Admission

Written 3/12/07

My name is Amy and I am a church nerd.

This is not some new revelation that will shock anyone who knows me, I’m sure. But rather than trying to play this part of me down, you know, to act like everyone else, I realized this week it might be better to just embrace the reality of my situation and come to terms with it.

Here’s what finally made me publicly admit this fact about myself.

I took a quick trip last week to my favorite city ever. I was not feeling great, as the flu was following me around, but I soldiered on, determined that I could have a good time even while sick. Turns out you have to walk a lot in Manhattan, which is great exercise under normal circumstances, but when feeling generally faint, well, not so great.

Good thing on one very cold afternoon after quite a lot of walking, I came upon one of my favorite, favorite places in my favorite city: The Church of St. Mary the Virgin on W. 46th Street.

If you look closely while meandering down 46th Street, you’ll probably be able to see the steps leading up to its unassuming front doors (alas, no neon signage . . .). I seemed to head right there, almost like instinctively coming home.

St. Mary’s is right off Times Square, tucked away among nail salons and bagel shops, just a few steps from the Toys R Us superstore. I found it once several years ago when I was looking for a peaceful place, and there it was again . . . sanctuary for my upset stomach, freezing ears (forgot my hat) and restless soul.

This time I opened the doors with some trepidation (would the church be closed to a weary tourist late on a cold afternoon?). No, just like the many times it has before, the foyer welcomed me in and my eyes were drawn up again to another favorite of mine: the ceiling of St. Mary’s. It’s painted a very deep, dark blue and dotted with gold stars. When I look up at it, head resting on the back of a pew, I always am transported, imagining that I’m not in the middle of the busiest city in the world but rather in an utterly peaceful place where I can freely reach upward and outward to a waiting God . . . and actually find God on the other end of my reaching.

That cold afternoon, as I was enveloped in the warmth, staring at the ceiling, feeling possibly for the first time that day some modicum of peace, I realized the truth and was even able to murmur it under my breath to myself:

My name is Amy and I am a church nerd.

We Baptists learn, of course, from the very basics of Sunday School curriculum that “the church” is not a building at all, but rather a whole community of people gathered together. This I believe, of course. But whenever I go into St. Mary’s I suspect that, for me anyway, there might be a little something more tangible to this concept of church.

For some people, I guess, their souls are calmed and healed by the blue of the ocean; for some the stretch of the mountains; for others, the Macy’s sale flyer (stay tuned for reflections on The Theology of Shopping, a multi-volume discourse I am certainly destined to write before I die).

But, may I say, this finding God in an edifice called church is, as they say, nothing new. In fact, in humble defense of church nerds everywhere, I’d like to here point out that it has been thousands of years since folks had the grand idea to build beautiful buildings in which we humans might step out of our regular lives and encounter something truly wonderful, something bigger than ourselves. Spend some time on the couch with The Pillars of the Earth and you’ll never think of church in the same way. In fact, forget the Middle Ages. Even popular culture embraces church as a place to find something wonderful (ever wonder why Peter Gabriel wailed about falling in love by singing: “In your eyes, the light, the heat, your eyes, I am complete, in your eyes I see the doorway to a thousand churches . . . ?” I rest my case.)

But one could argue (and, let me tell you, there have been a few of these folks in my life) that those of us who “do church” for a living have some sort of strange love affair with the the actual, physical place.

The arches, the wood; the icons, the candles; the artwork, the altar, the vestments. The ceiling! (The ceiling!!!) And the smells and sounds: wax and wood polish, flowers and incense and dust . . . wood creaking, bells ringing, organ pipes thrumming, voices raised in praise.

These are the things that spread over my soul like honey, filling the cracks with substance and nourishment . . . with what I’d call hope when my soul is crumbly and lifeless, tired and useless.

These things thrill me unlike anything else I can think of, transport me to a place of deep joy and fill my heart with calm assurance that I am not alone; that God is here, even in the middle of feeling cold to the bone and faint from the flu; in the middle of cabbies honking and street vendors yelling; in the middle of a city where I could walk just a few steps and encounter so many things that do not inspire deep joy and do not fill my heart with any assurance whatsoever (case in point the 25-story picture of Sean “Puffy” Combs right around the corner from St. Mary’s). God, right here where I happen to find myself.

Here I admit it: encounters with God are some of the most longed-for experiences in the busy rush of my life. And I’d like to qualify my status as church nerd of the highest order by saying that, for me, is just another way of describing a tendency to find God, to find sanctuary, in a place built just for that purpose.

And, as I am not ignorant to the fact that many people feel strongly that God is nowhere to be found in such edifices, (I myself have wondered from time to time), I here give thanks for warm sanctuary, beautiful ceilings, healing atmosphere and most of all . . . for finding God, if just for a few moments. I’ll admit: I need all of those things very much.

My name is Amy and I am a church nerd.