Earlier this week I went up to our local Lutheran camp and retreat center, Mar-Lu Ridge, for a morning of quilt assembling. After we were all done, before I drove home, I went into the chapel. The chapel is an A-frame structure with a wall of glass behind the altar that faces west with a beautiful view of the valley below. It was absolutely silent except for a few birds and squirrels on the roof and a couple of bugs flying around inside. It was good to be there. I left feeling peaceful.
The next afternoon however, was a tough one. I was the first to arrive for an afternoon of prep work on a project, and so, after putting my things down I walked through the open doors into the sanctuary, hands in my pockets so as to not touch anything and stood in the middle of the aisle. No one else was around. Then it hit me how much I missed it all…the rituals, the music, the girls drawing in front of us, the gurgling of the font, wondering if the pastor was going to preach from the pulpit or if the sermon needed to be heard from closer in, watching the trees through the colored glass on windy days, noticing that the acolyte forgot to light some of the candles, the woman praying in her native language, the rhythm of the liturgy, catching sight of the E.T. heads in the corners, communion, the faces around the table. I miss it all terribly. And that afternoon almost felt like a tease…it was all right there, or almost all. So close and yet so far. How much longer!?! I don’t need to be reminded of the reason we are going this route, not worshipping indoors. But as the end of this situation just seems to keep slipping further away, there are moments of just being so weary. And this particular afternoon, standing in an empty sanctuary proved to not bring peace but heaviness. The heaviness lasted the rest of the day and evening, tears sneaking out quietly at times throughout the afternoon and evening.
Aside from my being there for a different reason, the pastor and 2 others came in to record two Sunday worship services. The doors into the sanctuary are mostly glass so I would look up and watch briefly how their work was going as I moved about doing what I needed to do. As our respective tasks were wrapping up in the later afternoon, I caught sight of the sunlight hitting the back wall of the sanctuary. The photo you see above.
I kept coming back to this photo during the evening. And I looked at it again the next morning. There’s a partial rainbow on the brick wall. Many years ago, when our daughter was in K or 1st, I taught the K-1 Sunday School class. For several years prior, I had heard the pastor mention on occasion during Lent how he wished that a rainbow would appear in the sanctuary during Lent, a reminder during this solemn liturgical season of God’s promise. Well needless to say I started imagining great big pieces of fabric hanging from the cupola and beams…but that was going to be too overwhelming however impressive. So instead, I bought 2 rods, yards of quality ribbons in colors spanning the rainbow, and as we covered the story of Noah in Sunday School, the K-1 children made a rainbow by tying the ends of the ribbons in knots on the rods. It was a piece of liturgical art they could offer…and a pleasant surprise for him. To this day it still gets hung on the brick wall behind the altar with the cross between the 2 halves.
At some point shortly after the recording work started on this recent day, something pulled the pastor away for a short while. What, I don’t know, but it allowed for this photo to happen after all the recording was over. Oh, the light would have still shown through the windows had the interruption not happened and the taping had been finished earlier, but the candles and altar would have looked different…dark and bare.
And so here a rainbow appeared on the brick wall behind the altar of my current congregation. The rainbow…a reminder of better days to come, that destruction will not win. And to add to the reminder, the altar was dressed in white for All Saints Day, the second service that was recorded for the first Sunday in November, a reminder that death will not win. In the story of Noah, God sets a bow in the sky as a reminder of his promise that creation will not be destroyed again. And so, 40 days of rain and 40 days for the waters to recede for Noah, 40 years wandering the desert for Moses and Israel; and for us, 40 weeks puts us in mid-December 2020, 40 months at mid-June 2023. Who can know how long. But here the light is sent as a reminder of the rainbow, and the empty tomb, as a reminder of good days to return and of new life for the darkness cannot overcome the light. Amen.
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