Cathedral

 

September 28, 2020

 

Greetings from the congregant,

 

When I was a couple years shy of twenty, traveling around the country, I woke up in the middle of the night in a field in Wyoming surrounded by nothing but horizon.  Above me was a sky overflowing with stars, densely packed constellations, whorls and ribbons of living light.  The earth was dark and the sky was alive with creation, with brilliant mystery.

 

It was not the first time or the last that I was treated to such sight, most of us have had some similar experience, but on that night, it came with the indelible, undeniable presence of the Creator.  It was a powerful moment, alive in overwhelming beauty.  Even now, decades later, I feel a shiver, not only of awe, but of synchrony.

 

I have been in churches all my life, in various levels of engagement.  I have been inspired there, been humbled, been bored, found reasons to forgive, and to ask grace.  I have had conversations with God, usually somewhat formal, aligned with whatever was the order of worship.  These are part of my faith life, but what I want to share with you is a separate thing that matters to me.

 

Yesterday I ran in the vestiges of summer, a warm sunny morning that started a little late, but was the same model I have enjoyed these last months.  I zigged my way through town, scattering errant leaves here and there, joining the river on a path into the woods.  Geese laughed overhead, not clear yet on their direction, making wide circles over the forest.

 

I wasn’t thinking about running, that was more instinctual, as was my direction.  It was not a new route, I could find my way without concentrating, and that can open things up for me.

 

I have been in churches of all varieties and faiths, from modest adobe structures or open air sheds, to the most magnificent structures built to honor God.  The Basílica de la Sagrada Família in Barcelona, the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence, Old South Church in Boston, St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans, our own St. Matthews where I grew up.   You don’t have to look them all up, trust me this is an impressive church resume.  The construction of many of these works of art took generations to complete, it was rare that anyone alive for setting the foundation would be there for the dedication.  Nothing I have to say takes anything away from these places, my experiences there, their history, or their purpose.

 

I ran along the river, aware now that some of the trees were already pulling on fall fashion.  Crisp remnants were scattered on the ground, walnuts plopped to the ground in dull thuds.  The trees creaked a melancholy song in the light breeze, as if they were reluctant to see the sun in its new place, now just over the horizon.

 

Frank Lloyd Wright said; “I believe in God, only I spell it ‘nature’.”  There are some in my world who might frown at this, cast pagan aspersions on the sentiment.  Whatever his intent was, I like having the words.  I know that Wright’s work sought to bring man and nature together in harmony, both God’s creations, but too often separated by architecture, and by civilized thinking.

 

I left the river and clambered up a steep hill, carved with roots for steps, and then ran up a dirt path into the woods.  The trees crowded close enough to touch as I wove higher along the bluff, deeper into the forest.  I looked down over the trees that framed the river, deep greens with patches of orange and red.  A heron glided over the water, unaware I was watching from above.

 

 I stopped at a fallen tree and leaned on its bark, felt the sweat run down my skin, my heart hammering in my chest, the air filling my lungs, and felt the world settle around me.  John Burroughs said he went to nature “..to be soothed and healed, and have my senses put in order.”  I could feel that settle on me, far enough into my run to have sweated out the distractions I woke up with.  I turned to go back down the path toward home, and instead was taken to church.

 

I have felt God in peculiar places.  In emergency rooms, on a Greyhound bus, in chance encounters with people, in narrow escapes from fatal moments.  I once took Wonder Bread communion from the back of a tattered pick up truck, standing next to a small cemetery in the middle of South Dakota, and it was one of the most satisfying moments in my faith life.  I have been in a tent, in a mechanic’s bay, in an abandoned shed, and regardless of what the place was meant for, it contained the Creator.

 

And so it was yesterday.  I saw a shaft of sunlight piercing the trees, lighting the narrow path in another direction.  I turned that way and ran under the canopy of the forest, dodging roots and rocks.   A deer trotted with me in the shadows.  The sun turned the trees into a cathedral, brilliant stars of light between the green places, lighting up the autumn colors, deep orange and burgundy and yellow, stained glass among the maples and oaks.  Brilliant columns of sunlight stood among the trees, changing the earth and wood and leaves into a sanctuary, an adytum, a tabernacle, a place of peace where God is present. 

 

In any ordinary moment there can be a miracle.  It happens to us when we are not paying attention, these holy exchanges between people or among any of creation.  In those places God exists, and whatever your beliefs, doctrines, whatever your religion, you can connect with the Creator and feel what you were intended for.

 

I ran back out of the woods, along the river again until I came to a small brook, giggling among rocks and then joining its bigger sibling.  I went to the edge and stood on flat rocks and leaned over and dipped my hands in the cool water, felt the stones in the earth, felt the eternal flow of the brook becoming part of something else.  Leaves passed by, and I wished them well on their journey.  I had no intent, only to feel what was there, a sacrament of sorts, and it was the most natural thing that could happen.

 

Sometime in the decades of exploring I have learned that my closest experiences with God have been in moments like these.  Not in complex architecture, not under soaring painted ceilings or among friezes and dour icons, or among marble and carved Latin.  I respect those places, and I will always include them in my life.  But somehow in nature, where there is less, it is more.

 

No matter your faith, or where you usually go when you worship, it has probably been disrupted by the way of our world right now.  Most of you already know but let me serve as a reminder.  The world and all that is in it, including churches and forests, have in them elements of the Creator.  All we need to do is to take the moment needed to see it, and in whatever way is your way, to connect with it.  To think, to give thanks, to pray, to ask, to grieve, to find peace.

 

 

Hope this finds you finding your way,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2020 David Smith