There is no reason to regret that I cannot finish the church. I will grow old but others will come after me. What must always be conserved is the spirit of the work, but its life has to depend on the generations it is handed down to and with whom it lives and is incarnated.~Antonio Gaudi

“Here is the church. Here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people.” This child’s hand game is one many people know. It may have been created to teach and remind us that all those waving fingers really represent what church is meant to be…people gathering in a variety of ways, worshiping, praying, singing, caring for one another. The message was meant to convey that the church is more than the building. Those ten wiggling fingers made up the most of what church is.

During these last months as the pandemic swirls around us putting everyone at risk, especially those most vulnerable by virtue of age, ethnicity or health condition, this message that church is people has never been stronger. Each Sunday I am in awe of those in church leadership who do amazing, creative work allowing people to worship virtually…something none were trained to do… and yet they are about the work of calling people together and reminding them what it means to be true church…people. It has been inspiring to receive. As the time has lengthened from a few months edging into nearly a year, as Easter came and went, and now as we move into Advent and the Christmas season, it is clear that this way of coming together as the church is not going to change anytime soon. And the truth is, many of us have learned new ways of being church.

I am a self-described church nerd. I have always loved being the church. And I also love the buildings in which people gather to act on being a faith community. While I totally agree that the pandemic has been a powerful reminder of what it means to be church, I also miss being able to go into a space created for acting on what it means to experience the Sacred. I miss the strength of the stone, the dark wood, the smell of candles and the light that shines through stained glass. To be able to sit in a less than comfortable pew and have the wash of color illuminate images from stories that have shaped my life brings a deep comfort. Not being able to be in the buildings that illicit this weighs heavy on my heart.

I live within a five minute drive of the Cathedral of St. Paul and while it is not my congregation, over the years I have found solace within those walls. Especially at this time of year, I will miss going to kneel at the alcove that holds the statue of Mary and to make my way to the Celtic corner where St. Francis, St. Brigid and St. Columba look down at my upturned face. I will, of course miss the church buildings where I have worshiped. The one where I served on staff for many Christmas seasons has a bank of stained glass images of women of faith…having those women reign down on me gave me such strength. And the church building I have now come to call home has an image of Jesus whose face has a green tinge to it. I have loved it since the first time I noticed it. Whether it is the aging of the glass over time or the intention of the artist I do not know. AlI I do know is that it reminds me of the call to be present in Creation, to care for the land under our feet and to grow, grow, grow.

Over the years I have visited sanctuaries large and small and I have found each and every one sacred space. Sitting in the chapel at  St. Hywyn’s Chapel in Aberdaron, Wales I was astonished that one of my favorite poets, R.S. Thomas had been a part of the community. I could feel his words emanating from the stone walls as the powerful winds off the Atlantic whipped at the outside walls. Standing in awe and climbing the precarious stairs of La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, I was folded into Gaudi’s dream of creating a sanctuary that would express Heaven and Earth. Stone, wood, glass, the play of light and darkness, each building holds not only the stories of those who worship there but of the architects and artists who tried to give form to what words cannot express. 

More than once I have been asked what I’ll do when we can leave our houses and move about freely again in the world. Yes, I do want to eat in a restaurant and go to a movie and attend a concert. And I really want to go and sit in a sanctuary, in a pew, feel its hard surface digging into my back and legs, stare up at the windows and breathe in the scent of candle and story, listen to the play of music bouncing off stone and space, and savor the silence of sanctuary. 

Signs. Over the last months I have found myself driving through several states and have been aware of the various billboards that dot the highways. I’ve noticed that some states seem to gravitate toward more signage than others. In some sates they are nearly constant and in others you can drive for countless miles and see no messages calling from the fields. During an early drive, I saw the message “Billboards work.” Clearly this was placed by a business that sells billboard space. I wondered. Is this true? Is anyone really pushed toward a product or idea by a message blazoned on a billboard, one difficult to read at breakneck speeds as one drives? 

Given the weeks in which I was driving, clearly, some of those messages placed by folks running for political offices were counting on the impact. I saw lots of those. Some of the other messages that actually stuck with me, causing me to write them down when it was safe to do so were: Live more. Worry Less. I liked that one. Iseemed to be a series because that billboard was followed up with: Start fresh. and a little further down the road, Use Your Outside Voice. It was unclear who was putting these messages into the world but they did give me something to think about as I drove. Another: Forgive Like Jesus caused me to think about the depth of those three words. Pretty big stuff to think about while moving at sixty plus miles per hour. Do I forgive with the open hearted, unconditional nature of Jesus? Mostly, not so much.

Peppered among these road side signs were the trucks carrying various large pieces of farm equipment and parts of wind turbines destined for farm fields along the way. I am always in awe of those who can maneuver one of those enormous rigs. Luckily their message, strapped across the back of their vehicle, “Oversize load”, makes clear that I am wise to not only be in awe but to stay back and stay safe. I thought of all the people who are carrying an oversize load in these very challenging times, how most don’t have a visible sign to nudge us into being careful and caring in their presence.

One of the most telling signs came to me not on the road but at Yellowstone National Park. Walking along the plank path created through the many geysers, I witnessed this sign: Unstable Ground. Boiling Water. Stay on designated paths. Slippery when wet or icy.. I thought about how this seemed an apt message for our times. We are certainly on some big old unstable ground right now which feels like something is boiling under our feet. The urging to stay on our designated paths lest the slippery ground causes us to falter seems very wise.

In the uncertainty of 2020, many of us are looking for signs. Guideposts that answer such questions as: When will this pandemic be over? Should I go or stay home? Can I be with those people but perhaps not others? Is this safe? Is this wise? We would love some clear, certain messages that tell us what to do. Others believe they have clear answers and seem to move with an assurance that baffles many. It is probably within the human DNA to search for signs, to hope for signs, to rely on messages we believe must lurk just outside our vision. 

While signs that come through words are almost always present, it has been my experience that the wordless signs are often the most powerful. The messages that come without verbal nuance are often more difficult to notice. And noticing is our real work, isn’t it? The being awake and aware to those signs that can be right before our eyes and yet so easily ignored.

On my kitchen table I have just such a sign. Resting in various vases and glasses,  narcissus bulbs are sitting on stones and water. Very early in the time when I placed them there, the bulbs began to put forth roots and the green shoots began reaching upward. I watch them several times a day and notice their growth, sometimes it seems I might be able to sit and see the growth happening. It seems miraculous to me. This message of hope and beauty and the infinite goodness of nature is a wordless affirmation. It says to me: Even in what perhaps promises to be a cold, difficult and uncertain winter, beauty is still emerging. It is a message. It is a sign.

And I am deeply grateful.