discomfort. And when I want to commune with the holy I can go outside and find a pond or lake or ocean. Or I can examine a leaf or draw a tree or sit on a rock and watch the waves repeat their dance.
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