On Sanctity and Stained Glass Windows
My footsteps echoed through the spacious sanctuary as I stepped into the chapel at Duke University after my dad. The stone floor stretched past row upon row of pews toward the front of the church, complete with carved pulpit, table, and plenty of items I didn’t understand. Stained glass windows shone beneath the high, vaulted ceiling, and every inch of stone and wood made it clear that it was meant to be more than merely functional—it was beautiful.
It was the kind of place where it feels wrong to speak above a whisper. I think the high ceiling had something to do with it—your eyes were drawn to it by instinct, and it was hard to look away. It’s what I imagine it would be like to see the sky for the first time. You would be amazed by the huge, open highness of it, and yet it would seem almost oppressive, something so expansive bearing down on you from above.
The chapel was empty minus us and a couple other explorers, and my dad and I sat down in one of the pews at the front.
“Something about this kind of church inspires reverence in a way most nowadays don’t,” my dad said (or something to that effect, anyway).
I agreed, in a whisper, and my voice seemed to echo through the chamber. I had the distinct impression of being somewhere special, somewhere I, as I was, did not belong. And yet, it was not unwelcoming.
In one of the corners near the front, there was a curtained space set up with a computer screen inside, where people could sit down and share their “stories”, whatever that meant. Informational plaques were set up in a few places on the walls.
Why is it, I wonder, that the most worshipful of our worship places are so seldom used for worship? Why do tourists flock to our cathedrals while congregations meet in massive auditoriums and small school gyms, spaces designed without a thought for anything except the number of people they can hold?
Maybe, I thought while sitting in the chapel pew, maybe worship—I mean corporate worship—isn’t supposed to be “welcoming”. Maybe it’s supposed to feel a little scary, a little strange. Maybe it’s supposed to remind us how high above us God is—like a chapel ceiling, or the sky. Maybe that’s holiness.
I think a lot of Christians nowadays are so focused on the fact that Christ was born in a muddy stable and lived as a man like us, that they forget why he came. Yes, to forgive our sins. But why do we need our sins forgiven? So we can be with God. So we can face His holiness. So we, like the burning bush in Exodus, can face his fire and not be consumed.
God meets us where we are, yes, and He came to earth and walked among us. But he came so we could be brought up to Him.
That sounds a bit weird and cult-y actually…we’re not becoming gods, or anything. But He gave us His worthiness because we were unworthy.
Why? Because God is holy.
I think a worship service needs to reflect that.
Because that’s what worship is: praising, admiring, and being amazed by God’s holiness. His majesty. We talk about corporate worship as if it’s supposed to make people feel comfortable. We must make sure newcomers don’t think we’re stuck-up or silly for having any kind of ceremony or liturgy. We need worship music that sounds just like what a modern listener would jam to in their car. We can’t do anything weird, our worship style must be “seeker-sensitive”, and if church feels any different than what people are used to in everyday life, we’re failing as Christians.
And, of course, it must be legalistic to suggest that, say, church architecture is better when it turns the eyes to the majesty of God, when it’s designed with a purpose. Because—and this part is true—God is just as holy in a school gym as an ornate sanctuary, and we are just as close to him in a t-shirt and jeans as in our Sunday best.
But (to address the second of these points first) we’re human beings. Sometimes (Perhaps weekly? Say, every Sunday?) we need something out-of-the-ordinary to remind us that the ordinary, too, is sacred. Like a vacation in the mountains might remind us of the holiness of our suburban neighborhood. Like a stunning sunset—or a sanctuary ceiling—reminds us of the sky.
If a church has to meet in a home, or a school, or a basement with folding chairs spread across the floor, so be it. It doesn’t make their worship any less worthy, and God hears it all the same. A congregation meeting in a massive auditorium and surrounded by spotlights and smoke machines, singing theologically shallow lyrics, is still a group of people worshipping God, and God still receives that worship.
But I wonder if, maybe, it doesn’t benefit our human hearts as much. Maybe it makes it easier to forget that during corporate worship, the congregation is raised up to something they didn’t have before.
Of course, every situation is different. There are many wrong ways to conduct corporate worship, but there are also multiple right ones. Not everyone has the same resources, and high ceilings aren’t a necessity to convey the majesty of God.
But worship—corporate, Sunday morning worship—I think, should ideally take place in the sort of place where you feel like lowering your voice. The kind of place that rings with music when a congregation of ordinary people, made holy by the blood of Christ and the act of corporate worship, sings.
Now, to address the first, related point. Why are we so afraid of scaring new Christians away with our worship—or, even worse, our preaching and ideologies? People don’t convert to Christianity (or visit a church) because they aren’t hungry for anything different.
I would guess that most new converts are, in some way or another, attracted by the idea that there is something sacred in this world, something holy and special that cannot be treated however we like. People might enjoy the emotional high of a smoke-filled auditorium for a year or so, but eventually they hunger for something deep, something to remind them that when they worship, the LORD is present.
(And they want the same thing—probably more so—in terms of theology. People convert to Christianity because they want to be Christian, because something has changed. They don’t want—or need—life as a Christian to look exactly the same as life as a nonbeliever. If they wanted to live like that, to do and believe whatever they chose when they woke up in the morning, they wouldn’t be attracted to Christianity at all.)
That sacred aspect, the majesty of corporate worship, is the desire of many of the Protestants now converting to Catholicism. They—and many other Protestants, especially younger ones—want the feeling of sanctity in their worship, and the connection to a long Church tradition.
And the sad thing: we Protestants have that. We’ve just done our best to sweep it under the rug, forget about it, and start over without the deep wells of tradition, history, liturgy, and, yes, architecture that have filled our churches for centuries. We don’t want to be “old-fashioned”, and we don’t see the purpose of worshipping with any idea of specialness.
I think we’ve lost something.
We’re not supposed to feel comfortable in worship. In fact, maybe we should feel uncomfortable. We’re in the presence of God, after all, and reflecting on His holiness. He accepts us—we shouldn’t feel unwelcomed, and of course, the church community itself should be welcoming and comfortable—but He doesn’t make Himself any less holy to do so.
When the curtain to the Holy of Holies tore at the death of Christ, the holiness didn’t just leak out, dissipate into the atmosphere, and disappear forever. God didn’t become less holy.
We were simply able to approach Him as we were—not because he suddenly decided to settle for something less-than, but because He saw us cloaked in the Holiness of Christ. On our own, we still could not approach Him.
Worship should remind us of that, because that is the only way we can be reminded that Jesus clothes us in His holiness so we can enter the Holy of Holies and admire the majesty of God.
