How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts.
We seem to collect churches. Drop us somewhere new and interesting on holiday and we head for the spires. You’d think that the kids would complain about this habit of ours, but so far they don’t. At least not too much. And I know – give them a few years. But for now at least, they see popping into churches as a chance for a story. They quickly scan the interior for something interesting – a painting, sculpture, carving, candle-filled chapel, whatever – and then they corner the closest parent (yes, usually me) with demands for a story. I oblige. They are happy. And we get to see the inside of all sorts of churches.
Here are a few from our recent jaunt to the south of France: 
In Carcassone, we found a church that was flamboyant with gargoyles and flying buttresses. The windows were taller and the stained glass rich with blues. There was an old church bell set on the floor inside and Beangirl was delighted to discover that she was precisely the same height.
And I found this lovely and strange image of Madonna and Child – all gold and halos and breastfeeding.
We also visited the Abbey Church in Moissac, which is a pilgrim stop along the way to Santiago de Compostella. Moissac is a solid and decorated kind of place. The walls inside are wonderfully painted and patterned, and, in one corner, I found a sign pointing to a place where the paint looked rubbed away. It wasn’t the result of age; this was the place where visitors touched the paint, checking that it wasn’t tapestry. The outside of the Abbey Church is also decorated and carved and rich with story. I loved this crowd above the doorway – Christ in glory and everyone gathered in close.
The church where I grew up isn’t adorned like this at all. Compared to all this, it is quite stark. More Presbyterian, I suppose. Its art was in the shape and height of its nave and the solid pacing of the pillars. But it does have stained glass – two mesmerising windows. Which are full of their own stories – Madonna and child and Isaiah and St Andrew and all the rest. I’m glad love that I grew up with Sunday mornings full of looking church architecture as part of my own visual vocabulary. I feel at home among old stones.
Which isn’t to vote against new buildings at all. The church where Blue was baptised was built in the 80s, and I love its high windows and surprising, shaped ceiling which arcs above the congregation like the wings of a dove. It’s such a peaceful place of beauty. Perfect for worship.
And then, I also love this amazing church in Rome.
And this spherical church that surprised a backpacking me in Geneva.
I love the difference in churches. The shape of a place can be as individual as the people who gather there. As it should be. These are the places that hold the witness of our gathered faith lives. These quiet places where we sit. These places that resound when we sing.
They are specific. And that is part of their loveliness.
Earlier this month, Becky wrote about the specificity of tomatoes on her blog.
“These heirloom tomatoes are what tomatoes used to be. This is what people used to get when they grew them in the garden. Why did we decide to create one variety and stick with it. What happened to diversity in the food supply? Why would we filter out such great varieties in the name of convenience. It seems as though our society tries to weed out that which is different.”
God creates specificity. In food. In people. And in churches – and in church communities, too, of course. We are made to be specific. It’s in the specifics of beauty that God dwells.
We are not meant to be mass-produced. (If I was Roman Catholic, I’d be making puns here about being mass-produced. You know I would.) There’s deep worth in difference. And that’s part of why comparing can be such a dangerous game. If we are all alike – all churches or tomatoes or people – then flaws run through us all in the same way. We can’t support each other like that. But as gloriously specific creations, my flaws and your strengths correspond. I can be surprised and awakened by you. You might see something new because of me. We might buttress each other.
There might be balance. There might be strength. And we might live as the dwelling place of God.
Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O LORD of hosts,
my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house,
ever singing your praise!
Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.
Psalm 84:3-5
