Chapel Worship
They entered the Chapel through a lesser-used side door and snuck down the side aisle and slipped into a pew beside one of the massive carved stone supports for the roof just as the service was starting. An elderly couple in the pew slid a few feet toward the center so that they’d be able to see past the stone column to the chancel and choir and pulpit in the distance at the front of the sanctuary.
Zach was still helping Becca take off her wool coat when the huge baroque pipe organ at the rear of the Chapel played the introduction to the processional hymn and everyone in the cavernous space stood at once and began singing:
Wake, awake, for night is flying,
The watchmen on the heights are crying,
Awake, Jerusalem, at last!
Zach laid Becca’s coat neatly on the pew behind the pillar. By the time he turned, Becca had already found the hymn in the hymnal and offered him one side of the book, that they might sing from it together. He was deeply touched by this simple gesture (as natural and effortless to her as breathing or blinking those soft eyelids) and knew, that fast, that all the effort invested to get here—rising early after staying up late, showering quickly, sharing the bathroom’s mirror and vanity, dressing in their Sunday finest, driving up the hill and struggling to find an open parking spot, then all but jogging up the hill through the woods to the side entrance to the Chapel—was already justified. He took his half of the hymnal with his far hand and gently slid his other arm around her waist. She responded by softly leaning into his touch, pressing her whole right side against his left—calf to calf, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, waist to waist. Zach sang a few verses of the familiar hymn in a low deep voice, barely above a whisper, almost as if singing just to himself and God.
The procession drew abreast their pew, led by the crucifer holding aloft a large brass cross mounted on a wooden pole. An acolyte with a pole with a flame at its tip followed the crucifer, then choir members in blue and white robes, then ministers in white albs, then clergy in white vestments with blue stoles. Once past their pew, Zach could no longer see the procession through all the congregation standing and singing; but he could mark their progress by the movement of the cross down the center aisle as it seemed to float above the crowd on its slow way to the front of the sanctuary.
They reached the end of the hymn before the procession was complete and all the ministers and choir members in their places, so the organist improvised by playing another verse. The congregation remained standing, facing front, some in taut reverence, others glancing around in confusion or impatience, a few singing the first verse all over again. Finally, with the procession completed and all participants in their places in the chancel, the organist ended the hymn with a window-rattling flourish. The presiding minister offered a liturgical greeting, the congregation responded, and everyone sat down.
Zach couldn’t keep his arm around Becca as they sat down (much as he wanted to, it would’ve been awkward and uncomfortable), but he found her near hand as they settled into the oak pew and twined his fingers into hers and laid their joined hands and their merged arms into their common lap, their hips and shoulders as tightly pressed together as possible without drawing attention.
From his seat of utter contentment, far from the readings and gestures and ritualized forms unfolding at the front of the sanctuary, half-hidden by the column at the end of a pew two-thirds of the way back in the massive nave, Zach could let his mind float. He didn’t hear the readings or the anthems or the sermon. His mind floated up to the peak of the nave, high, high above the floor, into the groin vaults cast by craftsmen imported from Italy some fifty years before. He floated like a little balloon way up there, bumping against the stone ceiling. And from way up there, from that spot of cherished perspective in this space of sanctified purpose and portentous ceremony, gazing down on all those worshipers in all their finery, all their hopes, their suffering, their fears, their failings, blessed with this moment of divine perspective—Zach saw only his hand in Becca’s: nothing else in this whole wide space, nothing else in this whole wide world. What’s more, in those joined hands he saw not eight fingers and two thumbs together palm to palm, not two fleshes or even one merged flesh, not sinew taut or blood pulsing—he saw consecrated love. In this holy place surrounded by these holy people, blessed by God and blessed by these masses, he perceived—for the first and perhaps only time—what he and Becca were together, that shining light through the ages—on the mountaintop, in the stable, out of the darkness: the Creator’s joy.
Becca squeezed his hand (even tighter) and nudged him lightly with her shoulder. Emerging from an open-eyed daze, he looked around him and saw everyone with their heads bowed. Becca also had her head bowed and her eyes gently closed. That glimpse of her—perfect angel in perfect angelic pose—took his breath away. How had he come to find this Heaven? What had he done to earn this gift? He joined the congregation and bowed his head and closed his eyes.
He heard the minister praying, the words amplified through the sound system with one of its speakers mounted high on the column beside him. The minister would conclude each prayer petition with the phrase, “Lord, in your mercy,” and the congregation would respond, “Hear our prayer.”
Zach well knew that the world needed a God of mercy—boy, did it ever. But at that moment his heart was far, far removed from any sense of needing or wishing mercy for himself, so caught up in absolute touch-the-sky elation and thanksgiving for this perfect creation beside him, her hand in his, that for a minute the very word itself—mercy—seemed without meaning, two syllables without context, history, or relevance.
Yet everything about this place and this day and his life reinforced the fact of a creator, and of a division between the creator and the created, and of circumstance beyond the control of him or anyone except God. So with the minister’s prayers echoing around him, he formed his own spontaneous prayer, spoken in a firm whisper inside his head—Thank you for Becca. As you brought her to me, I know you can take her away. Please don’t take her away. Just as he finished, the minister’s Lord, in your mercy rang out over the congregation. Zach suddenly knew the word, had deeply and intimately rediscovered its meaning after his momentary blindness of hubris and presumption, knew well his need for mercy, now more than ever. He joined in the congregational response with an almost desperate plea—Hear my prayer.
As the organist played the postlude and the congregation filed toward the doors by the center aisle, the elderly couple stood patiently behind them while Zach helped Becca with her coat. The woman, with her hair in a tight perm and wearing a navy-blue dress with white lace trim and a mink stole draped over her shoulders, asked, “You two kids checking this place out?”
Zach finished straightening Becca’s coat collar but left his hand brushing her neck under her hair. “Checking what place out?”
“The Chapel,” she said. “For your wedding.”
Zach and Becca both laughed. Zach said, “We’re a long way from that, ma’am. But thank you for asking.”
The woman’s smile was bright and her eyes kind through her heavy make-up and strong perfume. “Well, don’t wait too long. You’re a beautiful couple.” She turned to her husband. “Aren’t they a beautiful couple, Harvey?”
Harvey smiled and nodded but seemed confused. “I’ll get the car,” he said and turned toward the crowded center aisle.
The woman laughed and shook her head and shooed him away, then turned back to face Becca and Zach. “Deaf as a post but the only man I’ve ever loved. Sixty-two years this April since we were married, sixty-five years since we met—wouldn’t trade a-one for all of Liz Taylor’s diamonds.” She laughed to herself at the thought—passing on Liz Taylor’s diamonds for Harvey. But she didn’t retract the claim. “Don’t wait too long,” she said then shuffled off after her Harvey.
Yielding Faith
It comes from this:
She alive,
Breathing somewhere,
In view or not,
But that he only know
She is real,
Walking life—
That knowledge alone
Reason enough for him
To have faith,
Faith in a world that,
Having created her,
Must be kind.