Amber lights have this curious property, and I can’t be the only one who’s noticed it. Sometime, look at your shadow cast by a bright amber light, especially in wet grass. You’ll see the crispness of the shadow, but you’ll also see a nimbus, especially about the head of your shadow- where the light is actually brighter than it is in the surrounding area. It’s faint, and you almost can’t see if it you’re not walking, but it’s certainly there.
Since I moved back with my folks, I find myself living within a short walk of the Church in which I grew up. You won’t find me there on Sunday mornings, or any other morning (not even Christmas, I’m afraid). But lately, about once a week or so, I take a walk down there round about midnight. There’s a playground right across the street from the Church, with a clear view of the whole building, and that’s where I have my little service.
There’s always the Doxology, and a hymn as best I can remember- sometimes just thought, more often hummed or sung, depending on how much I want to break the silence. Then I always pray. The details are different each time, but the general theme is there- Always pray for sun, always thank God for the constant rain (delivered in His wisdom, amen). It’s always best I steady myself with the Lord’s Prayer before getting into my own particulars. That system works well for me.
When I’m all prayed out, I always end up thinking about the building itself. The Church. You can tell from the outside that it was built one chunk at a time, expanded as needed- the roofs don’t line up, windows that are useful seem a little out of place when taken as a whole. Some might say it looks sloppy or chaotic, but to me, it’s just organic.
The outside of the Church gives me that wonderful feeling of old, used-up belonging. Like walking into your old 1st grade classroom, perhaps. It’s not the fact that the colors are all too bright, or the smell of crackers and crayons, it’s not precisely any of those things, but a nice sensation that comes along with them. The kind of sensation I could bask in all night.
Then I reflect on myself, and how I relate to the Church. Last time, I even thought about this post that I would right the following afternoon, right down to this very sentence, in a bit of pre-meditated deja vu. You like that? ‘Pre-meditated deja vu’? Phrase caught my mental eye, and the chance to write it down was really one of the big motivations towards bothering with the whole thing, so I hope it works. Thinking about me and the Church always leads to me thinking about inside the Church, and not just the building itself. Reflecting on the inside of the Church gives me a slightly different feeling. A sad tugging, that doesn’t tug in any direction. If you can’t picture tugging without a direction, imagine perhaps looking at a happy photo of your dead spouse. Tug. Some of you may feel the urge to jump into the page and start swimming through the colors, some of you may feel the urge to crumple the picture up and eat it, but really, what you want is to go, to follow where the sensation leads, but of course, there’s nowhere for it to lead.
Of course, it’s always night, it’s always locked, it’s always empty- that’s how we plan it. So that’s the reason for the tugging without a direction. Sometimes, then, I make plans, count the days till Sunday, and resolve to take that morning off work. Invariably, though, I always remember the Thing that sunk it’s fangs in me and took me away from that place to begin with. I’m sad for a moment. But then I look at the stars, and the steeple, and decide that’s close enough for me, and resolve to make the most out my private service that I can.
