A short story by Mary M. Isaacs.
It was another locked and deserted church. The young man walked up to the chain link fence and gripped the wire with his fingers. He looked up, gauging the height of the fence. Yes, he could probably climb over it fairly easily, but a heavy padlock on the double doors beyond showed how useless that effort would be. The dry leaves, dirt, and litter on the steps suggested that no one had attempted to get in for some time. There were faded shadows of graffiti, which had been scrubbed as clean as possible, but the doors and walls were forever scarred.
He wondered what it looked like inside. The windows had been broken and were now boarded up, but had the sanctity of the building been breached? Would the inside be destroyed too, vandalized like the outside? He hoped not but feared so.
He let go of the fence and dropped his arms. This was the third abandoned church he had seen that day—fourth, if you counted the burnt-out shell of a building he’d seen that morning. He couldn’t be certain that it had been a church, but there had been several clues… He felt sick at heart.
As he stood there, he had a vivid memory of going to church as a very young child. He went every Sunday with his grandparents when he visited with them in the summertime. The big brick downtown church—the cavernous interior, the fellowship hall filled with the older ladies for the women’s meetings he attended with his grandmother—he had been smiled over and patted, he’d been given milk and cake, he’d looked at the Bible scenes hanging on the walls. He went to Sunday school there, put his offerings into the basket, and sang Sunday school songs. He remembered the Bible stories, remembered them well. He had received story pamphlets and small Bible pictures and a certificate when he later completed communicants’ class. He could still recite the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed; they continued to comfort him during times of fear and distress.
He could not understand what had happened to it all. How had something that had been respected and loved, so quickly become something despised and maligned? He had a sudden thought and reached deep into his pocket. His fingers found something small and smooth, and he brought it out. It was a silvery cross; on it were incised the words, “God is Love”. He looked at it and then looked at the abandoned building. Where was that love now? Did anyone believe it any more?
Deeply disturbed, he turned back toward the motel where he had spent the night. He kept his eyes forward or on the ground in front of him, so he wouldn’t see the damaged and barricaded churches that he’d passed. He had started out that morning looking for a church to attend; at the end of the day, he was mourning their destruction.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of steps behind him until they had caught up with his. He turned his head to see an older man smiling gently at him. He gave a brief smile in return, but then looked ahead and kept on walking, the other man by his side.
“Why is a young man like yourself walking so slowly?” asked the older man. Then, peering closely, he added, “And why looking so dejected? It’s a beautiful day to be alive, isn’t it?”
The young man stopped abruptly and turned to face the other one. “I’ve been searching for a church—any church. I’ve been looking everywhere. Not just this city, but all over. Some are locked up, some are empty, some have been converted into homes or businesses. Some have even been burned or demolished,” the words poured out as the young man opened his heart. “I haven’t found one open church. It makes me sad—it’s all gone, everything’s gone. Where is God? Where is Jesus? I’m looking for them everywhere, but I can’t find them…” He put his hands over his face and wept.
The other man looked at him with compassion. After a few quiet moments, he said, “It’s been a long day for you, for both of us. I think we should sit down and have something to eat. Will you join me?” And he indicated a bench on the side of the road.
The young man took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then wiped off the tears with the heel of his hand. “Something to eat sounds good, thank you. I don’t have much with me right now, though—just some fruit and water.” After they both sat down on the bench, he opened his backpack and pulled out a paper napkin, which he spread between them. Reaching in again, he brought out a few apples, a bottle of water, and a cup.
“I have some bread,” said the other man. From a bag he carried, he brought out a small loaf of homemade bread.
While the young man watched, the older man raised the bread in his hands, prayed silently over it, and lowered it. He then broke off a piece of the loaf and held it out. Their eyes met briefly, one pair calm and the other pair startled.
The young man reached out slowly, as if in a dream; he took the piece of bread and brought it close to him, without taking his eyes off it. He held it in both hands, carefully and silently, while he bowed his head. Prayers and words and images swept through his mind: beatings and scourgings—”This is my body”–and the agony on the cross. Thunder and darkness, the shaking of the earth, heart-numbing grief–then the sudden radiance of glorious light, so blindingly real to him that he closed his eyes, only to realize that the light was everywhere, outside of him and within. All was illumined, he knew it all, and time stopped for a while…
Then the light slowly faded until once again he saw only the piece of bread in his hands. He raised it to his mouth and ate it slowly. Even though the blazing light had gone, he still felt its brilliance and warmth inside him. In deep surprise he raised his head to tell the older man what had happened.
But no one was there.
Mary M. Isaacs — copyright, 2020
(from a forthcoming book)
To enjoy and support works by Mary M. Isaacs visit our lower right hand sidebar and click THOUGHT PROVOKING CHRISTIAN SHORT STORIES. She has three volumes available at present.
For wherever two or more are gathered in My Name, there Am I also.
A physical building is nice, but not necessary.
Aw, darn it, Claudia, I just teared up. Thanks for posting.
Next Sunday at my Latin Mass parish, Saint Joan of Arc in Post Falls, ID we are having our annual Corpus Christi procession. It will be following our 1130 Sung High Mass. Geoff the Aardvark and anyone else in the greater Spokane/Coeur d’Alene area, you are invited.
I have experienced more grace and mercy, much more than I deserve since my wife died nearly 8 years ago. I can’t explain it except that God has been faithful to me in many miraculous ways to help me get thru this period in my life. God is good, and I thank him for that, no matter what I’ve gone thru He is always there helping me day by day and I know that I can trust him in all things.
There shall be no singing.
No rejoicing
No lifting of voices in worship.
Ok. Who are you kidding?
You government despots can kindly take your dictatorial mandates and shove them into your posteriors. Times up for you. Go stick your leftist dogma in your rectum.
Your reign of terror is over.
I am glad for you Geoff. God bless.
God is Great, Beer is Good and People are Crazy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKpQRjj_WbU
Kind of gave me the chills.
Like this song of the same name, ‘Corpus Christ Carol’, Jeff Buckley 1995, sung like an angel:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxqwq9BnjT0
Thanks C.
OK gang.
Just getting word of Oct 24 political uprising in the works.
East coast, load up your vehicles with Trump stuff, american flags, Gadsden on Route 1. Cruise Route 1 from 11 to 1pm.
I don’t know details.
We need to figure this out regionally.
It will be awesome.
We’ll figure it out. Many rallies of this sort exploded over last weekend.
Giddy up.
On a lighter note (I pray to God you good folks won’t crucify me for this, in light of such a lovely post), I was raised as a Catholic in the suburbs of NYC. At Mass, my father would sometimes try to make me laugh when the hymns were being sung. He’d stand next to me, singing the lines with a perfectly pious, solemn face, while paraphrasing them.
Usually it was just some dumb stuff that I’d ignore, but there was one hymn about “Eat His Body, Drink His Blood” and the next line my father paraphrased was “Let us all be cannibals now” and I just about lost it. I managed to keep it together, but only barely. I turned bright red, my shoulders were shaking, my lips were clamped shut. Of course, my father knew I wanted to burst out laughing, and just to be a jerk about it, he kept casting disapproving glances at me and shaking his head, as if it was my fault. I didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.
Margot,
Too funny! I’m not Catholic, but my dad did something similar by singing “Bringing in the Sheets”. (That’s probably why he couldn’t go to Sunday School with us kids very often.) Dad is 90 now and most times doesn’t remember who I am, but those were good times!!
I remember when my older brother, Jim, leaned over and farted in church, but he was…’a chromosome off’, as if NOTHING HAPPENED, really, and me and my other brother cracked up. Dad was NOT happy of course…I was about 11 years old.
‘RIP’ Jim. I miss YOU very much….Bbbrrrrrr.
@Margot – forgot to ask what NYC suburb, if ya don’t mind?
I know them WELL, and STILL reside in one…
BTW, the eating of ‘body and blood’ stuff never bothered me, even in the early days of ‘indoctrination’.
It’s the Last Supper Redux and the basis of the Catholic Mass.
CCNV, I LOVE that, Bringing in the Sheets.
My Dad is gone, but as you say, those were good times indeed!
Confucius say, ‘man who farts in church sits in his own pew.’
Sorry.
I don’t have many opportunities to roll out that old stinker.
“@Margot – forgot to ask what NYC suburb, if ya don’t mind?”
Larchmont, in Westchester County. A glorious place to grow up. As I’ve said to people over the years, Larchmont was not just a place, it was a state of mind and a moment in time. I was very fortunate to have lived there when I did.
@CCNV I used to live at 2501 Hanson Drive in CC. the edge of the desert. It probably doesn’t look like that now.
Oh, Claudia. Rough story. I know me and my family are blessed everyday for being alive and well. That is all I can ask for.
PS – I miss Jim very much and so do his nephews! Sniff!
God Bless us all !!!!
PHenry, you cracked me up with that old stinker. Puts me in mind of all that crazy stuff we used to say when we were kids.
ghost of brig gen j glover, THIS: the eating of ‘body and blood’ stuff never bothered me, even in the early days of ‘indoctrination’.
Never bothered me either, never wondered about all those “mysteries”. It was just part of growing up.
I know there’s been some controversy about Ray Boltz on account of he went gay, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the fine job he did with his wonderful song, The Altar.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GJ6ZawZb3s
@Margot – Larchmont eh? We know it well, VERY WELL.
Thought you were going to say Lonk Island or Jerzee but you are WESTCHESTER???
Let’s just say we are a couple of towns south of there….
“Thhhhe Mmmmystery oooof FfffAITH”…is the BEST part of the Catholic Mass.
It’s all a fucking mystery…faith, life and what we should expect thereafter?
It’s Still All Right, Nathaniel Rathecliff, a song about the loss of a friend and death…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hw4MiegZxsU&list=RDHw4MiegZxsU&start_radio=1&t=0
Acoustic version:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZ2zFF-I7e0
Really great short story Mary. Uplifting but hopefully not prophetic for thee U.S.
This keeping us away from Church has kept me thinking about how the first Christians, the Chinese, and the Russians, as well as the places conquered by Muslims, feel / felt about their loss of worship. The American Chinese had been going to great lengths to keep the Christian Chinese involved in scripture…cannot say how I know this. I have no doubt other peoples helped do same for their Christian brothers through the centuries.
“Let’s just say we are a couple of towns south of there….”
Gotta be Pelham. And you know Larchmont very, VERY well. I may even know who you are, from a long time ago. I’m dying to throw out a couple of names, but I won’t do that here. I know of two people with a strong Larchmont/Pelham connection and in fact they are related. And both are people of strong faith, as I recall.
Let me give those songs a listen, ghost.
Great tune, ghost. Thanks for posting it. I liked the non-acoustic version better and I thought the dancer definitely added something to the video. Very nice indeed.
And whatever it is you’re working through right now, God bless.
@margot – looking for the journey, purpose and the road less traveled…at the same time?!
That is what I’m working through today…tomorrow is tomorrow!
And GOD bless you TOO and everyone.
“One Day at a Time”…this is the daily cadence we are in right about now.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-EpjcKToq4
Sung by a 93 year old…3/4 timing…
Margot, General Glover, one of the beautiful things about places where the Tridentine Latin Mass is celebrated exclusively, is zero drivel in the hymns. No hand holding, no peace signs, no guitars or bongos, and no felt banners. Also, no socialist justice from the pulpit. Novus Ordoism is the Bud Lite of the Catholic Faith, and the TLM is an ancient ale whose formula has changed very little over the centuries. I recommend you find your nearest FSSP, ICKSP or SSPX parish and give it a try. Find when their Sung High Mass is.
PHenry,
Type the address into google. There are photos (inside/outside) if you click on the Zillow link (a friend of mine used to live on Pat Lane down the street). If you want, I can take pics of the area(s) where you lived, just let me know. I moved here in 1997 and it definitely has changed! 😃
My next brother and I got kicked out of the kids choir at the Presbyterian church in Ephrata, Wash. about 1963 for eating peanut butter crackers and being goofy and not paying attention while in choir practice. The best thing that church ever did for me was to give me a copy of the New American Standard Bible (which I still have) that I carried with me when I went to Navy boot camp in the fall of 1972. When I was laid up with cellulitis in my left heel at the base hospital for a couple of weeks or so I read that Bible and it was part of my salvation so I can thank them for that. I also became a pariah because I swore out loud at another kid because I was mad at him outside of church one Sunday morning (I was 10) , after that I became the bad kid that none of my friends could play with anymore. So much for grace, I forgive them for it but they could’ve handled it better.