This House of Prayer by Cherie Dack |
| Posted by Mark (mark) on Mar 31 2008 at 8:32 PM |
In this humble sanctuary, worship continues non-stop. The members of this poverty-stricken community take shifts in the sanctuary, serving as ministers throughout the day and night. Their service takes on forms as varied as the participants themselves. One old woman spends her shift tending the bits of candle that cover the altar. (The altar consists of three chairs tied together and covered by a baby blanket.) Humming incessantly, she lights the candles, blows them out, and then lights them all over again. When her shift is over, a large, black woman takes over. With an irrepressible smile and two little ones in tow, she begins by cleaning the wax off the altar and then settles into a chair with her children in her lap. “Thank you, Jesus,” she exclaims. “Thank you, Jeeesusss!” A song bubbles up from the deep places of her gratitude - “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder…” - and her voice, rich and ageless, fills the cardboard sanctuary with music that is fit for a cathedral. Half a dozen teenagers - the next shift - arrive half an hour early just to listen. When it’s their turn to take over, they push the chairs and the altar out of the way and sprawl on the floor, talking and laughing. Do they pray? Of course. In their own way. After them comes a scantily clad young woman who curls up in a corner with a ragged pillow and promptly falls asleep. A priest in a white collar wakes her at the beginning of his shift, passing her a coffee that he brought with him. She smiles and thanks him, stumbling back out into the night. A tall, thin man in a thrift store suit takes over from the priest. As usual, he brings with him several sketch books and by the time his shift is over, the walls of the cardboard sanctuary are covered with his drawings - alien landscapes sketched in pencil crayon. Only he understands their spiritual significance, but they are left on the walls anyway. Many more members of this community come and go throughout the hours and days and weeks. Most are unorthodox. All are sincere.
It is to this poor House of Prayer that Jesus comes one day just as I am beginning my shift. He steps in quietly and sees me sitting in a dusty circle of sunlight that streams through the “window” (a hole in the cardboard). Before I can get up, he sits down beside me. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks around the room slowly, taking in every detail - the bits of candle on the altar, the ragged pillow in the corner, the strange sketches on the walls. Finally, he looks at me. His eyes are full of gratitude. “Thank you,” he says softly. Seeing in my face that I don’t understand, he leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Haven’t you guessed? This house of prayer is your heart.”
And then, I wake up.
Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
