Occasionally I attend the Cathedral of the Murder-She-Wrote-Opening-Credits-Theme-Song which has the most amazing re-centering, calming effect on me. The experience lasts a predictable 47 seconds and I’ve never nodded off nor fallen out of my pew throughout the service. Entirely by accident about 20 years ago when the phone rang just as I was punching a MSW DVD into the machine and got delayed by the call, I found that the heavenly tune would continue on repeat until someone hit the “play” button for an episode. An endless loop of comfort.

Ok. Don’t hang up on me. We all have our little crazies and you know you have some too. More on that later.

If you’ve ever seen what one might call an actual run-of-the-mill cathedral, maybe it looked something like this or this or this:

And if you stepped foot inside, maybe you noticed the windows:

Pretty fancy, eh? That’s a ridiculous understatement, of course, and if you have indeed been privileged to view any of these buildings as the works of art that they are, you remember what it’s like to stand inside and gaze around, eyes wide open. Honestly, they are magnificent, most of them, and by Latin definition are the “seat” of the bishop of a diocese. Usually large and imposing, these buildings are meant to be first and foremost a place of Christian worship. They often are significant to the heritage and culture of surrounding areas. They are central to their communities and the lives of generations of families. They can and many times are referred to as a “mother” church.

Note: We in the Protestant evangelical community of which I am a part, the Church of the Nazarene, take a different posture regarding these sacred spaces. Our polity and history emphasize pragmatism over aesthetics, underscoring the belief that the church is a gathering of believers, not a physical building. While this is a tempting topic to follow down a rabbit trail, I will resist and simply state that while I support and believe the church is indeed a gathering of believers, it’s okay to admire the artistry and beauty of man’s handiwork in the honest seeking of bringing glory to God through centers of worship. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but we’re leaving it here.

Mother church. I like that. Not in the sense that a good, practicing Catholic brother or sister might view it as being closely linked to Mary, but rather as an overarching perception of nurturing. You can’t tell me that every Christian believer doesn’t need nourishment from the church and from other “cathedrals” they may attend in their walks through life.

A cathedral can represent a divine space. A consecrated environment. A place that shields us from worldly distractions. I’ve mentioned to you earlier about a silly theme song that represents those things to me and I’ll tell you why eventually. Now I’d like to tell you about some actual physical locations.

On the campus of Northwest Nazarene University sits an old white building. And when I say “old,” I mean it may not survive the next round of demolition as the campus evolves. It has served as the Fine Arts building for many decades. Before that it was Samaritan Hospital. Fun fact: my dearly beloved husband was born in one of the hospital rooms in 1961 which turned out to be the same room he took piano lessons in during the 80s. The choir rehearsal room is where he and I met. The third floor practice rooms with the glass windows in the doors are where he would spend hours at the piano and I would stand in the hallway gazing moon-eyed at his back (stop making that gag face — we were 19). Professors invested in him, and in me, though I wasn’t a music major. They spoke confidence to us and set goals ahead of us in this old white building.

Thank you, Walden Hughes, Marvin Bloomquist, George Turner, Marvin Stallcop, and Double E Hill.

Across the campus in other buildings where my education major (and a wannabe English major) worked their ways, I owe particular thanks to:

Ernie Thompson, Kevin Dennis, Marian Washburn, C.S. Cowles, Ed Crawford, and Naomi Long.

All for different reasons, these folk came along and believed in me about three steps ahead of where I believed in myself. A couple of them would be surprised they made this list and I look forward to having that conversation in heaven.

Those campus buildings were cathedrals to me. The place looks different these days, as it should be. Cathedrals shift and change and build and adapt organically over generations. The mission is the same. Those entrusted with it would do well to understand the enormity of the “Mother church” to which they have been given responsibility. I’m sure they get it. I’m sure they do.

Another spot of great “cathedral-esque” influence on my life has physically been wiped from the map. There was a day, married and in my 20s with two children and one on the way, that a woman I looked up to with great admiration and almost awe, took a three-steps-out-in-front chance on me. Miriam Hall at Nazarene General Headquarters in Kansas City saw something in me and invited me to edit and write for her and the church in Children’s Ministries. Here’s what one of the buildings on the campus looked like at that time.

You talk about Mother Church. The globe building at Nazarene HQ was it in the 80s — I tell you what. My friends who are reading this with whom I am still in contact and who also worked on that campus may or may not share the same view of its awesomeness. I needed it. I thrived there. Miriam was a catalyst of courage for me, though I never was mature enough with words or feelings at that time to tell her. She plucked me out of my editorial assistant cubicle and gave me an assignment I felt too small to tackle but was just cocky enough to say yes to. (There’s another heaven conversation I need to put on my calendar, dear Miriam.) Oh and Mr. Troutman, the Executive Editor who did not hold my hand but taught me to write, to edit, and to laugh in the face of danger from the art department. He also sold me my first set of china for $35 because he had a half dozen sets and didn’t need this one. I miss him.

Those buildings are no longer occupied by the Church of the Nazarene, some of them even demolished. Mother church’s offices are moved across the state border into Lenexa, Kansas to new quarters.

Oh, 100% off topic I must tell you a story regarding quarters. Back in the day at HQ we had a switchboard through which every single telephone call from anywhere on the planet had to be filtered and forwarded on to a designated desk/office/division. This design clearly called for a switchboard operator. For a number of years we had the nicest lady serving in this capacity who would answer the main switchboard telephone just a half second too quickly in her sweet and helpful voice before the connection was made, and rather than “Headquarters,” the caller would hear, “Quarters.” So eventually in my house we just called my place of employment, “Quarters.” That is all. Maybe it’s not as funny in translation. There it is anyway.

So these are some of my cathedrals. I do love to get inside a real honest-to-goodness medieval one that took 800 years to build and strikes awe into my heart with its fierce beauty and depth of artistry. I’ve been in a few. But friends, there are more accessible ones nearby. Look for them. Visit them, either in person or in memory. And they don’t have to be a physical place where you can walk up steps and open a heavy door. Just sit. Sit in a quiet place and ask God to take you there. Seek the peace and reverence and history and enlightenment that communing with Him can bring. Maybe you have good memories of a place or two as I have shown. Maybe there are songs that take you there. Jesus is the Cornerstone of your cathedral (see 1 Peter 2:4-10).

Are you ready to hear the explanation for my crazy Cathedral of the Murder-She-Wrote-Theme-Song? I hope it’s not a let down. And I also hope it confirms (once again) that I don’t need hauling off to the hospital. Here’s the deal . . .

My mother loved the show, “Murder She Wrote.” She would watch it faithfully every Sunday evening (don’t ask why we weren’t at church . . . my story is too long and some of you might know anyway without an explanation). She would want me to watch it with her and I, being a teenager/young adult, was much too sophisticated and half miffed with her all the time anyway. So I would actually physically get up and leave her room when that theme music would come on and she’d call after me inviting me to watch with her and, “have a cup of tea and toast.” It was weird how often I would be in the room when that blankety-blank music came on and she’d want me to stay. It has now, these decades later, become a place of comfort, some regret, and yet determination to do better.

The music is nurturing. Like a Mother church. A cathedral.

What I wouldn’t give. I miss you, Mama.

Much love,

MM

P.S. If Jessica Fletcher isn’t your deal, try this one: