Denver, the city that I “allegedly” live in according to Twitter, holds a small collection of old Victorian mansions, carriage houses and the like. Granted, in our city’s plebian newness, our version of “old” tends to be laughable in the face of centuries-long standing architecture that our brothers and sisters to the east (and even farther) can boast of in their cities. Still, the snapshots of our beginnings – of an industrial cow town trying to be a big city, a luxe city – stand around as monuments to our beginnings and aspirations. Being a complete and total history nerd, I love every opportunity to walk through the old buildings, though most of them have been converted to offices, B&B’s or just odd reliquaries of the past.
My favorite part of the old architecture: vestibules. Thresholds. In-between spaces that usher you from one place to another. Our modern and contemporary architecture doesn’t possess this same value. Trust me, I love how my little 1950’s bungalow flows – all the space bleeding into each other, the layout designed for openness; but I have a longing for the front entry of the old houses and that past value on in-between-ness, on taking a moment to pause, orient yourself and prepare for whatever was waiting on the other side, what was happening on the inside.
If I was forced to sum up my role as a worship curator, this is the picture I would use. I’m a threshold designer. I admit frankly, I get a little creeped out by worship leaders who say that their job is to give people an encounter with GOD, to create it. The experience of GOD cannot be manufactured or “created,” boxed or invoked – that’s what experience and those older and wiser have taught me. And certainly, within my human limitations and small speech, I don’t even know if it can be named without robbing it of the power.
Stephen Mitchell, a linguist and scholar, interprets some of the names for GOD to be Unnameable One, Unknowable One, Deep Well of Mystery. (Mitchell’s book, A Book of Psalms – selections adapted from the Hebrew, is a dog-eared, marked up go-to resource for me in my planning and praying.) In the Merriam-Webster, “Eucharist” is actually listed as one of the definitions for mystery. My own anecdotal experience has taught me that the longer I live and the more I know, the less I actually understand. This is the Cloud of Unknowing.
My caution for worship leaders: the notion that we can within our own power create an experience or encounter of mystery is arrogant or at least very, very naive. What we can do – with integrity and beauty and a tremendous amount of imaginative intentionality – is to create thresholds, liminal spaces, where people can enter into mystery. The great author Henry Miller said, “Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery.” Our philosophy has given us actions that lead us to and from places of action – whether it’s in the natural world, in the compassionate work of relationships, or in the prescribed ritual of communion. It seems to me that, if we embrace the piece of our philosophy that calls us to worship the Unnameable One, the Deep Well of Mystery, that each of these actions would bring us back to wonder. Back each time to wonder: the vestibule of mystery.
As we contemplate the thresholds we’ve passed through to discover mystery on the other side, I invite you, I urge you to consider how we create thresholds with our spaces, our words, our images, and our deep intentions. How do we practice wonder? How do you do this in your worship? How do you do this in your home? Or relationships? I would love to hear your practices.
Image © iStockphoto








