I have never met Queen Elizabeth II, but I won’t lie her death has broken me. By being such a relentless source of inspiration, acceptance, and an object of pride, the Queen became a guiding compass to people of all faiths in the UK and across the Commonwealth.
Suppose a rock crashed through your window slamming into the wall of your living room, narrowly missing the sofa where your grandchild sits. Then suppose the tires were slashed on your car and truck, with hate messages and swastikas scrawled on those vehicles.
On the morning of June 24, safe in my studio in rural upstate New York, I tuned into my usual morning mix of email and news blurbs, casually rendering mental opinions on the latest political tempests-in-their-teapots.
The world offers much to be indifferent about—violence, hatred, bias, discrimination, lies and death. At 68 it would be easy to snuggle up to that indifference by just working my garden, taking out the trash and muttering platitudes at my neighbors.
A brief glance through the Renaissance reveals so many examples of art and architecture created in honor of and inspired by the artist’s faith. Grand churches made of massive stones have sprung up in every European city—a testament to the faith and love of the people who started building them, knowing they might never live to see them finished.
And now just a few short weeks later, all of us suddenly find ourselves searching for faith elsewhere than where the signs and marquees direct us. But faith needs no seats, no altar, no stained-glass windows, no doors nor even walls.