During the summer I visited several cathedrals and greater
churches and was struck by the sight of some amazing stained glass windows.
From Malvern Priory’s medieval panes to the far more recent east window at
Salisbury focussing on prisoners of conscience, the use of glass and light
transforms these buildings. Part of the attraction of stained glass lies
in the interplay between its colour; external light and the lighting of the
building itself. So each sighting of the glass is a unique experience
shaped by things beyond our control.
But like all churches, however ancient and beautiful, these
buildings are shells. They point to something beyond themselves.
Their purpose is to feed and develop a Christian community. Without some
spiritual inner-life they’re just buildings about the past. Despite all
their beauty and history unless there is a living presence inside they’re just
relics of a former time.
The idea of being truly alive is reflected upon in John 6:
56-69. Simply keeping our bodies going, sustaining our physical
structure, is criticised by Jesus: “It is the spirit that gives life; the
flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and
life.” Jesus seems to be saying that our physical life is nothing unless
we’re lit on the inside by a vibrant faith. So the idea of physically
ingesting that faith in order to be lit by the Spirit was set out by Jesus –
although it was clearly shocking news for some of those who followed him.
John tells us that people walked away, unable to accept this teaching.
Sometimes our faith doesn’t feel as if it’s a light inside.
Like stained glass, faith can be both beautiful and fragile. At Bath
Abbey I was moved by the account of the challenge to restore the massive East
window after it was blown out by a bomb dropped in World War II. Members
of the Abbey congregation collected up thousands of broken pieces of stained
glass and throughout the Second World War these broken glass fragments were
kept in sacks. Can you imagine? It must have been soul destroying
for those who worshipped there. But those sacks were also a testament of
hope that despite a war which had no certain end, people believed that a time
would come when the repair would be made. Most of the experts approached
after the war said it couldn’t be done. The damage was just too
much. But eventually a father and son team took on the work and after the
best part of a decade the window was completed.
We all know that faith can be damaged. There are bombs that
are dropped in our own lives and sometimes the aftermath seems
impossible. We simply can’t fit the pieces back together. We
remember the original images, the clear pictures we once saw, but an event has
taken that away and it can take many years to piece the bits of faith back
together again. And maybe sometimes we need the distance to change an old image
for a new one – to fit faith into a new pattern.
The church buildings that fill our country silently tell stories
of faith. Some are admired for how they have survived intact for
centuries; others are notable because of what they withstood and how they have
changed. Either way they remind me that our faith doesn’t always need to
be expressed in words. And more than that, the Christian life can’t be
truly fulfilled by our own determination or dedication.
What makes us really alive, what transforms us and reveals our
beauty, is a light we can’t manipulate or control. It comes in its own
time and through what we offer it shines a light by which we are transfigured.
We are called to be those lit by faith from within – living a life which in
spirit and service poses the question to those outside: “what makes this person
like this?” Not perfect, not undamaged, but striving every day – striving
with integrity - to reflect in every aspect of their life, the love and colour
and splendour of God.
Maggie McLean
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