Sanctuary

St. Luke's was a small Catholic church in walking distance from where we lived. Unlike the massive Protestant church that we attended on Sundays, St. Luke's doors were always open. Sunlight filtered through the stain glass windows and made pastel patterns on the walls and the sisters would often be at prayer in the afternoons. They dressed in full habit then and moved with enviable grace and a sense of tranquility that was uniquely comforting. Mass was still said in Latin, adding mystery and importance to the rituals, and I was fascinated by it.

Father Martin was a young priest with good posture and kind eyes. His robes flowed as he walked, hands clasped together, head down, lost in thought or maybe in prayer. I imagined him to be the perfect parish priest - dedicated to God, doing good works, seeing to the needs of others, saving souls. One sunny afternoon, he stopped and knelt beside me on the prayer bench. He made the sign of the cross and then spoke gently, Can I help you? When I shook my head, he smiled and got to his feet gracefully, touched my arm and said in that same gentle voice, Stay as long as you like.

I'm not a Catholic, Father, I said, dreading that he would tell me to leave. Father Martin turned and still smiling, said If you don't tell, neither will I.

The quiet of the small church, the peace it seemed to offer, drew me back. The doors closed behind me and the traffic noise was shut out along with the problems of the world. There was safety and shelter inside and I often imagined a presence - quiet, strong, serene. An overactive imagination, my family would've said, God's house is a refuge one of the sisters told me, What you feel is Him. I wished for her faith and conviction but was satisfied to have found sanctuary. My own church was hollow and loud, it overflowed with the righteous, the rigid, and the properly dressed. The fear of God was a constant theme, lessons of sin and redemption thundered from the pulpit, dire warnings of hellfire and damnation for all those who refused to come to God by way of the Baptist path. My church frightened me as though at any moment fire would rain down on the congregation and God would take His revenge on this gawdy, overdone, wannabe cathredral. The simplicity of St. Luke's seemed truer and knowing that it's doors were never locked seemed more the way God might want.