An Ode to Old Churches

"South Window Notre Dame" by Adam Wolton

Growing up as a Catholic on the East Coast, I was used to attending Mass in humble but still rather magnificent churches. They had nothing of the grandeur of the cathedrals of Europe. They were smaller for one thing, and they were built only within the last couple centuries. Still, there was fine attention to detail in both the architecture and decoration. Beautiful marble statues were framed in stone niches along the panelled walls. Buttery beeswax candles stood in shining holders. Gold challices and plates adorned the fine, white linen on the altars of these churches, appropriately beautiful vessels in which to hold the Body and Blood of Our Lord. Behind the altar stood the most gorgeously wrought tabernacles, gleaming in gold. The smell of hand-carved pews and the waxy feel of aged varnish greeted me each Sunday, along with the heady aroma of centuries of incense that clung to the very walls and vestments. The high, vaulted ceilings compelled us to look upward, thinking of Heaven, and then my eyes would become mesmerized as sunbeams pierced through the stained glass windows, making me feel rather more like a spirit among worldly things. I knew intimately what St. Paul meant when he spoke of how Heaven would be rather like a veil rolling back, revealing the shadows we took for things in the full luminescence of God's Glory.

Since then, I have spent much time in modern churches. Largely, they are more functional than beautiful. Scratchy carpet, like the kind you'd find in an office building, muffles the click of ladies' heels, and I feel an accute longing to hear clip-clop echo of footsteps on marble floors. Auditorium seating replaces the long, smooth, earthy-smelling pews, partitioning me from my husband and children, and I feel more like a spectator than a participant. A large projection screen flashes the lyrics to worship songs in front of the congregation, and I yearn for the heavy weight and worn-paper smell of a hymnal in my hands, connecting my body viscerally to the cerebral message of the lyrics and the emotions buoyed by the haunting melodies of familiar hymns.

There is nothing wrong with modern churches. Sometimes they are necessary. Money and the convenience of modern building materials such as drywall and carpetting are, of course, a factor in the change from the churches of yesteryear. Besides, the Spirit of God which dwells within us and the Body of Christ which is presented to us on the altar, are more important than vaulted ceilings, the smell of incense, and the sound of heels on a marble floor. (To be honest, many women don't even wear heels to church anymore. You'd be more likely to hear the squeak of sneakers or the patter of flip-flops than the click of heels.) Actually, this desire to recapture the essence of the fact that we the Church are more important than a church building is a compelling argument for the spare, utilitarian aesthetic in many modern churches, particularly Protestant ones.

While I can understand the issue of a tight budget and the temptation and ease of modern conveniences like projection screens and athletic carpet, the desire to strip away the sensual beauty of churches rankles me. I have heard the argument that, if we use a gold chalice, we will begin to worship the gold chalice. Frankly, I find that sort of thinking narrow-minded and silly. If I put candles on my daughter's birthday cake, will I start thinking more about the cake than about her and the sacred moment when she was first laid in my arms? If I put a rug on my living room floor, does it mean I now care more about the carpet than about the bare feet that patter over it day in and day out, wearing it threadbare through the years? No! The birthday candles add whimsy and excitement to my daughter's special day. The rug keeps my family's feet warm and comfortable as we go about living and loving. A golden chalice puts me in mind of how precious the Blood contained there in truly is.

Tradition can be corrupted. One only needs to think a bit about the distortions and perversions of Christmas to know that we can certainly get caught up in "things" when we should be thinking about the people and concepts that those things symbolize. But, to strip it all away, to consign ourselves to stark Christmases without trees or holly or tinsel or presents or turkeys or sweets is to deny our own human nature. We human beings are not meer brains: cerebral beings who only experience God from the neck up. We are vital, we have blood and organs and desires and sensations. We hunger and thirst; we have passions and wants. A smell can transport us to another time and place. A touch can leave us reeling. It is no crime that the smell of incense on Holy Thursday can place me suddenly in a small room in Jerusalem two thousand years ago, even while I gaze on the Body of my Savior in the priest's hands. It is a gift, a gift that reminds me that I am human and that God is God.

Remember all the tedious instructions God gives the Israelites for the construction of the Levites robes, the altars, and the holy vessels? Remember the preciousness of the Ark of the Covenant and how Uriah died from accidentally touching it! Remember the cedars of Lebanon that Solomon commissioned to be floated down the river to the building site of the his Temple. Remember this, and then tell me that God cares nothing for vaulted ceilings and the scent of incense and the sound of a failthful woman's heels on cool marble as she enters the sanctuary for Sunday Mass.

God knows that we are human, and He celebrates it. It steals nothing of His Glory for us to celebrate it, too.