Cathedrals in Europe are a place apart. Thick stone walls deflect the noise of the city. The stained glass windows turn the daylight into liquid dancing jewels. Even the visiting tourists are affected. They talk, but a little more quietly. They ramble through, but rarely run. Outside are the statues of saints and apostles. They were created as reminders of lives and deaths of the faithful. The path to God was one of thorns, blood, and triumph. Cathedrals were built to be a refuge -- a shelter from dangers, with doors massive enough to withstand a wild crowd, an army, the barbarians. If the city were under siege, even the livestock could be brought in.
We build differently now; we build worship spaces open to the world, not protected against it. Since 9/11 safety has become a relative term. We wish for it, long for it, and we are the ones who must help make it real.
This week may have been horrendous, you may be reeling from a deep, deep hurt, or you may be feeling that you are being ruled by your lists. This place, our Sunday hour together, is a respite from all that -- a place to de-stress from our lives, where the world cannot get to you. This hour may be your only chance to let it all go and just sit with yourself. If you use the words and music of this hour as a sheltering cloak for your soul, you won’t insult or offend anyone. This is the hour when, in good conscience, we can step out from under the responsibilities of our lives, we can for a while lay the burdens down and just be. Though it is fragile, this safety is real. It is a gift we give each other.
When I was a kid afraid of the dark, I heard a quiet fear in Genesis when I heard: “The earth was without form, and void: and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.” Being reasonable, the first thing God did was turn on the light, which only revealed what was not there. I imagined that it was loneliness that sparked creation. That it was a discomfort with the emptiness, a longing for what was missing that moved God to make the world, that drove God to make things live. Though my faith does not depend on the God of the bible, I haven’t moved far from this childhood truth. The religious impulse is our response to the void. There is a longing, a loneliness, nibbling at the soul. It drives us to become what is missing.
There is no safe place on the earth anymore. There are no walls and doors thick enough to hold back the barbarians we fear. There is no place of refuge, yet there must be such a place. We cannot be trapped in “us against them” for all our days. There must be a place that offers a second chance, a new hope. For without the possibility of forgiveness, without the possibility of common ground, of ground made sacred by our presence, we are all doomed.
This is the place we are building each time we gather, and each time we take a stand and live out our faith. It’s not easy to get to, but it is there. Each time we disagree with someone with a deep respect, it is there. Each time we are angry and wounded and do not take a step toward punishment or revenge, the place of refuge grows. Each time we sit with a conflict, neither pretending it doesn’t matter nor making it more dramatic than it is, each time we stand our ground, speak our truth plainly and wait until the response emerges, it grows. When we are frightened and upset and still remember the inherent worth and dignity of every person, even our enemies, we make it real. When we make choices out of respect for the interdependent web of existence of which we are a small but necessary part, we bring it into being.
Maybe all we need to do to start is to take ourselves off line for an hour, to let go of the world and its lists and remember who we are.
Condensed from sermon on Feb 12, 2006