Worthy

We were worshipping. Or trying to. From our seats in the balcony of our church back home, I could just make out a tiny triangle of simple stained glass that let in light from the apex of the sanctuary's ceiling. I trained my eyes on it as I sang. Something intrinsic in my soul was flitting around like a sparrow trying to find an appropriate place to land. The sanctuary was painted in drab grays and blues, carpeted with another dull hue...void of much color or light or adornment, save for the American flag in the corner and the arrangements of artificial unpleasant-green leafy plants lining the "stage" where the worship leaders flashed smiles and clapped out of sync with each other as they led us through another vapid song. 

What I am not trying to express is unthankfulness for our worship space, or for the time and financial efforts the congregation poured into building it. I am thankful that we have building permits for churches here, that we don't live with the threat of our neighbors locking us into the sanctuary and setting the building on fire while we're inside, that we are affluent enough to construct a roof over our heads so that we have the opportunity to foster fellowship and community and reach out to our town and beyond without immediate threat of persecution and terror. 

I also realize that God meets with us anywhere and everywhere, whether we're worshipping him from slum, palace, orphanage, monastery, coffee shop, or mountain top. 

There are many places to take off your sandals on holy ground.

But remember that Christmas song Little Drummer Boy?

"Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum

A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum

To lay before the King...

So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum,

When we come..."

God is more than worthy of the finest gifts we can bring Him, the best worship we can give Him. And the best worship spaces.

People in Europe and the Middle East seem to have no problem constructing "contemporary" worship spaces that don't resemble lunch-boxes or warehouses. Americans may not have a modern Da Vinci or Sinan, but that doesn't mean our buildings have to be ugly.

Sometimes, when I've voiced my conviction about this, someone will tell me bluntly that it doesn't matter. God doesn't care.

If God didn't care, I don't think His Creation would be so beautiful. 

Is it a coincidence that the most regal cathedrals mirror the grandeur of ancient forests?

Do you think Heaven is painted in drab grays and blues? That God lines his throne with rubbery shrubbery? 

Did God let the Israelites use second-rate materials in the Tabernacle? 

I don't think so.

In Islam, it is sacrilegious to depict in art Allah, or the Prophet Muhammad, or other images, at the mosque and elsewhere. Shirk, idolatry, is avoided at all costs. When we were abroad, I admired how Muslims often celebrate the beauty of holy places without compromising their ideology. Focus should clearly be on Allah, on prayer. But the Blue Mosque in Istanbul is quilted with cobalt-blue Iznik tiles. Its interior is exquisite. And it inspires worship. 

There was a point in our semester when I felt spiritually weary, especially distant from God. The day had drawn out long and hot in Jerusalem. We'd spent hours walking through thronging crowds and uphill in the unmerciful sunshine.

And then we got to the Garden of Gethsemane, with is old old gnarled olive trees and lovely, well-kempt landscape. Ten minutes previously, a gong from within the Old City had signaled the end of Jesus' three hours on the cross. Christ had died. 

I would write in my journal that evening: "For some reason, as we went into Gethsemane Church, a sadness came over me, like a heavy afternoon that makes you wonder what you should live for and what comes next in life. The church was exquisitely beautiful...pale columns with lovely carved capitals, stained glass windows of blue and purple that filtered in tranquil, dim yet rich light...olive tree motifs of skillfully-worked metal that vined around the door to the sanctuary like a man-made thicket...and on the ceiling, a mosaic of blue, speckled with silvery stars. I was deeply moved by a sense of peace, of calm, of God's unfailing and unconditional love. Christ would resurrect. Looking up at the stars on the ceiling of the church high over my head, I remembered what God had told me once, that all my hopes and dreams and things to be achieved were as numerous as the stars, and that God held all of them in His hand, stretched out like the glittering tapestry of the night sky in His palm."

I remember quite vividly how the beauty of this encouragement and the sheer loveliness of the church moved me to tears. It was a worship space that had drawn me closer to the One whom I worshipped.

Recently a design-savvy, Christian friend expressed to me how discouraging it is to her when most of the Christians she knows sharply criticize and disdain her passion for that which is aesthetically pleasing. 

Christians, we should be the forefront champions of that which is aesthetically pleasing. Not so we can worship beauty for beauty, but so that we can worship Him who makes all things beautiful.

God is the ultimate and indefatigable architect, designer, artist. He knows our sparrow souls, how we search for the sliver of stain glass that elevates our minds to something more magnificent, something more like His kingdom, something more like Him.