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WESTMINSTER ABBEY

I recently had the opportunity to visit London for a few days, as part of a celebration and launch for three resources related to Charles Spurgeon (the publication of his earliest sermons, a historical novel about his relationship to a former Virginian slave, and the forthcoming release of The Spurgeon Study Bible).

In between our visits to various sites connected to Spurgeon, I reserved some time for Westminster Abbey, a 1,000-year-old church so richly imbued with history that weeks would be necessary for someone to view all of its historical splendors.

My first impression of Westminster was not a tour but a worship service. I arrived a few minutes late and took a seat in the nave, where I could see from a distance the choir singers and other attendees.

It is impossible to describe the breathtaking beauty of the music that flowed into that space and found its resonance in all the nooks and crannies of this Gothic cathedral. “Beauty” does not do the experience justice.

The splendor of the pipe organ, whose tones reverberated so loudly through the sanctuary that you could feel the slight tremble of the floor beneath you . . . 

The harmonies of the singers, lifting and uniting their voices for the psalms until you forget whether you are in heaven or on earth . . . 

The stunning architecture that communicates a sense of majesty, while reminding you of the past through the many people who sleep within the walls and caverns . . . 

The worship service at Westminster was a rare occasion in which the experience of sheer beauty moved me to tears.

What followed was a homily—a ten-minute sermonette that extolled the values of neighbor-love and world peace, yet without any mention of Jesus. The speaker encouraged us to look inside ourselves and for courage, so that we can engage the world in a way that contributes to peace and wholeness, not division and despair. A lovely sentiment, to be sure, but unfortunately lacking any connection to the gospel. Thankfully, the liturgy filled in what the homily left out—gratitude to our Savior for his sacrificial love that brought our salvation.

As I sat amid the glory of Westminster Abbey, my mind flew to the village churches I’d attended in Romania.

The concrete buildings with their creaking wood, heated only by a stove in the middle of those four walls—that sacred space we filled with song and prayer, warming our hearts with fire and fervor.

The house churches where the Table for the Lord’s Supper became the table for a feast, after the preaching of God’s Word had concluded.

The American church plant I knew as a child, and the excitement of erecting our building and devoting a space to worship—a simple, elegant stained glass window behind the pulpit where the pastor showed me Jesus in the Word every Sunday.

And so, I left the service at Westminster Abbey in awe of that building’s grandeur, yet more grateful than ever for the humble place of worship where I am privileged to open God’s Word to saints every week. God forbid that I ever open that Book and fail to sing the praises of Christ.

Without the good news, what is the use of a great building? Without the thundering of grace in our preaching, what is the point of an organ’s melodious reverberation?

If forced to choose between the power of Westminster’s ambience or the power of a simple preacher who shows me Christ, I say: Give me Jesus every time.

As wonderful as all the outward symbols and signs of faith may be, the greatest and most life-changing power and beauty is found in the declaration of the crucified and risen Lord. That’s why he must be the One who always resounds in our singing and our preaching and our sharing and our mission.

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