Chapel

Duke's West Campus is a beautiful place. Most of the campus is laid in square-ish gray stones and polished with trimmings like crested windows and heavy wooden doors. The ornate Gothic cathedral style Chapel is the epicenter of beauty here--but it is undoubtedly imposing. And frankly, it looks sharp and pointy; things that look like they would snag your sweater from ten feet away really aren't all that inviting, but when you gaze on the Duke Chapel, it somehow compels you in.

Upon my initial pilgrimage in to the deep and narrow Chapel, I fortunately entered at a time that someone was playing a seventeenth century hymn on the giant pipe organ whose appendages trail up the back wall of the chapel like English ivy on an old garden wall. I walked through the foyer and past a lady at the "welcome" desk whose head was being eaten by a pair of noise-cancelling earphones. "She must not be educated and cultured enough to appreciate classical music," I thought to myself. I signed the guestbook to commemorate my visit, and took a seat on the left row of seats about halfway up.

I looked up at the depictions of biblical characters on the ceiling. I tried to distinguish who was who among the apostles in the stained glass on either side of me. I looked toward the front: table in center, lectern to the side. One can understand much about the theological emphasis of a particular place of worship by what furniture sits front and center. Traditional Baptists put their lecterns in the middle because preaching and discipleship are the center of the service. Most liturgical churches put the communion table in the middle as the Eucharist is the center of tradition. All the hip Evangelical churches have stages with drums or choirs or a keyboard in the middle because music and worship are the main event. I believe the theory somewhat applies to homes as well: those who value knowledge often have bookcases and reading chairs in the biggest room of the home. Others place their nicest things in the central room of the house to show that they've made a good living for themselves, and to enjoy the fruits of their labor with family and guests. I, in all my pomp and sophistication, tend to plant a TV in the biggest room of my house and then point a whole bunch of furniture at it.

Good thing I walked into the Chapel when I did, I got to hear the last piece the organist played. The place had been silent for a long while now.

After I had a satisfying eyeful, I prayed for a while. (Though my most heartfelt petitions seem to take place in mundane or even ugly settings, I have always felt that God somehow hears me better when I pray in beautiful places.) Upon a few minutes of meditation, I thought about the liturgy which had echoed off the walls surrounding me. The science books say that sound waves never stop-- so I tried my hardest to hear an echo of something old and holy and profound. I heard nothing. My mind wandered to thinking of what kind of words a building like this inspires. "Old, pretty words. Old, pretty words for an old, pretty building," I mused. Thinking about the liturgy reminded me how much I love words. "I'm here because I love words," I thought. "I'm here because I love God, and I love people, and love words about loving God and loving people."

Vocation asks the question, "What makes your heart and mind and blood tingle? What makes you want to learn and act and be all at once? " Then answers, "whatever person, place, or thing captures your thoughts and taps your emotions is your passion-- and passion is the starting point for where you will be both needed and fulfilled." In short, everything about theology and most things about ministry make me tingly, and that's why I came to seminary in the first place. My motivations are kind of selfish, really.

The organist must've just taken a break. He or she is playing more music, very similar to the hymn I heard before. Beautiful, that music.

I decided to venture down some stairs to the left of the pulpit beside a sign that read "Formation of Young Methodists." The narrow, cold stone stairwell led to the current children's ministry area. I kept walking on because there were signs with arrows that beckoned me to do so; if I ended up somewhere I shouldn't be, it would be the fault of all the arrows. I walked past the little tables and little chairs, past the crayon station, and found myself in the corner of a stone block room which had inscriptions of names and dates everywhere...they were birth dates and death dates. "They have children's church in the mausoleum." I calmly thought. Then I said aloud but under my breath--" They have children's church in the mausoleum?! Creepy! Those poor kids!"

It was becoming apparent that the organ guy was practicing, because he was definitely playing the same song over and over. He played, he stopped, he started again.

I went back upstairs, looked around a bit more, and finally moved toward the foyer to exit. I met some fellow sightseers on my way out, and one of them was wearing a pair of hideous shorts that demanded a second second look--it was then that I caught it from the corner of my eye. It was a motion sensor just inside the door, and it made the organ music play when people walk in. The same such crass mechanisms are found in mounted singing wall trout and that annoying jack-o-lantern on your neighbor's porch that scares the bejesus out of you. Once again, like a cell phone ringing during church, a perfectly nice moment was ruined by technological advancement. Which reminds me...

"Brothas and sistas, (heavy breathing into microphone) I hope not oooonly in the redemption of this earthly bo-dy, (heavy breath) But that there is coming a day, (hhhuhh-hihhh) when there will be no need for sound systems which screech feedback during the worship of our Lord and King! Hallelujah! I look forward to that day!" (Yeah, preaching isn't my strong suit. But at least I'm trying to build to your eschatological hope here, folks...if it isn't working, read the Revelation of John, start to finish-- turns out that it's about how we win in the end, and not just about counting and multiplication and dragons and streetwalkers or whatever TBN has been telling you.)

This, my friends, is why ladies who make little kids color in crypts also wear earmuffs.