A Return to the Sacred

On a Monday afternoon following my mother’s memorial service I find myself sitting again in Grace Cathedral looking up at the immensity of this structure and letting the quiet grace of the cathedral seep into my soul. 

Less than a week ago, the side chapel of the cathedral was filled with people who were drawn into this sanctuary to honor my mother and her life. I had a felt sense that this spacious and generous cathedral was holding all of us mourners in its sacred arms.  While I believe that we breathe in divine presence in every moment, there is something about a space that has been designated to the glory of divinity that satisfies within me, and within many others, a deep-seated longing for a sense of awe, a sense of the sacred. I feel a sense of awe when I look at a flower that has made its way through a crack in the sidewalk and into bloom and I feel it here, on another scale entirely, when I sit within the majesty of these cathedral walls, nestled in the heart of an urban landscape. For the blessed hour that I sit here writing, I absorb into my being the delight of sitting in peace, on holy ground.

The liturgy that the Reverend Canon Anna Rossi and the Reverend Margaret Deeths said for us held my mother in the highest, most sacred regard. She was given a “royal send-off” that honored her presence and time here on earth and that initiated her into the arms of the great, loving light that I believe she gratefully slipped into after what was a difficult journey in the last days of her life.[1]  

A grand structure like Grace Cathedral (and smaller, more modest sacred spaces as well) give those who enter a sense of peace and solace. Sacred spaces bring us out of our small selves and remind us that we too will someday depart from the wonder—and chaos—of this earthly habitation, and this  makes every day that we are here that much more intense, precious, and worth savoring.  Sacred words and songs remind us that we are deeply loved, through and through, every moment of our lives.  The mystics remind us that we would not exist without the Spirit that loves us into existence in every single moment.[2]  

 All of the terrible things done in the name of “religion” have hardened the hearts of many and too often turned us away from the sacredness of life, which orients us towards our souls and the power that comes from tapping into our deepest selves.  Divinity has never, and never will be, a wayward human being using an institution to fulfill dark fantasies; the divine light that is too much for us to see with our human eyes is not a religious institution made by human hands.  It’s something much greater than ourselves, a light so powerful, and yet so intimate, that “it” can never be reduced to a race, or a gender, or an angry human-like figment of our imaginations that causes us wounding and shame.[3]  

My mother’s memorial reminded me that many people find solace, renewed energy, and inspiration in sacred spaces, where humans gather together to worship, to sing sacred songs, to hear sacred words, or simply to sit in silence.  We can celebrate; we can mourn; we can be human beings grounded on this planet, feet on the ground.  We can be more than virtual entities advertised on a social media site. 

We can sit quietly and connect with our truest selves; we can come to know who we truly are and what we are called to do and be during our time here on this planet.  We can remember that the words that we say, and the attitudes that we keep, influence others, profoundly, and we can remember that nothing we do, say, or believe lacks significance. Sacred spaces can ground us in what is truly real, truly important, and they can remind us of our most compassionate and loving selves.  Sacred rituals, moreover, can remind us that we are infinitely loved and part of the intricate fabric of divine creation.  We are divine co-creators of the world that our children and grandchildren will inhabit.

In this holy place, my mother’s life was honored and celebrated . It was a deeply moving experience to be reminded, in the company of those who loved her so much, that her life profoundly touched all of us.  We too are beloved children of the great Spirit—unconditionally loved, guided, and watched over during each moment of our lives.  

As I write this, the cathedral bells begin to ring, and I am reminded of the carol “All bells in Paradise,” written by John Rutter.[4]  

Sitting in one intimate corner of a vast and sacred space, “I hear them ring.”

[1] I am also grateful to Spiritual Director and Reverend Kay Collette and Principle Verger Michael Hendron for reading beautifully during the service. Cathedral Receptionist Jumon Bell provided helpful practical information when we were planning the service, and Facilities Manager John Gruenig calmed my nerves and made things go smoothly the day of the service. For the presence of Jumon and John, I am grateful. This post is a follow up to my previous post about my mother, Gratitude is an Art. Many thanks to Martha Enthoven-Stid and David Vlazny for their willingness to read and comment on my writings.

[2] I recommend Jim Finley’s podcast, Turning to the Mystics, produced by the Center for Action and Contemplation.

[3] I like the way that Carolyn Myss discusses the impersonal yet intimate nature of the Divine in the Introduction to her book Intimate Conversations with the Divine: Prayer, Guidance, and Grace (Hay House, Inc. 2020).

[4] Dr. Susan Jane Matthews , Director of Music at Saint Paul’s, Burlingame, introduced me to this hymn during the time when my daughter Sophia was singing in the Saint Paul’s choir as a high school student.  It is so beautiful, and I so love the way that the boys in this choir are being nourished by the sacred: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8TyKNycHes