Other Churches, Cathedrals

I knew when I came to DC two weeks ago that I wanted to visit the Washington National Cathedral and maybe one other Episcopal church, much like my walk down the Mall, past the White House and to the theater where Lincoln was shot (it was closed). My company’s headquarters are here, so while I’ve gone out to some nice dinners and shopped at the famous Politics and Prose bookstore on Connecticut Avenue, most of the time I’ve been as usual strapped to my computer.

It was not until yesterday afternoon, in fact, that I finally made it to the National Cathedral. (Last Sunday, I had tried to go to St. Margaret’s, a small 1894 church on Connecticut Avenue that I passed on the way to my office every day. But there was no parking, none.) Anyway, I was at the National Cathedral several years ago for a wedding. It is imposing, the second largest church in the United States, the seat of our Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori. Construction started in 1907 and ended in 1990. It is massive. It is impressive. It is overwhelming. And not particularly intimate, given that basic nature. The center west entrance sculpture, I thought was oddly a depiction of hell, not a big theme in the Episcopal Church. I was wrong. It is actually eight men and women struggling “out of nothingness”, the title of the work, which is meant to show God’s creation of humankind.

I’m no critic. But this isn’t a place where the saints are depicted as jolly loving carriers of God’s Word. They are serious, mournful even.

So when I found the (relatively) small building behind the cathedral, which turned out to be the College of Preachers, stone, slate roof. I followed a winding path, my shoulder brushing against very old boxwood bushes, healthy lavender, fig trees, flowers like tiny blue porcelain buttons with rubies set in the center, yellow flowers hydrangeas of every type—beyond the white oak leaf variety or the balls of blue. Dinosaur ferns. There were azaleas and I don’t know what else. Of course, I thought of our Peachy and our gardens and woods. I wondered who the Cathedral’s “Peachy” was and imagined our Peachy in deep garden conversation with that unknown person. And that was my trip.

Then this morning, I decided to make another attempt at St. Margaret’s. On the website I read one thing I already knew—parking is almost impossible. But I learned another thing that I did not know—you can park at the Washington Hilton across the street and walk over. And as I was walking through the cement mausoleum that is the muggy parking garage of that hotel, I felt a little bitter. It seemed to me an awful lot of trouble to visit a church. Seems like (despite being built in 1894) they should have a parking lot where your feet don’t have blisters by the time you get to the red door.

I will say, I enjoyed the service. It was casual though the church was old, traditional, with beautiful stained glass windows, a loving Christ in the one over the altar. I easily fell into the service but sat in my pew quietly before communion as a pre-communion healing service was conducted. I watched as each person asking for healing spoke to the priest, telling the issue and then hands were laid and prayers and blessings said. Being Pentecost Sunday, the color was red but I saw most people simply wearing light colors, loose cotton clothing to combat the terrible heat. I listened about the people in the Bible who spoke all the different languages but they were speaking in tongues through the Holy Ghost. The barriers were taken down. They saw they were alike. They understood one another.

During Peace, the woman in front of me, I think from some African nation, turned around and without hesitation hugged me. Peace. An older lesbian couple two pews back, reached way over to take my hand. Peace. And a quite elderly white couple with snowy white hair, the husband and wife each smiled and passed peace my way. There were children in shorts and a baby crying in back. And I thought, this was certainly a lot of trouble to get here. And worth every bit.

That said, I can’t wait to be home. And I’m hoping that the visitors to St. Dunstan’s this summer find that after they’ve gotten lost a Sunday or two but persisted to find us and joined us for worship, we leave them feeling exactly the same—part of one body.

Farm Mobile at St. Dunstan's This Wednesday

On Wed., June 15, Farm Mobile will be making its first visit to St. Dunstan’s, 4393 Garmon Road, from 12 noon until 2 pm. Let’s turn out to support this, and hopefully this will become a regular visit.

Farm Mobile is a mobile farmers market on wheels operated by Riverview Farms (www.grassfedcow.com). Inside, shoppers choose from shelves stocked with organic locally grown produce, free-range eggs, breads from H&F Bread Co., our own grits, polenta, and cornmeal, and sustainably raised meats. Other regular items on board include cheese from local food artisans like Sequatchie Cove Farm, and jams from Emily G's. Farm Mobile has everything you need for an all-local dinner!

Farm Mobile sells unprepared foods; meats are frozen inside of the chest freezer on board. Farm Mobile's freezer includes grassfed beef and Berkshire pork, all from Riverview Farms. Riverview is renown in Atlanta for their delicious meats, on the menu in many of the best restaurants in the city.

Their schedule changes every week. Subscribe to their emails, follow them on Twitter, or "like" their Facebook page for updates on their schedule and to find out what's on board. Check out their website to see how popular they are at the other sites they visit: http://www.grassfedcow.com/farmmobile.html

“Bayete, bayete ‘nkosi / Bayete, bayete ‘nkosi / Bayete, king of kings”

by Bob Longino

It’s not often that I’ve sung in Zulu in church. Frankly, never until now. Since arriving in South Africa just a couple of short weeks ago for a four-month work stint for Habitat for Humanity International, I’ve sung in church in Zulu and Afrikaans, recited from the Lord’s Prayer in the King’s English and already have found myself, especially when speaking in unison with the Pretoria congregation, altering the American hard “a” pronunciation of words like “death” and “breath” to sound a lot more like “beneath.”

The Zulu words “bayete ‘nkosi” translate, in effect, to “exalted king.” And the English lyrics sung later in the song include “You are crowned king of Africa / You are crowned Lord of all / You are crowned king of Africa / Who can deny you are crowned Lord of all.”

Pretty simple, straightforward, orderly stuff. But just about everything about St. Wilfrid’s Anglican Church, part of the liberal Anglican Church of Southern Africa and the church I have visited twice since arriving in Pretoria, is simple, straightforward and orderly.

Like at St. Dunstan’s in Atlanta, there’s not much muss and certainly very little fuss.

St. Wilfrid’s, built in 1925, is a tall, but small church, tucked among apartment and office buildings in an area swallowed by the University of Pretoria campus. The sanctuary is far from ornate. There’s only about a half dozen of small, stained glass windows and the altar is situated under a high dome comprised of rising walls of stark white that offset the brown tones of the altar, the credence table and a large mounted cross.

While there are many similarities between St. Dunstan’s and St. Wilfrid’s, there are marked differences. Two of the most notable involve the rectors’ approaches to their sermons and the treatment of the two churches’ main Sunday service.

At St. Dunstan’s, our rector Patricia Templeton, a superb, insightful writer, often employs in her sermons literary references, observations from historians and her own acute sense of her life experiences in evaluating both modern events and ancient scripture.

Rector Raynord Schovell at St. Wilfrid’s, speaks pointedly about the simple messages of heaven as he stands and speaks without a lectern at the front of the nave and without the benefit of written text. His sermons have stressed questions parishioners should be asking themselves – “How much do you love God?” – or have challenged his congregation to recognize that Ascension need not only be paid homage with attendance in church on its celebrated day, but accepted as a sure promise that “God’s plan will come to pass.”

St. Wilfrid’s early 7:30 a.m. service (at least the one I attended) is very traditional with standard Anglican hymns and organ music and complete dedication to the Prayer Book (roughly 30 people attended).

The Family Service, held at 9:30 a.m., is almost completely different (upwards of 90 people attended). Traditional ritual is followed, but it is peppered with modern African church music (On this Sunday we were accompanied by guitar, African drums and electric piano. Sing-along lyrics are projected by computer on the white dome walls above the altar).

Let me underscore the word family. The decidedly mixed-race congregation includes a strong mixture of the elderly, middle-aged, youth and wee ones. The church certainly benefits from its location inside a sprawling college campus. But to attract youth, St. Wilfrid’s seems to have purposefully dedicated its main service music (there is no choir) to elicit a youthful feel (think if James Millikan and his music crew grew their hair out more and were given carte blanche each Sunday).

But the most striking difference between the two churches – at least to me – so far is that after two visits I still must be an enigma. I have been greeted warmly upon arrival, people seem to be genuine in offering me the peace of the Lord and I still think fondly of the elderly man who after service one Sunday shook my hand for the third time that day and said, “Welcome and have a great Sunday.”

It’s not like this church doesn’t need parishioners. Last Sunday during announcements Rev. Schovell informed the congregation that last year’s budget deficit has meant that church staff has been warned that some might discover soon that their positions have become “redundant.”

Still, no one at St. Wilfrid’s has asked me anything about myself, like why am I here? Or where do I come from? Though the rector each Sunday has told me he hopes I’ve gotten something out of the service, he has yet to ask me my name. Or offered up his.

In a way, I guess it is a reflection of Schovell’s sermons.

It’s not up to him. It’s up to me.