In my second year of Divinity School, my classmates and I were required to complete “field education.” We worked part time in churches, hospitals, and non-profits to get practical experience and then met weekly in small groups with instructors to discuss what we were learning and go over case studies from our context. I was in a group with other students serving in various Nashville parishes of many denominations. We decided rather than meeting in our classroom on campus, we would rotate meeting in the various churches where we were serving.
Our class meetings always included a tour. We stepped into baptismal fonts and took selfies and flipped through hymnals comparing and contrasting our denominations’ musical traditions. We tried out pulpits of various heights and discussed the pros and cons of stained glass windows. We commented on how all church basements and Sunday school classrooms smell the same; a familiar bouquet with notes of magic markers, old books and graham crackers. Some of the sanctuaries were indeed very beautiful and it was a blessing to spend time in them, but there was a particular tenderness in seeing the offices and classrooms and storage closets, in holding the prayer cards and offering envelopes. It was strangely moving to connect with the materiality of these places where our friends and classmates were learning to minister—where they were growing into their vocations, learning to serve their God and their people, and entering into a lineage of religious leaders who had handled those hymnals and offering envelopes before them.
We noticed a new level of trust once we started meeting in these spaces. Our engagement with the case studies we brought to the group was deeper when we could envision the physical sites where those conflicts and questions were arising. It was a reminder that our religious lives are both spiritual and material, and the places where the two meet are powerful sites of energy and memory. Sharing those spaces with one another was intimate and vulnerable and beautiful.
I was reminded of a 2016 blog from On Being by Sarah Smarsh titled “The Enduring Power of Built Sacred Spaces in a Secular World.” Smarsh speaks eloquently to why physical sacred spaces remain important, even in a culture where church attendance is declining. She writes, “When we become so abstract in our experience that the physical realm becomes secondary, we dangerously dismiss and detach from our earth, our ecosystems, our fellow humans, ourselves. I’ve found a few physical spaces that might meet my needs for shared community, contemplation, reverence, and wonder apart from the traditional religious structure, but I’ve not yet committed to one the way a Catholic commits to Sunday Mass.”
Every Sunday we worship in a building that is beautiful and unique. Some parts are well preserved while other parts are well-loved and visibly worn by the shuffling feet and praying bodies of those who have called this place their spiritual home. It holds physical memories of our past and, within its walls, the spirit moves among us shaping the faith of our future. And on weekends this fall, we are opening it up to tourists and visitors. This Sunday at service we will be hearing from some of the volunteers who have been working so diligently to make these tours a reality. We won’t be hearing about their fundraising goals, as important as those are. Rather, we will hear more about how this experience has shaped their understanding of our particular sacred place. What does it mean to invite strangers into the intimacy of this space and what do we learn about ourselves in the process? It’s going to be a special service and I hope you’ll join us.
In faith,
Rev. Danielle
© Rev. Danielle Garrett, 2025