Let There Be Light: Architectural Splendor and Civic Irony in Sherman
To cross the threshold of the Holy Trinity Chapel is to step into a masterclass of traditional craftsmanship. If you are in the area, it is well worth the visit, if only to run a hand along the exquisite, dark-grained woodwork of the pews or to feel the sheer gravity of its massive, ten-foot timber doors, each weighing hundreds of pounds. Built with undeniable grace and technique, the chapel is a triumph of ecclesiastical architecture. Its stained glass is spectacular, offering a quiet, kaleidoscope serenity to anyone sitting within its nave.
But recently, this serene sanctuary has become something else entirely: a glowing monument to the irony of Sherman’s municipal government.
For months, Sherman residents have voiced their frustrations over the blinding "light dome" radiating from the $50 million Sherman School renovation project. When questioned about the relentless, stadium-level illumination at the taxpayer-funded site, First Selectman Don Lowe was unequivocal: the town, he claimed, would not—and could not—do anything about it, asserting that the school’s lighting fell safely outside the purview of the local Planning and Zoning regulations.
Yet, in a town of Sherman's size, the rules possess a fascinating elasticity.
In a recent conversation with Selectman Joel Bruzinski regarding the school’s light pollution, Bruzinski attempted to demonstrate the administration's even-handedness. The town, he noted, had recently fielded neighbor complaints about overly bright exterior spotlights illuminating the Holy Trinity Chapel down the street. Swiftly, the town intervened, and the church was ordered to shut the exterior floodlights down.
The irony is thick enough to cut with a bandsaw: a municipal administration that throws its hands up in helpless defeat regarding its own glaring megaproject somehow found the jurisdictional teeth to police the exterior lights of a local church.
But the chapel, it seems, took notes on the town's interpretation of the zoning code.
While Planning and Zoning regulations meticulously dictate the wattage, shielding, and downward angles of exterior property lighting, they hold almost zero jurisdiction over the type of lightbulb a private property owner chooses to screw into an interior socket.
Faced with the town's hypocritical enforcement, the church opted for a masterstroke of malicious compliance. They dutifully turned off the illegal exterior floodlights. Then, they walked inside, ignited what appears to be a localized artificial sun, and pointed it squarely through their spectacular stained glass windows.
Today, the chapel serves as Sherman's second blinding light dome—radiating a blast of technicolor brilliance street-side, transforming a quiet country church into a neon billboard of defiance.
It is a beautifully executed lesson in municipal misbehavior. The administration taught the town that the rules only apply when convenient. The church, in turn, demonstrated exactly what happens when a community weaponizes that lesson and dresses it in stained glass. Let there be light, indeed.