Interiors

“I think I would like to get a real estate license. Wouldn’t it be fun to be able to see inside all these old homes?” I’ve said this more than once when Jim and I were out in our neighborhood walking the dog. The statement was made mostly in jest: I didn’t really want to sell houses; I just wanted some way see inside the 100-year-old houses that surrounded us.

If a house is empty, I’m always glad when the windows are uncovered so that I can see a little bit of the interior. Actually, I don’t care if the house is empty; I like all windows to be uncovered so I can see a little bit of those inside rooms, as long as the owners aren’t looking out at me, staring from the sidewalk.

Of course, since I don’t have a real estate license and since I am too risk-averse to make appointments to see houses that I have no interest in buying, I can’t view these houses that look so interesting from the outside. In normal times, my cravings to see interiors are alleviated by being invited to others’ homes, just as we have, on a regular basis, invited people into our home.

We’ve always enjoyed tramping up and down the steps in our house to show our guests every floor, basement through attic, with all the little quirks of the almost 100-year-old home. For example, we have a shiny silver-painted incinerator door that used to feed right into a furnace of some sort that led from the fireplace to the chimney. We’ve always joked that that’s where the dead bodies were consumed. We also have these terrible plastic tiles in the half-bath on the first floor and in the full bath on the second floor. Those were definitely NOT original tiles. In our master bedroom, we have an alcove with its own built-in chest of drawers. That alcove is almost as big as my 7 x 14 study. We still have two original light fixtures in the entry and in the foyer—both with brass fittings. The doors are all original—and “custom”-sized, with original brass or glass doorknobs. Unfortunately, we’ve not found any secret passages, moving bookshelves, or other kinds of “hide-y” holes, except for our three-floor laundry chute.

This is the second time I’ve confessed my voyeuristic tendencies—the first one was about “seeing” the interiors of all kinds of news commentators and consultants who are sitting in their homes rather than in newsrooms to give us their views on various and sundry topics. I doubt I will get over my interest in interiors, so if this pandemic ever ceases, please consider inviting me to see the quirks of your homes.

But, today, a Sunday, the first Sunday in Lent 2021, I thought of other interiors: the interiors of churches. As Jim and I sat in the safety of our home in front of our TV screen, viewing our church service being live-streamed, I thought, not for the first time, that “church,” or, more correctly, “worship” cannot be a spectator sport. It is an activity which takes our active attention, our active participation. Even if we are sitting in front of the screen, something must be happening within me if I am truly to be in “church” for this Sunday. I must be listening actively, interacting with the words of the music, with the words of the scripture, with the words of the minister.

And, then, for a moment, I thought of all the interiors of churches that I have been privileged to see—to see, as most would consider, as a spectator. I’m thinking of Salisbury Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, Saint Paul’s Cathedral, Wesley’s Chapel, Canterbury Cathedral, all in England, and Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur, and Sainte Chapelle, all in Paris. I’ve been privileged to “see” the interiors of all of these beautiful sacred spaces more than once.

But the fact that they were sacred spaces made all the difference. It was not enough for me to see the beauty and the wonder of the interiors; I had also to seek a place of worship in those spots. These were not interiors to be admired; these were interiors that had long welcomed the pilgrim and the priest, the visitor and the member to seek the Lord. For me, that has always meant, at the very least, to find the candles that are waiting to be lit for the sake of the prayer I will utter. Most times it means finding the chapel or space set aside for the quiet seeker to engage in prayer, to engage in conversation with the Lord Almighty. Some of my most desperate prayers, my most wrenching prayers, have been those prayed within the walls of those quiet, sacred spaces.

Now, in this year of pandemic, most of us aren’t visiting any cathedrals in England or France. Most of us aren’t even finding our way to our own churches. But my rumination upon the sacred spaces reminds me that I don’t have to go anywhere other than where I am to engage in conversation with the Lord. The sacred comes to me and I can pour out those desperate, most wrenching prayers right where I am, knowing that the faithful, compassionate Christ, my advocate, is praying alongside me in the space made sacred by his presence.