Episcopal Church Foundation Vestry Papers - for leading congregations

Messing with tradition is dicey.

For most of the 110 people on this weekend’s parish retreat, every place on the mountain is sacred. The diocesan conference center in the heart of Kentucky, at the top of a mountain, is a thin place, where the space between God and earth seems ever closer.

Even though this was my first parish retreat there, I understand the attachment. Under the canopy of trees, watching the clouds move like puffs of smoke, I talked to God. Groups hiked to different peaks, scaling rock walls, bloody knuckles a small sacrifice for a magnificent view. Away from city lights, people spread blankets on the gravel path, marveling together over the Perseid meteor shower.

We shared campfires and long walks, swims in the pool and cocktails. Meals served cafeteria style at tables for eight. Compline in a ragged oval in a game room and morning prayer in the outdoor chapel.

Of all these sacred spaces, one rises above. The cathedral, built mostly by hand of rough-hewn cedar, sits at the lip of the mountain. The west wall is glass, all windows from floor to the soaring 40-foot pitch of roof. 

People expected to experience the Eucharist against the backdrop of this breathtaking view. It’s how they’d always done it. And anyone can see why: the lush green peaks across the horizon capture the majesty of God’s creation, rivaling the art of any stained glass window. 

But instead the seats were oriented to the old altar, to the east. I could hear the mumbling as people walked in. One person suggested we vote on which way to sit. I worried. 

The homily opened with an acknowledgement: Most of you would rather be looking out over the mountains. The head nods affirmed this breach of tradition. 

But the priest continued. He explained how this cathedral was built, with people of the diocese holding vigil through the night, waiting for the sun to rise. When it did, the bishop placed his staff on the ground, at the spot of the old altar, and people marked the shadow of the crozier with rocks, outlining the cross that would rise to the east – and the boundaries of the cathedral that would rise for the cross. 

Throughout the ages, the priest explained, people have prayed to the east, toward Jerusalem, where, says the Bible, Christ will rise again. In our lives, when we are turned around and upside down, the cross is our compass, guiding us back to Christ. 

In a place like this center, it is easy to know which way, which path, leads to God. But when we come down from the mountain, life is complicated again, work and errands, worries and demands pulling us in all directions, disorienting us from God. 

The break in tradition challenges us to orient our worship and lives away from place and to the cross. To seek thin places wherever we are, not just when the beauty of God’s creation surrounds us. To remember that in the shadow of the cross, there is love and life, peace and rest that has little to do with place and everything to do with Christ.