The Holy of Holies

Many of my first memories have to do with my "other home", the small Methodist church that was three doors down and across the street from my house. Each Sunday morning, we would dress in our best clothes, and meander in a family clump down the sidewalk. I still remember trying to avoid tripping on one particularly uneven crack in the sidewalk. I would bet money that it is still there.

The feeling that I had standing in the middle of the church, surrounded by tall, hymn-singing adults was probably akin to the aura of exaltation the architects of Gothic cathedrals were trying to achieve. My young spirit would reach upward. The voices around me sounded like they were echoed from the vaults of heaven. When sitting by my father, I would lay my head against his chest and feel his bass voice rumble through his chest. The women, decked out in their best clothes, oftentimes topped by gorgeous hats, complete with veils, looked like they could give any angel a run for his money in the "glory" department.

When I was four years old, everything looked tall. I would look up at the grownups who towered beside me, despite the fact that I was usually standing on the pew itself. Beyond their heads, the ceiling was an infinite distance away; God must live somewhere up there, I thought (the church was, after all, his house), listening patiently to our prayers and hymns. He was either there, or behind the red velvet curtain in the front of the sanctuary. The Glory of Heaven streamed through the stained glass windows and when the congregation would respond to the invocation of the minister by singing "The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him," I had a real feeling of holiness.

Other images persist in my memory – listening to the pastor thunder out a sermon that made the light fixtures rock; sitting in the front row with a friend after serving as candle-lighters; vacation Bible School; church picnics and pot-lucks; funerals; weddings; christenings; joy and sorrow.

The members of the Zeigler United Methodist Church put up with my foibles and failures, and cheered my successes over the years. The church had the unique honor of hearing my first attempts to perform music in front of other people besides my family, as I got up at the age of 7 and sang the alto part of a duet with my classmate Donna; and played a Christmas special at our annual Christmas pageant. They watched as I sat, sweaty-palmed and white-knuckled at a revival one summer, and then rushed forward to the altar in response to the evangelist's invitation. They never criticized as I went through the rocky years of my teens, assuming that God would speak to my heart. Once, in a moment of desperation, after an argument with my parents, I ran away, but only got as far as Jean's house. Jean was a member of the church, and is still a close friend of my mother's. She sat and listened as I spewed forth anger; then she asked if she could call my parents. But she never criticized my feelings. I stayed at her house for a long time that evening.

The church took up a collection for me when I went to France after college graduation; and gave me a party when I returned, where they could look at my
pictures and listen to my stories.

Over the years, many of them have gone on to their reward. But when I sit in the sanctuary of that little church on a Sunday morning, they are still very much with me. The sanctuary has shrunk to the size of a cracker box; the people are stooped and gray. None of the ladies wear fancy hats to church any more. But one thing hasn't changed - they still know how to love. In fact, they have gotten even better at it; or perhaps I have gotten better at appreciating it. It doesn't matter how unexpectedly I return. I know that part of who I am is because of the way I was loved.

None of the Zeigler Methodists (except perhaps the pastor) excels in the finer points of theology. But they can tell you all about love -- the love between God and man; and how it is authenticated by our love for one another. Better than that, they show it to you every time you walk through the doors of the church.

Even though they get shorter every time I go home to visit, each one of them is still a spiritual giant.