The Story of the Chapel and the Window

There is a small, enclosed chapel at the back of the main sanctuary in my church. It has an altar and some pews and is a bite-sized sanctuary in and of itself.

The main worship space in the larger church is the truly impressive real estate-- the ceiling is high, the woodwork gleams. When it's my turn for Altar Guild, ladies who have been arranging flowers for decades fuss and fret with lemon leaves and Scottish broom to place at the high altar. The chapel gets the leftovers, and it's OK for me to fix them, though I can count on one hand the number of times I've actually "arranged" anything floral. I whisper apologies to the daisies as I cut them too short and bruise their leaves, the final result overcrowded and listing weirdly to the left.

I've decided that God blesses my efforts and puts up with the results.

Two small services in the chapel bookend every Sunday: at 7:45am, a slightly older crowd worships with meek hearts and due reverence, and says "Here endeth the reading." At 5pm, the campus ministry students (mostly) silence their phones, jumping over the pews to hug each other during the peace. Last time I attended that service, one of the layreaders didn't close her reading at all. It lent a nice expectant edge to the Epistle.

The chapel can take whatever you give it. Sometimes, what it gets is tears. It takes those, too, and answers back with silence, but not an empty or frightening kind. This is the silence of someone listening, and listening well. It is a quiet infused with love.

I am grateful for this little chapel. I am grateful in particular for the stained glass window with Jesus standing in the center, a sapphire blue sky behind his head and a little lamb in his arms.

There is a lamb in front of him, too, and that lamb is wrapped in thorns.

A few times, having brought to the chapel a lot of sadness, I felt so sorry for that lamb. Never mind the symbolism-- never mind that Jesus was standing right there-- in that window, for all time, that lamb would be frozen amidst the barbs. My grief was sharp and painful, and I saw that the lamb was me. I was jealous of the other lamb that Jesus was holding. I was tired of the way I was feeling. I wanted to be picked up, too.

One day I stopped crying and looked up there and saw that the window looked alive. The sky seemed to be moving, the green bush seemed to wave, and Jesus didn't seem to be standing so much as just about to bend over to set the lamb free. Seeing this served to both amaze me and piss me off. Jesus was already holding a lamb-- where was he going to put that other one? The lamb would just have to stay trapped, because this was ridiculous. The window ceased its shenanigans.

Then a little time passed, and I felt a little worse, and that was difficult. But one morning during my prayers I read the phrase "Lamb of God" and lightning struck, because instantly I thought of the window. I saw it as clear as day in my mind's eye, alive and vibrant, and I saw that the lamb was Jesus.

That was the day I started to feel a little bit better, when the grief was less sharp and all-consuming. That was the day God ever so gently reminded me that Jesus is more than just the good shepherd; Jesus is also the sacrifice. He watches over and loves all the little sheep, and he wraps himself in thorns to prove it. What's more, he moved through his own agony to defeat death. The lamb in thorns would not be in thorns forever. Neither would I.

The chapel is small. The chapel is pretty, but it's not opulent. It's made use of, but not in a central way. The floor is scratched and some of the pew cushions are missing their buttons. The chapel flowers are often less than perfect.

But it's a very forgiving space. It's full of love and gentleness. It's quiet, and it's peaceful, and somehow, the lopsided daisies suit it pretty well.