Wren Chapel

On November 16, 2006, Gene Nichol, president of the College of William and Mary, took a bold step toward religious equality in the public college environment. President of the college now for less than two full academic years, Nichol made a small yet magnificent change in an environment where history and tradition rule, for all the right reasons.

If you've been to Williamsburg, you've seen the Wren Building. It is the heart and soul of the campus of the College of William and Mary, even for students who enter it only to ring the bell after completing a last final exam. It's the building on the postcard you send home to your parents when you finally begin to miss them, somewhere when the weather turns cold and muddy, right around November. It's the building you want to go back to when you return to campus, decades later with a partner or spouse and maybe your children. You want to feel the worn wooden floor under your feet again, and smell the dust of hundreds of years of scholars and classes and books. You want to stand in the college yard just at the right time of day to catch the sun glinting off the glazed headers in its lovely Flemish bond brickwork. You remember going up the stairs and ringing the bell, and the delicious feeling of freedom when all that stands between you and graduation is, well, your professors grading your exams. For the William and Mary graduate, the mystique of the Wren Building is powerful.

The Wren Building, and perhaps most importantly the Wren Chapel, is the ritual center of campus life, as well. Not only for religious services, but for meetings of student organizations, societies, and campus rituals like the annual Yule Log ceremony, and of course marriages. By policy, the Wren Chapel is a facility available to all students and faculty. And until November, it was nearly continuously presided over by a large cross on the altar, on loan from nearby Bruton Parish Church since 1940, which could be removed by arrangement for events where the cross would have been inappropriate.

Imagine for a moment that you're a non-Christian student, entering that space for a meeting. Just a meeting. A board meeting for a campus organization. Are you going to ask that the cross be removed? As in so many places in American culture, are you prepared for the dismissive look, like you're overreacting if you ask that someone else remove the trappings of their religious faith for an event when they are not appropriate? Probably not. But then, can you avoid the subtle message you receive from the placement of that cross? The little voice that says "This is a Christian space. We'll let you use it, but you have to ASK, and don't forget - it's ours. By the way? You're a minority." At a gut level, there's a division between you and the college. It's not our college; it's THEIR college, and you're being let in out of benevolence. You are at their mercy for the right to be in this space.

In November of 2006, Nichol boldly had the cross removed from the chapel, reversing the previous policy by stating that the cross could be requested for use for a specific event where it was appropriate. In Nichol's words:

And though we haven’t meant to do so, the display of a Christian cross—the most potent symbol of my own religion—in the heart of our most important building sends an unmistakable message that the Chapel belongs more fully to some of us than to others. That there are, at the College, insiders and outsiders. Those for whom our most revered place is meant to be keenly welcoming, and those for whom presence is only tolerated. That distinction, I believe, to be contrary to the best values of the College.

It is precisely because the Wren Chapel touches the best in us—the brightened lamp, the extended hand, the opened door, the call of character, the charge of faith, the test of courage—that it is essential it belong to everyone. There is no alternate Wren Chapel, no analogous venue, no substitute space. Nor could there be. The Wren is no mere museum or artifact. It touches every student who enrolls at the College. It defines us. And it must define us all.

I make no pretense that all will agree with these sentiments. The emotions and values touched by this dispute are deeply felt. But difficult issues are the grist of great universities. Amidst the turmoil, the cross continues to be displayed on a frequent basis. I have been pleased to learn that students of disparate religions have reported using the Chapel for worship and contemplation for the first time. In the College’s family there should be no outsiders. All belong.

Debate has been furious, and as a member of the graduating class of 1986, I have watched the media attention on my small college with extreme feeling.

Those who argued for the return of the Wren Chapel cross spoke eloquently about the origins of the college as a school designed to Christianize the local native Americans, and the school's origins indeed were to further Christianity. But today William and Mary is a state college, not a religious institution, and has a student body that ranges the religious spectrum, each with equal standing.

Other arguments for the return of the cross focused on the long tradition of the presence of the cross. And admittedly, the cross has been in that location since before I was born, and you won't find a group fonder of tradition than the college community. But the cross has stood there for a mere 67 years; a blip in the lifespan of a college whose sports-event chant spelling out The College of William and Mary in Virginia Founded in 1693 (another "tradition") can take upwards of twenty minutes.

These arguments are no surprise, and perfectly logical. It's the anguish, really, of the voices calling for the return of the cross that surprised me the most. Could they genuinely not understand what it is like from the other side of the table? Can they not find any empathy for the feelings of those who have quietly tolerated the imposition of another's religion in situations like this for their entire lives? The moderate voices, the well-reasoned representatives of Christianity include Mr. Nichol himself, as well as David L. Holmes, who spoke eloquently as always on the matter during a public debate where he made it clear that he was not representing the college, but voicing a community perspective that DID have empathy for both sides.

In the end, the only explanation I could find for the seemingly extreme reaction of some was the realization that Christianity is simply no longer the default religion of our culture, and that Christians are no longer entitled to a louder voice or more comprehensive control of community assets. Reasonable minds have anticipated and prepared themselves for this. But to some, it's a shock to think that the status quo they are familiar with may eventually change. And I can understand that this represents a major change to their sense of their position in the community. Having to share is hard -- ask me, I have a two-year-old. But like a toddler who has never had to share before, those who feel entitled to perpetual control of the Wren Chapel are not playing well with the other children.

Clearly mediation and cool minds to find a middle path were in order. In January 2007, Nichol engaged representatives of the college administration, faculty, students, and alumni to engage in the Committee on Religion at a Public University, to address the issue and recommend a resolution. The Committee returned quickly with an unexpected and elegant solution, acknowledging the deep feelings of those who find meaning in the presence of the cross in the chapel, while removing it from its position of ritual authority, except as requested for specific events.

THE WREN CHAPEL CROSS SHALL BE RETURNED FOR PERMANENT DISPLAY IN THE CHAPEL IN A GLASS CASE. THE CASE SHALL BE LOCATED IN A PROMINENT, READILY VISIBLE PLACE, ACCOMPANIED BY A PLAQUE EXPLAINING THE COLLEGE'S ANGLICAN ROOTS AND ITS HISTORIC CONNECTION TO BRUTON PARISH CHURCH. THE WREN SACRISTY SHALL BE AVAILABLE TO HOUSE SACRED OBJECTS OF ANY RELIGIOUS TRADITION FOR USE IN WORSHIP AND DEVOTION BY MEMBERS OF THE COLLEGE COMMUNITY.

In his statement on the establishment of the committee, Nichol says:

I have sought, then, to find ways to assure that the Wren Chapel is equally open and welcoming to every member of this community. My goal has not been to bleach all trace of religious thought and influence from our facilities and programs, but rather to offer the inspiration of the Wren to all.

And I say "Well done."

I am undone by the generosity of spirit Nichol brought to the college, and the wisdom of those he chose to resolve this issue. I am undone by the feeling, so many years after I left campus, that my college shares my values about religious diversity and fairness. I have never been so proud to call the College of William and Mary mine.

The Jeu de Pommes

I have a theory about the rules of engagement when one discusses religion with someone of strong religious conviction, but they're not very flattering, so I generally try to keep them to myself. Here's how the game works: Imagine, please, that you're playing tennis. Your opponent is allowed to hit the ball ANYWHERE on your side of the court, and if you miss it, they win, and they do the happy winner dance on your gymbag. You, however, are not allowed to hit the ball onto their side of the court -- to do so would reveal defensiveness or weakness of some kind, or perhaps just be overly aggressive. You can only end the game by performing the miracle of hitting the ball so that it balances perfectly on top of the net. You didn't discretely win; you just didn't win, but neither did your opponent.

Back in the early 90's, I was struck by a strong need to dive into the belief system I was born into -- Christianity. I considered myself Christian by default, in the same way that I think of vanilla as the absense of any other specific flavor. But I remember the moment distinctly, and could take you to the exact location on the road home from my office where I thought "You know, I have GOT to figure out whether I think this Jesus thing is for real." This alarmed my Jewish then-husband, whose strong preference, I believe, would have been for me to be as he was -- a completely disinterested Jew. Failing that, atheist or agnostic was probably best. But as I'm inclined to, I began to amass a huge stack of material and started gleaning data points. I read books on both sides, I read everything C.S. Lewis ever wrote, including SUPRISED BY JOY, which is one of the most striking stories of a person's unexpected realization of his conviction I've ever read. I read a stack of "historical Jesus" books, some of which are still on my bookshelf as I type here in its shadow. Heaven help me, I even read EVIDENCE WHICH DEMANDS A VERDICT. I read books on the history of the Bible itself and its translations, and the way that the canon was established. I read parallel translations of the New Testament, and comparisons of the gospels. My then-husband would sit next to me, reading some massive technical volume, and there I would be, trying to decide if Jesus was in fact the savior of mankind.

I was involved in an Internet bulletin board around that time, and there was a lot of discussion about the meaning of life, spirituality, religious beliefs and the like. Every so often, someone would come along and tell us we were all going to hell -- in fact, one of my favorite insane posters literally would post nothing but the words, all caps of course: YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HELL! We couldn't get him to talk, really, until something about Crunchberries caused him to break out of the mold and post one of the funniest razzings I've ever seen about how if you didn't like Crunchberries you were DEFINITELY going to hell. But I digress. There were people from every possible religious viewpoint involved in that board and that discussion, and after a time, we established what we called "the Crom test" -- if you made an assertion about religious truth that could be said with equal conviction about Conan's god Crom, then you were talking out of your butt. Sorry, please play again. A few began jokingly creating the Church of Latter-Day Cromists or some such nonsense -- but at our core, we were all on some kind of spiritual quest, and were good companions on the journey, although our destinations were rarely at the same location.

Sometime in the era of the Time Online bulletin board (may it rest in peace), I made the offer that if any sincere Christian wanted to take the time to publicly go through the process of making the case for Christianity, I'd be happy to go along for the journey, taking each step, one by one, together checking its logic, and identifying any spots where there was a leap I couldn't make and why -- and if they managed to get me through the entire journey, well, that would be one thing; if they didn't, at least we'd know absolutely where the leap of faith was that I was not inspired to take -- and that in itself would be interesting data.

I had exactly zero takers. None. Nada. Niente. Zippo. Zilch. Bupkus.

I think I once even attempted it on my own. I mean, I found likely candidates, people I thought of as knowledgeable and reasonable, yet committed Christians. And BEGGED them to be part of my project. Still bupkus.

By now, I was divorced, so uninfluenced by a Jewish spouse -- and yet, with everything I had read about Christianity and Judaism, I ultimately came to the conclusion that the part I could not make the leap to was the divinity of Jesus. Just couldn't do it. Love the church, but couldn't say the creed with integrity, because I simply DIDN'T believe was I was being asked to profess faith in. God? Okay. Holy Spirit? Uh, let's deal with him later. Jesus? Erm.... No. Nice guy -- can't say he's God. No proof text convinced me that the only or most plausible interpretation was that Jesus was the incarnation of God.

And yet, I believe completely that if God wants you, you cannot say "no." I remember praying, putting it out there -- "God, if you want me, I'm willing -- I just need help making this leap. I believe that if you want me to take it, I won't be able NOT to. I'm ready." Only the sound of crickets chirping, and maybe one eternal heavy sigh. It's been a decade or more since that point, and after five years of study and careful, heartfelt consideration, I converted to Judaism, and have not one time in the years since that act questioned my sincerity, the correctness of my choice, or my commitment to my chosen faith and people.

Several years after my conversion, I met a charming and handsome man with a charming and handsome son in my synagogue, and we were married, and have a child of our own now. If there were ever a time to question my commitment to live a Jew and to raise my son a Jew, it would have been when I handed my beloved 8-day-old son to the mohel for his bris, his ritual circumcision which entered him eternally into the covenant. If I had not been utterly steadfast, there is no way on earth I could have carried through with that act.

And so when I re-read A SEVERE MERCY recently, I was stunned by my husband's reaction. "I want you to promise me that if you change religions, you'll commit to raise Noah as a Jew." I was speechless. He what? Wanted me to promise him that? Why? And why was I so reluctant to speak those words? Was I questioning my choice? After all this time, after making the promise at my conversion and at my son's bris, was I now not willing to stand by it? It left me in a stunned silence that lasted for several days in my heart. Now, when I think about it, it's clear that it was the same kind of stunned silence I'd feel if he were to say "I want you to promise me that if you grow a second head and fly to the moon, you'll still do the dishes." It was just so nonsensical that it almost felt degrading to dignify it with response. But to soothe his concerns, I did share my feelings with him as I finished the book, and particularly the point where the author becomes a Christian. I reported in full honesty that I felt no longing for my religion of birth, or even a shred of loss for having given it up.

But things seem to travel in pairs, and just this week a colleague I've become friendly with and had hoped to have a long and fruitful friendship and business relationship with revealed something that makes me question the meaning of his friendliness. He revealed that he is a Christian, which was no surprise, and that he believes that the only way Jews will get to heaven is through Jesus. I've met this before, and I gave my standard answer -- I accept that God may have many covenants; Jews do not hold a lock on having a covenant relationship with God, and if God opened the door through Christianity to the rest of the world, then hallelujiah -- but nothing in that supercedes the covenant for all time that God established with the Jews. "No, that's not true." He began to speak of Truth, and there being only one way, and we hit quickly on that basic prooftext: "A virgin shall give birth."

Oh Lordy, here we go, I thought. How can I put the brakes on this thing before damage is done to the relationship? How can I prevent this from becoming a test of wills, with my soul the only one in the ante? I have no reason to want to change his religious beliefs, but I fully expect that I have a right to mine, and here's the important bit: I don't need someone else to come check my math for me. I don't NEED to put the mental process I went through in front of another person's scrutiny for validation any more than I would expect to be a voting member in his religious conviction. And I'm sad, really, that opening this door causes me to question his motives in everything about our relationship. I cannot tell now if it is sincere or a "love bomb" to get a notch in his belt for bringing an apostate, or a Jew, back to Jesus. Is he nice because he likes me, or because he's trying to get a "score"? I cannot tell.

I struggled with the awkwardness of the situation, and finally shared some of my anxiety with another friend, a Muslim, who laughed and said "Yeah, I know you're going to hell too." "Because I'm a Jew?" I asked. "Nah, just because you're you," he retorted. Great -- thanks. And suddenly a great window was thrown open in my mind, and for an instant I could see the hand of God on all of these people, all of these beautiful, imperfect, infuriating, frustrating people. If my Christian friend did not exist, there would be a huge gap in the world where he could have been -- the world would be a smaller and less beautiful place without him. It is precisely these differences, and the struggles between us, that make this world so clearly the handiwork of God in my eyes. I saw in a moment so many of the people in my life or in my past who have been a source of anxiety or frustration, whose love was limited and conditional on my compliance with some restriction they put on their world, which permanently damaged our friendship or relationship or even marriage. How weak and small we are, and yet how magnificent and beautiful! Myself, as well -- my emotional scars and my weaknesses are probably the greater influence over the person I am than my strengths and abilities. Certainly, like a child loves that worn, damaged, irreplaceable toy over the one that is new and perfect and clean out of the box, it is the scars and damage that are evidence of our loveableness. You love people not in spite of their weakness, but precisely FOR their weakness. I chalk up the list of people I love, and am overwhelmed that it is precisely the people who have shared their weaknesses with me that I love the most. The ones who are perfect and cool and collected and don't show their emotional injuries like a flag? They don't engender love; they bore me until something makes them human -- imperfect.

My friend is imperfect, and clings to the belief that his improbable choice that he fought so hard but resonated with him and eventually took him for its own like a drowning man clings to a scrap of wood in a stormy sea. I have to remember that his urge to sell me has nothing to do with me. It is his urge to sell himself THROUGH me, again and again and again, that compells him to witness to me. And with relief, and a new trust that our relationship is not permanently damaged, I can rest.

What a coincidence....

In 1987, I moved back to my parents' house from college and began looking for a job. With no real skills for the business world except a little bit of time working in Colonial Williamsburg Foundation's Audiovisual Library and a little bit of time working for a Richmond-market easy listening radio station, I took the most interesting job I found -- administrative assistant to the coordinator of NASA's Teacher in Space program, a program of the Educational Affairs Division. I quickly found myself surrounded by interesting scientific educational programs -- science fairs and orbiter-naming projects and elementary education curriculum development and educational technology, as well as regular involvement with the Teacher in Space Ambassadors, the semifinalists from each state who continued to serve as educational outreach to schools and students, and the Teacher in Space Designee Barbara Morgan, who is currently an astronaut awaiting shuttle flight STS-118, scheduled for later this year.

Sitting in what I remember as a dark and very full office was a woman I didn't realize had influenced me as she did until much later. Muriel Thorne was deeply involved in science fairs, interacting personally with many science fair contestants with aerospace projects, and leading the project to name the shuttle orbiter which would replace Challenger. Students from around the country submitted names, proposals, and presentatios, and I remember Muriel bursting forth from her office with a well-folded piece of wide-ruled notebook paper to share the latest brilliant idea to come in from a young student. My favorite was absolutely the child who adamantly recommended the name DEMOLISHER. But, you know, misspelled. And I think the letter was in crayon, and included a picture of a rocket ship with huge orange and yellow flames bursting from huge boosters. Oh, she laughed at some of the ideas and their presentations, but with so much love and encouragement for those children....

Muriel wrote. Or more specifically, Muriel TYPED, on an ancient manual typewriter. Admittedly, this was before the office had anything resembling personal computers, much less a network, and I can remember cussing madly when I made a typ-o on the IBM Selectrix on a form in triplicate for the Administrator's office, because you couldn't use the correction feature on the duplicates so you had to start over again. We had a Wang word processor that used diskettes that were about the size of a medium pizza that we used for drafts, but in many cases, originals still came out of that Selectrix, and to this day I miss the sound and sensation of those keys. But Muriel wasn't ready to let go of her manual typewriter, and I thought that she must have the strongest fingers on earth. The slapping sound of manual keys hitting paper came out of her office, and manuscripts emerged; I helped find references for photographs and get permission for their use, and with no Internet or email, it was a time-consuming process. I was proud when that draft went to publications, but had left that job by the time it was released as a book.

I left NASA after 2 years and the realization that I wasn't going to find a position there that didn't require me to transition to federal employment as a secretary, and then begin moving up the GS scale. Instead, I moved to a government contractor, working on the Navy's Class B RADAR program -- not nearly as interesting, but I no longer had to answer phones or make coffee, and I was glad for the advancement.

It's been 20 years since I started that job, and 3 months ago I again changed jobs, quickly found myself traveling to a client's office in the District of Columbia, and to my amazement, it was the building across the street from the building that in 1987 housed both the Department of Education and NASA Headquarters. I had lunch in the same sandwich shop where I'd eaten as a starving 20-something, and thought about that first job. On the way back to my Virginia office, I thought about the people I'd known and lost touch with, and my mind kept coming back to Muriel. I'd seen her a few years ago at the memorial service for Pam Mountjoy, who had been my manager at NASA, and she'd sent me a copy of that book we worked on so many years before, but we hadn't stayed in contact, and I sat there on the Metro, wondering what Muriel was doing.

And then I looked across the aisle of the Metro car. Could it be? Was it possible? Not 4 feet away from me sat Muriel.

I reached over and touched her arm gently and asked, "Muriel?" Clearly surprised at my touch, she looked over at me, and I saw recognition in her eyes. "Rebecca? I can't believe it -- I was just thinking about you!"

We had a two-stop fond reunion, and I pressed my new business card into her hand before she got off the train. She promised to call -- we'd get together for lunch and catch up. I was numb with disbelief and delight. She waved as the car left the station. Two stops later, I realized that I had gotten on the wrong line -- I needed an Orange Line car and was on a Blue Line car. If I hadn't made that mistake, if I hadn't stopped at Starbucks for a cup of coffee, I would never have seen her.

It's been since December, and I finally heard from her this week. Health issues and travel over the holidays stopped her from calling earlier, but when the weather's warmer, we've made a date for lunch. I can't wait to tell her, as I'm sure she's heard from so many students she's helped during the years, how much she influenced me, and how happy I am for having had her in my life all those years ago. I write today largely because of her. Everyone should have as much impact on the world as this one quiet woman with a loud typewriter.