Growing up, every Sunday morning saw me in a big stone church in downtown Ottawa. I was one of the kids in the pale blue choir gowns, my pigtails scruffily bunched up (again), much to my mother’s chagrin. We choir kids sat in the chancel on chairs set up in front of the choir stalls where the senior choir sat. The church was (and is) enormously tall, with a long nave and a centre isle. There are heavy columns, gothic arches, and glorious stained glass windows. As a child, I was certain that the church had always been there, from the very dawn of time. The stone was old and established, immovable.
In truth, that church was built in 1932, at a time when neo-gothic was all the rage, and the two ancient stained glass windows were installed in 1955 and 1977 respectively. But to me, it felt as old as the hills.
From where I sat with the rest of the junior choir, I could watch everything: people in their pews, the senior choir munching cough candies during the scripture readings, the choir director sorting pages behind the organ. But most of all, I liked to watch the light coming in through the windows, shining on the walls and the pillars. The light was always different, always changing with the weather and the seasons, but it also seemed as if it were part of the ageless stones themselves. It was as if the stones breathed light, as if the light was the voice of the church stones. In the background, words were spoken and sung, but the stones and the light were eternal.
We have been visiting churches this week. We are still, more or less, in holiday mode. There are a few details to sort as we begin to establish our new life here in a new city, but there is also lots of time to explore. And there are lots of churches here—and the churches are old and quiet. The city is loud, as can be expected, but when you step through church doors, there is a stillness, a sense of peace, even with preschoolers in tow. Maybe it is the thickness of the stone. Out of the bustle of the crowded city street, it feels a little like dropping down into a well, Alice-like. But not a narrow well; instead, the space is open and airy, light and deep. Your eyes are drawn up into the height of the space, your breathing slows as your head lifts up. The children are quiet (more or less) or they experiment with the kneelers, but that seems a pious activity, and even if they do tumble off, it isn’t far to fall.
And, to look at, there is art. Sometimes stained glass windows, or carvings on the pews or ceilings. Beangirl keeps an eye open for lions and unicorns, and Blue fancies the images of babies. I find that art in church deepens the space. Much like the architecture itself, smaller works of visual art prepare you to wonder. Art prompts contemplation. There are those who might quibble with this and speak about distraction, but I want places of worhip to celebrate beauty as they celebrate truth. God gives us eyes and the capacity of delight. Thanks be to God.
One of the benefits of old churches is that they have had a longer span of time to collect prayer-provoking art. Which isn’t to say that only old art is moving. Some of the most arresting church art is new, perhaps because our eyes are prepared for older lines, and we are surprised by newness. Just as we should be in churches.
Here is our favourite from this week, set outside St Martin in the Fields in Trafalgar Square. You climb up the stairs to the central door, and there in the middle, is a large block of stone. It looks crumbled on one corner, perhaps broken, and the top is a bit rough. You wonder if maybe it has fallen from somewhere, maybe there is restoration going on. But it is in the way. Someone might trip over it. Then you notice the words carved into the side: and lived among us. And you see that there is something lying on the
rough top surface. You step closer, and you see a perfect and perfectly new baby boy. His umbilical cord is still attached, his feet and hands still newborn and curled. Walking around the stone, you slowly read the words: In the beginning was the Word and the Word became flesh and lived among us. Here in the middle of the city. Set in stone for all to see.
