Exploring the Spirituality of a School Chapel: Space, Silence and the Self Colin Heber-Percy (bio) The school chapel I have in mind is tucked into the eaves of an ugly science block belonging to a minor public school in England.1 As a boy in my early teens I regularly chose to sit here, dispirited, confused, and unhappy. The room is unmemorable (though I remember it clearly). Carpet tiles, white-painted wooden rafters and joists, dusty dormer windows, a few Christian images mounted on board warping in the damp air, a simple metal cross set in a block of lead. This chapel is not the school’s main place of worship; it is rarely visited, a forgotten room, up a flight of concrete stairs. I want to use this chapel as an embarkation point for exploring how a renewed emphasis on space as distinct from place, and on silence as the ground of prayer might alert us to different ways of thinking about spirituality, the self and the sublime. I am setting out on this exploration purposely without a definition of spirituality, in the hope that the outlines of a definition will emerge, inductively as it were, as we survey the territory. Lacking the perspective that would enable me to call into question the baleful norms and practices of the school (which I hated), I accepted isolation and being at odds with the world as “the way of things.” So here is the first tentative step on a spiritual journey: the chapel was a retreat from the world. It was a place to be quiet, to be alone with my thoughts in the near silence. But over time, and as I began to return to the spot regularly, I realized this was a retreat to something as well. The silence spoke to me, or tenderly whispered: With that deep hush subduing all Our words and works that drown The tender whisper of Thy call, As noiseless let Thy blessing fall As fell Thy manna down.2 I sensed in that chapel a tectonic alignment, or realignment, of some fundamental aspects of myself: [End Page 215] Click for larger view View full resolution Absences IV © Javier Matoses [End Page 216] Immensity is within ourselves. It is attached to a sort of expansion of being that life curbs and caution arrests, but which starts again when we are alone.3 What Gaston Bachelard here calls “immensity,” I am calling “space.” It is inside ourselves, but it also involves an expansion of our very mode of being: space expanding into space. Constraining this movement, according to Bachelard, are “life” and “caution” or what John Whittier terms our “words and works” drowning out God’s call. Over the course of the following essay, I will understand “life” and “caution” in terms of place, of our phenomenological reception of the particular. Alone in the chapel I was momentarily able to put aside this “life” with its words and works. The silence of the chapel was a resonating chamber; it was the deep hush, the noiselessness of falling manna. And the walls of the nondescript chapel were somehow infinitely capacious. The classrooms downstairs were places for delivering information and for learning understood as absorption of facts. The chapel was the opposite: not a place at all, but a space for expanding myself into the silence and unknowable immensity of God. The chapel, I thought, somehow allows God in. This room is all door. In a sense, it is nowhere. “Where shall I be, then?” you ask. “Nowhere, by what you tell me!” Now truly, you are right: that is where I would have you, because nowhere in the body is everywhere in the spirit.4 I Of course being in place is a non-negotiable aspect of human existence: you are reading this at a desk, on a train, in your study, in the bath. Being is always “being here” or “being there.” Martin Heidegger termed the necessarily qualified nature of our being—Dasein, “being there.”5 To ponder place, therefore, is to bring to consciousness a necessary component of our being; the placedness of a given experience is what the Stoics called a...