Stones

by Robert D. McNaughton

On a quiet and balmy August evening in 1992, I walked across one of the several bridges in Geneva, Switzerland into Old Town, and immediately began climbing the increasingly steep streets, which sweep on upward toward the focal point of the city: the Cathedral of St. Pierre.

The hilltop provides a commanding view of Lake Geneva and the entire area. Critical for military purposes, it is also appropriately inspiring and majestic for invoking the gods.

Julius Caesar was not the first to understand the strategic importance of the place for either purpose, and he improved upon the rude defensive fortifications and, presumably, offered the proper sacrifices there, as well.

During the third century, a community of Christians gathered for worship on this hill. In the fourth century, a cathedral and baptistry were erected; and the foundation of the great cathedral of the present day was laid about 1160. Throughout these nearly 2000 years, walls and buildings have been erected, torn down, replaced, altered, added to, and moved as need, opportunity, and resources allowed. The stones of the foundations and walls have been used and reused several times.

Cephas, Peter, Pierre, Rock. The Cathedral of St. Pierre, whose stones have witnessed theological, political, and ecclesiastical controversy and provided comfort to persecuted Huguenots. John Calvin and William Farel led the Reformation that spread from this Cathedral.

Another day, I made my way back up the hill for a more extensive visit. Entering the church of John Calvin, I was especially conscious that this was a monument of the Reformation, that here the Word of God had been celebrated, that here the Bible had been translated into the language of the people, that here a new way of faith had been forged.

St. Pierre is an awesome, inspiring, but spare and unadorned cathedral. Here I saw that there were no decorations, no candles, no incense, only an attendant selling postcards and passes to the upper tower.

Walking further down the aisle, I came to the great elevated pulpit, high on the pillar at the front of the nave. Here John Calvin had preached, Sunday by Sunday, expounding the Word. Here the reforming — even revolutionary — winds of the Word had blown steadily across Europe, and soon to New England, also.

Beyond the pulpit, I came to the apse, raised above the nave by two steps. Across the steps was a row of straight-backed chairs, and I wondered if they were for the deacons. Beyond the chairs there was nothing: no altar, no communion table, no cross, no candles.

Removing the altar was John Calvin’s 16th century protest against the doctrine of the mass as a sacrifice offered to God. And, 450 years later, churches in the Reformed tradition still tend to practice an infrequent celebration of the Lord’s Supper.

My reason for being in Geneva had been an invitation to attend the meeting of the Central Committee of the World Council of Churches, as an Advisor on evangelical matters. A friend supplied a frequent flyer round-trip ticket, and another friend offered a generous gift to help with board and room expenses.

The theme of the opening worship, held in the Cathedral of St. Pierre, was “Living Stones.” The service was movingly woven around three texts: Joshua 4:1-7, the account of Israel establishing a memorial of stones after crossing over the Jordan; I Peter 2:4-10, an invitation to come to Jesus, the living stone; and Luke 19:37-44, an incident on Palm Sunday as Jesus approaches Jerusalem, weeping and speaking of stones and ramparts.

As I sat quietly and expectantly in the huge nave, the enormous organ poured forth its magnificent sounds — echoing, reverberating against the great stones of the church, and in my heart. On my right was the black Methodist bishop of San Francisco, and on my left was Metropolitan Chrysostomos of Peristerion of Greece.

The music of the organ continued as the worship leaders entered in simple procession, people from a dozen countries and denominations.

The world belongs to God,
THE EARTH AND ALL ITS PEOPLE.

How good and how lovely it is
TO LIVE TOGETHER IN HARMONY.

Love and faith come together,
JUSTICE AND PEACE JOIN HANDS.

If the Lord’s disciples keep silent,
THESE STONES WOULD SHOUT ALOUD.

Lord, open our lips,
AND OUR MOUTHS SHALL PROCLAIM YOUR PRAISE.

Joining together in four languages, we sang a hymn written in Geneva 432 years earlier:

ALL PEOPLE THAT ON EARTH DO DWELL,
SING TO THE LORD WITH CHEERFUL VOICE;
HIM SERVE WITH MIRTH, HIS PRAISE FORTH TELL;
COME YE BEFORE HIM AND REJOICE.

At the front was a group of young men from South Africa, singing their hearts out. They had come to Switzerland seeking political asylum, but their petition was being denied, and they knew they would soon be returning to an uncertain fate in South Africa. HIM SERVE WITH MIRTH, we sang. Despite their precarious life situation, SING TO THE LORD WITH CHEERFUL VOICE.

In the midst of this wonderfully mixed congregation of believers from around the world, I couldn’t sing the hymn, for my throat tightened up and the tears ran down my face.

The Confession of Sins included these words:

LET US CONFESS
THE COMPLACENCY WITH WHICH WE LIVE IN DISUNITY, THE EASE WITH WHICH WE KEEP OUR PREJUDICES, REFUSING TO BE THE ONE PEOPLE OF GOD FOR WHICH JESUS PRAYED . . . .

Then we listened to the sermon by the retiring General Secretary of the World Council of Churches, Dr. Emilio Castro of Uruguay. In this, his last sermon as General secretary, he said:

We are meeting in this cathedral which bears the name of Peter, the rock, and which is intended as a solid testimony to the fundamentals of the Christian faith for all who come here — tourists, international civil servants, political refugees, the curious — asking the question, “What does this mean?” We can answer that it is a monument to the faith of our ancestors, but it is much more than that. It is the proclamation of the living God who still today calls us to conversion, to repentance and new life . . . the same God who spoke the powerful message of salvation in Jesus Christ and established him as the foundation stone, the light of life and hope for humanity.

The service included music from seven different countries, and following the sermon we sang a wonderful hymn, the words written by a Dane and the tune by a Norwegian:

BUILT ON A ROCK THE CHURCH SHALL STAND,
EVEN WHEN STEEPLES ARE FALLING;
CRUMBLED HAVE SPIRES IN EVERY LAND,
BELLS STILL ARE CHIMING AND CALLING —
CALLING THE YOUNG AND OLD TO REST,
CALLING THE SOULS OF THOSE DISTRESSED,
LONGING FOR LIFE EVERLASTING.

WE ARE GOD’S HOUSE OF LIVING STONES
BUILT FOR HIS OWN HABITATION;
HE FILLS OUR HEARTS, HIS HUMBLE THRONES,
GRANTING US LIFE AND SALVATION.

After various prayers and responses, the splendid organ pealed again and we joined in singing:

HOLY GOD, WE PRAISE THY NAME;
LORD OF ALL, WE BOW BEFORE THEE;
ALL ON EARTH THY SCEPTER CLAIM;
ALL IN HEAVEN ABOVE ADORE THEE.
INFINITE THY VAST DOMAIN;
EVERLASTING IS THY REIGN.

Turning to my Greek neighbor, I was moved to say, “The peace of God be with you,” and, in customary fashion, he said, “And also with you,” as he drew me to him and brushed me on both cheeks with his great white whiskers. I shall not forget the feel of his beard upon my face.

Sitting down, I listened to the great concluding Bach postlude on the organ, as I prepared to reenter the streets of Geneva.

Grateful for the solitary walk to my lodging in the evening quiet, I imagined John Calvin walking through those same streets. What were his visions and fears? Did he leave behind in his study the great theological, ecclesiastical, and practical problems that he struggled with, or did he ponder these as he walked these hills? Was he always stern, or did he have occasion to laugh and relax?

For my part, I marveled at the wondrous mix of people gathered in this historic place from around the world for this meeting of the Christian Churches at work.

I come home to the familiar, the place where I am known, the particular geography of “home,” to those whom I know as neighbor, colleague, friend, student — to whom I am shepherd. I give thanks for my “place,” a place of meaning and service, love and work, routine and surprise, laughter and tears.

But I also come home strangely warmed, having temporarily satisfied a continued longing for the richness that is beyond my particular home, the Covenant Church.