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if a church is God's house, is it ever really abandoned?
after the parishoners, the deacons and choirboys and preachers are gone,
does the Lord leave as well?
time takes no less of a toll either way. paint still peels,
mold still grows, wood still rots. the homeless enter and defecate in stairwells,
vandals spraypaint '666' and pentagrams on the walls,
thieves steal pews and moulding and pipes and tile,
and gradually the house of God is stripped of its adornments,
becoming less of a symbol of worship and adulation
than an example of how even our holiest monuments to the divine
meet the same fate as all of our other endeavors.
then again, the Christian tradition has always valued modesty -
from Christ's humble birth to his martyr's death,
His example was not one of worldly wealth and power.
His throne was not in this world but the next, and
His teachings of compassion and forgiveness encompassed
all manner of sinners, from thieves to prostitutes and murderers.
without the chatter of the congregation and the weight of formality,
the forces returning this structure to its base elements
operate in silence and dust-speckled sunlight.
save for the wounds inflicted by intruders, all of the 'injuries'
are wrought by nature itself, perhaps the most pure expression of God's will.
it was a beautiful afternoon when i visited the Church of the Transfiguration.
i spent hours studying the architecture, the ornamental flourishes
in the decorative carvings, statues, and paintings.
i tried to interpret the way the sun left patterns of shadow and light,
and when i was tired i sat alone
in the stillness and tranquility the solitude provided
and the peace was absolute and uninterrupted.
i believe whatever people came to worship that was there before,
i believe it is still there.
as always, it was waiting. it was waiting for someone
to genuinely look for it, and to be still and listen.
be still and listen