Constructed in 1949, the Glass House is one of the late architect Philip Johnson’s masterpieces. It is a significant example of modernist architecture, resting on forty-nine acres of semi-rural landscape in New Canaan, Connecticut. As its name suggests, the house is comprised of four walls of sheer glass and is perched on a slight hill overlooking a beautiful vista of trees and a small lake. Set off some distance from the main road, it’s not exactly in full view of the world around. But amid the cleared land surrounding it, and especially after sunset with all the lights on in the house and the moon in view, everything that happens within its walls is on full display.
Philip Johnson described the genesis of the house’s design in this way.
“The Glass House started because of the land that was there. That was my hardest job by far. I worked for three or four years throwing out ideas. And it was all conditioned by the landscape itself. In finding that little knoll, I was in the middle of the woods in the middle of the winter and I almost didn’t find it. I found a great oak tree and I hung a whole design on the oak tree and the knoll because this place, don’t forget, it is more of a landscape park than it is a work of architecture. . .”[1] Johnson later quipped that the Glass House is “[t]he only house in the world where you can see the sunset and the moonrise at the same time, standing in the same place.”
Part of the beauty of this house is its permeability to the outside world and the vulnerability demanded of its inhabitants. The cooking and sleeping and partying in the house are all on full display. There’s no hiding in this glass house, except, thankfully, in the bathroom.
Johnson boldly put himself in the public eye with his Glass House. Critics have analyzed his life as much as the house itself. In that transparent box, he held frequent gatherings of contemporary artist friends, many of whom were gay like he was, in an age when it wasn’t necessarily accepted in society, highlighting his and others’ unwillingness to shy from public scrutiny. Other critics, with psychological penetration, have likened the excessive transparency of Johnson’s house to an architecturally rendered apology for the anti-Semitism and fascist sympathies of his early years.
Whatever the case—and certainly there is much we will never know—the Glass House breaks down the barriers between the outside world and the private, domestic lives of humans.
I wonder, do we Christians feel like we live in a glass house? We may not literally be living in a city set on a hill—and certainly here in Center City Philadelphia we are more on a plain—but metaphorically, are we not, in some sense, living in a city on a hill with all the lights on in our glass house? In a world that is increasingly suspicious of the church and of Christians, there are always critical observers looking through the windows of our glass house, ready to pounce on any flaws that they witness.
But, of course, the church’s disgraces have needed to be exposed: the sex abuse scandals, the hypocrisy, the abuses of power, the colonialist cruelty—I could go on and on. I’m sure you get the picture, and there really is no way around it. For better or for worse, the church—even in spite of its evident decline—seems to comprise a community of people living in a glass house, set on a hill, with the lights on for everyone to see every move we make.
Too often and historically, Christians have lived in willful or blissful ignorance of this fact, indeed have avoided glass walls altogether. Instead of simple, rectangular glass houses, we have constructed elaborate cruciform structures with thick stone walls and opaque stained glass that can only be appreciated from the inside, when the light from outside shines through them. We, today, sit in an exquisite example of such a solid building, rather dark in a mystical sort of way on the interior. It is gorgeous, and it clearly serves its intended purposes of glorifying God in brick and mortar.
But there is also always a temptation to retreat inside buildings and houses of worship. Church buildings have become refuges from the influences of the nasty world outside. Think about all the ways in which people of faith have fled to their places of worship, hiding behind impenetrable walls from what lies outside. They have created profound but esoteric languages and rituals as they attempt to speak about God, but they have failed to demystify and explain them to outsiders. Others have been so ashamed of seeming foolish or silly in worshipping and serving the living Lord that they have sequestered themselves behind concrete walls, unwilling to expose the heart of their faith to others, for fear of embarrassment.
At its worst, the church has used brick and mortar to shield itself from judgment and scrutiny. The supposed holiness of sacred precincts has given license to all manner of evil. And on a less sinister level, Christians have often failed to be vulnerable or admit their own imperfections and weaknesses.
It’s true that anyone who wants to keep a clean, perfect house dreads the moment that the light shines through the windows and illumines the layer of dust that has accrued on surfaces. The church has been all too reluctant to let others see its own cobwebs lurking in hidden corners.
I wonder if we are willing to show our fragility as imperfect Christians who nevertheless take seriously Jesus’ injunctions to “be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect”? Are we willing to expose corruption within the church to the light of repentance? Are we willing to examine our past and our present with compunction and a sense of humility?
If we take St. Matthew’s words seriously, Jesus laid a lot of responsibility on the shoulders of his followers. “Whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” Like it or not, the person who publicly identifies as a follower of Christ lives in a glass house, and so every action that does not embody the Gospel or every action that does not look like justice, mercy, peace, or compassion is judged in the light of Christ’s redeeming work. And rightly so, because everyone who looks into the glass house and finds an excuse to live apart from the law of God is a soul at risk. And every Christian who aids and abets another soul in turning from God is a soul that is convicted by Christ’s word of truth.
Is it any wonder, then, that Christians have retreated to their stone castle on a hill in order to be isolated from the surrounding world and also impervious to public examination? Does that make us feel safer to do those things we know we really shouldn’t be doing? Do we, in fact, desire a certain amount of freedom to get away with doing whatever we want and living however we want to live, as if there were no law? It’s much harder to live in a glass house or in a city on a hill, because there you have intentionally put yourself in a position of public witness.
But although we Christians have been proficient at seeing the shadow side of walking in the way of Christ, with its risky vulnerability and exposure to criticism, Jesus has invited us to see the beautiful potential of living in a city set upon a hill or in a glass house. Jesus invites us to see that it’s a gift to be embraced in spite of its demands. Even when the sun is setting and the light seems to disappear, the moon is rising at the same time. And although a city built on a hill looks like it’s set apart from the rest of the world, it is, in fact, connected with it. By its very position, it is meant to be a beacon of hope to a hurting, troubled landscape.
If we recall Philip Johnson’s glass house, we remember that the surrounding landscape was its inspiration. The house was not just intended to be something for people to gaze critically into. Instead, the identity of the house itself is informed by its strong link to what lies outside its glass walls. A church residing as a city set upon a hill, when it adopts an outward looking posture, is deeply tied to everything that inhabits the space outside its walls. The church as a body of Christ’s disciples is called to sit in a hopeful place of vulnerability to the exterior world.
So, what might it look like to be a light to the world shining from a glass house on a hill? If we throw the lights on in our houses of worship, can we inspire others by our willingness to admit our own imperfections and ability to embrace repentance? Can we proudly share our delightfully quirky worship with others? Can we invite them to be fools for Christ like us in a culture that is increasingly too serious about all the wrong things? Can we welcome the stranger and make them feel at home inside our glass walls? We don’t need to tear down our beautiful buildings or apologize for them. We don’t need to break our exquisite stained glass windows. Because if the light can get in, it can also get out.
Maybe we need to challenge ourselves to probe more deeply our own understandings of our faith so that we can unpack it for others. This doesn’t mean eschewing the church’s ancient and carefully crafted language; it just means knowing how to translate it.
Maybe we need to open our doors more often instead of shutting them in people’s faces. Maybe we need to take a friend or a stranger by the hand and say, “Come, follow me,” and invite them into this mystically dark building where Jesus’s light still shines in front of the tabernacle, 24-7. It’s a delightful place where sometimes it’s hard to see through clouds of incense but where a motley group of fools for Christ are collectively turned towards the east, for an hour and a half once a week, looking for the coming kingdom of God.
In spite of all its scary downsides and risks, living in this glass house, perhaps set on a hill, with all the lights on, can be a pretty fantastic thing. If we have the temerity to look through the glass windows at our brothers and sisters around us, and if we can hold our gaze there for long enough, without turning away in embarrassment or shame or shyness, we might see a few people looking back at us with a measure of curiosity, wondering how they can enter that glass house and be part of a wonderful community. Or we might find ourselves longing to be outside with them, sharing the light that illumines our own lives.
Because no matter how hard you try, a city on a hill can’t be hid. The light from inside can’t be contained within, nor should it. And life inside a glass house can’t be shielded from view. So, the question remains: in spite of the risks it demands of us, why not invite people in? And if we open our eyes at the right time of day, we can see the moon rise and the sun set, both at the same time.
Preached by Father Kyle Babin
9 February 2020
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia