Sacred Space

I unlock the door to church as I have hundreds of times before, wedge my foot to hold it open, and then lock it again so that once I am inside, no one else can come in. Even just inside the entryway, the quiet is immediate and complete, the world shut out.

I climb the stairs and open the wooden door that somewhat separates the social space from the sacred space. “Somewhat” because on Sunday mornings we chat in the sacred space, welcoming each other, asking about our weeks, encouraging kids to be kids and make noise. “Somewhat” because we also believe that there is a sacredness to all the world, not just the place we gather for services. “Somewhat” because sacred and social spaces and moments always intermingle.

Once I am past that wooden door, somehow it is even quieter. Maybe it’s the stillness of the air or the lighting. Unlike in the entryway, where clear panes of glass let in the world’s natural light, inside the church the stained-glass windows mute and alter the lights.

Bethel Lutheran Church (ELCA) in Menominee, MI, on a Saturday morning when I came to practice

I look out at row upon row of empty pews, like wave upon wave rippling backwards. I head for the organ, my destination, and open the case to start to practice for Sunday service.

I’ve spent hundreds of hours alone in church buildings. I've been privileged for decades as a church musician to be trusted with building keys or allowed to be let in and left alone to practice.

And with great appreciation for my fellow parishioners and our time together, with great admiration for the wisdom and insight our pastor gives us each week, and with great respect for the rituals of the centuries-old structures of a Sunday service, these times of practice alone are the most beautiful, most sacred, most special times I spend in a church building.

They are sacred moments because of the complete quiet. They are sacred moments because of the musical prayers I offer. And they are sacred moments because of the out-loud conversations I have with God, conversations more authentic, mundane, and real than in any other time or space.

“Well, that’s not gonna work for a prelude tomorrow...” I mutter after a particularly bad start to a piece I’ve forgotten how to play.

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I wish I practiced more...I mean, this sucks. Then again, who even listens.” I flip angrily through a book of music looking for inspiration or an easy piece.

“You know none of that’s true. Little down today maybe?”

“Ha! Yep. Uhhhhh...”

“Deep breath. Look up.”

The face of the owl in the stained-glass window—or what looks like an owl to me anyway—catches my eye. It makes me think of the owl figurines in our home, a small collection started because of a joke gift at work. It makes me think of Jason and my boys. I breathe deeply. I smile.

“OK. You’re right. What else did I bring to try.”

In my practice-time conversations with God, I’m sometimes critical of myself, sometimes funny (at least we think so), and always authentic. I complain to God about composers and arrangers who make music more difficult than it needs to be. “Like, seriously, you couldn’t have inspired them to figure out that chord progression a little bit better?!”

I talk about my stressors. “Well, that was the week. I don’t know why I’m here practicing when I don’t really have time. When am I going to get all of this done?”

I celebrate when a piece goes well, “Wow that felt good! That was good, right? You think so too?” Then I plead that it might go that well when people are actually there listening. “Sure would be nice to have my nerves under control enough, but I guess that’s just part of the deal and will always be there.”

While I sit on the organ or piano bench alone in that sacred space, I am fully myself with the divine. And the divine is always supportive and forgiving and encouraging even when I hear no words.

These days, that practice time is one of the only times I talk to God. And that has me a bit worried. On Sundays, when everyone else is there, it’s harder for me to concentrate on what I want to say to God. Harder for me to hear a voice in return. If I didn’t have those practice times alone, would I be saying much to God at all?

Then I wonder if that means I have a diminished faith. Do I truly believe there is a divine presence, some one or some thing to which I am speaking? Isn’t the voice I hear in that church space just my own mind reassuring me, engaging in dialogue to help me through life?

Perhaps.

Yet that space, alone but not alone, is the only place I regularly talk out loud to myself. Sure, I’ll say a nasty word out loud even if I’m alone in the car if I realize I forgot my lunch at home or if I stub my toe at night while everyone else is sleeping. Yes, I sometimes say “excuse me” after I sneeze even when I’m the only one in the room or even the building. But whole conversations? Those are usually my quiet inner monologues. Only in church when I practice do I regularly give voice to those inner musings.

And something calls me back to that place, even if it’s just that sense of peace. When I open that door, something inside me unspools and reaches out. I feel that same something when I look out over wave upon wave of water, when I see a beautiful sunrise, when I read or hear something that makes me feel deeply. If in the end all I’m feeling is a sense of connection, of peace, of love, and if in the end that is all there is to the divine, I want to believe. I want to foster my faith in that. That feels like a lot. Connection, peace, love—that feels like what I need.

I am privileged that despite my challenging experiences growing up listening to too many sermons and readings that minimized who I am as a woman, nothing ever made it so that church spaces don’t feel safe to me. I recognize that that’s not the case for others. Some people have been so scarred by organized religion, by individuals, by rejection because of their identities that they can’t even imagine feeling safe, let alone the way I feel in a church space. I hope they find connection, peace, and love elsewhere. And if they’re ever willing to try again, I hope they find a church community that embraces them fully and helps them find the sacred within a religious space.

I am privileged to have learned a skill that opens these doors to me. I am privileged to have a physical key that unlocks a physical door that opens to a physical space that is so much more than that for me.

That key unlocks not just a sacred space that calms my soul; it unlocks something inside me. It unlocks a space where my faith resides, where my inhibitions and doubts can’t crowd in and stop me from believing, where my heart and mind freely reach out to the divine, lay bare my fears and flaws, and still know that I am enough. And when I leave that space and return to the world, it’s difficult if not impossible for me to access that space inside myself.

I think ahead to a time when perhaps the creeping arthritis in my fingers or the sporadic pains in my hips and knees will mean, as it did for my dad, that playing organ and piano becomes much more difficult—perhaps someday even impossible. Where will I find the voice of the divine then? Where will I go to speak my truth freely, out loud, and to have the quiet I need to hear the answer?

For now, I don’t have to worry about it, but the fact that I worry at all is for me another sign of faith. I only worry because there is something I am afraid of losing. That worry tells me I will always try to find a sacred space, whenever and wherever that might be, to be me, to reach out to the divine with my fully authentic voice, and to listen for the encouragement, joy, laughter, and peace that returns.