In praise of beauty

I asked myself this question many times during a recent trip to England as I walked in reverent and awed silence through churches and cathedrals that soared to heaven on majestic pillars, crowned with immense vaults of space and light. I reflected on this question as I listened to the shimmering harmonies of evensong floating in the acoustic wonder of ancient stone and glass.

Why are our churches so plain? Their design and construction evoke no wonder. Even the best of them have simple white walls, adequate lighting, comfortable seats, a raised platform, and a functional system of mics and speakers. That's it. They are empty spaces, waiting to be filled with people and programs.

Cathedrals are eloquent witness to the faith of those who built them, even when there is no congregation gathered for worship. Tour groups, driven by the insatiable need for one more picture and the urgency of the next departure of the bus, become silent and reflective in these elegant monuments to faith in God. Our modern fascination with the immediate is stunned into submission by the stories of dedicated construction that often went on for 200 or 400 years. Our confident technological pride is humbled by pillars and arches and domes made of massive stones that seem to float in the sky.

"How did they do it?" we ask.

But we don't have to ask "Why did they do it?" The testimony is in the stones and the windows.

The windows. Majestic windows, row on row. They let in natural light but turn it into supernatural light. On panel after panel of stained glass the legacy of the Bible and the church illuminates the worshipping congregation. Christ on earth and Christ in heaven shine radiantly into every shouted anthem and every whispered prayer. For many centuries, before most people could read and very few had access to a Bible, they learned the life of Jesus by looking around them at the church windows.

Windows and crosses and altars and vestments still tell stories, inspire devotion, and count the seasons of each year of faith.

Our churches are plain. They depend on words alone--the words that we sing, speak and listen to. Yet we recognize that words alone cannot fully express all the dimensions of our faith. So on special occasions, at Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving, we fill our churches with beautiful visual symbols to delight the eye, to lift the spirit, and also to tell the story.

We live in a world of powerful visual images, most of them commercial. We know how evocative and effective those images are. Yet our plain churches are testimony to our continuing suspicion of visual images and our fear that they may distract us from God who is Spirit.

We set apart, affirm and train people to speak and sing to us, and to lead us in prayer and song. We call and commission, ordain and bless those who use words.

But what about those who design, build, paint, sculpt and weave? There is very little evidence in our churches that their imagination and skills are valued. A few churches have a banner or two, a seasonal drama needs costumes, and here and there a pulpit has been built by a master carpenter. By and large, however, the artists among us must use their gifts outside the church.

It is not so everywhere, and the cathedrals are magnificent witnesses. Congregations gather in them to hear and sing the words of God and the words of faith, but their beauty and grandeur are so powerful that the testimony of faith of the builders and artists is eloquently expressed even before a word is spoken or an anthem is sung.

In early June, in the golden light of early evening, there was a concert in the catheral in Wells, in south-west England. The textures and harmonies of the choirs and orchestra wafted like fragrance over the audience. Then we were all invited to join in singing the hymn, "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling".

Just as we stood to sing, a shaft of evening light broke through an upper window and illuminated the figure of Jesus on the cross in one of the extraordinary scissor arches high above us. The light held as we sang our hymn of adoration and commitment. "Jesus You are all compassion, boundless love that makes us whole . . . You we would be always blessing, serve You as Your hosts above, pray and praise You without ceasing, glory in Your perfect love . . . Till we cast our crowns before You, lost in wonder, love and praise." I looked at my wife. She too was looking at Jesus, singing to Him from her heart. She too was weeping.

As we sat down in tears and awe, the light, which had been moving almost imperceptibly across the statue, was gone in an instant. And we, who had sung this hymn many times, realized that we had just sung it as if it were a new creation, a fresh testimony of our commitment, personal expression of our love for Christ.

Our words that evening were transformed by the beauty and the symbols of the cathedral.

James Pankratz

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