The thing is, there’s nothing quite as soul calming, as a Sunday morning in an empty church. The sun, just barely peeking up over the city scape. The chill of the air, not yet dissipated by the warmth of bodies that are moving and breathing and doing life. The key, being inserted into the doors that have been opened to God’s people for 62 years, echoing. The darkness of the sanctuary; new light trying to find the cross so that it might bounce off of it’s brassy shine, illuminating the world.
Empty. Silent. Anticipating.
Few get to experience the emptiness. That’s a ministers gift. Before the scurrying and the laughter, the complaining and the coffee making…before the singing and the praying and the listening…we get to breath in the story that is nestled in the walls. We get to find someone’s pew and sit for a bit, praying for that person. We get to wander the halls and open the classroom doors…listening to the stillness, touching the sacredness, breathing in the history. This is the gift of the emptiness.
But there is mourning to be done, now. Eleven weeks. That’s it.
So each touch of the rough walls…each walk down the darkened hallway…each flip of the switch, clank of communion trays, smell of brewing coffee…touches the soul a little differently.
The sanctuary will soon be empty.
Giving way to life.