Talking with my wife about church buildings and sanctuaries and the lost appreciation for sacred places, I mentioned to her a childhood memory I have of a film I saw on the old "CBS Children's Film Festival" probably around 1967 or so. It was the story about the relationship between a Roman Catholic boy and a Jewish girl about 8 or 9 years old. They go on an make-believe safari ride on a little rubber raft in a river when their adventure turns to disaster.
The film opens with the boy rushing to the church to tell his priest that he has killed his friend Rachel. The story is told as a flashback beginning with how he met her and the struggle they had understanding each other's faith.
The film was 1960's "Hand in Hand" and as an adult I realize it's a story of religious tolerance that was very much ahead of its time.
As a child, I was mesmerized by its simple story of innocence and coming of age. But what has stayed with me all these 40 or so years is that image in mind of the Catholic church and the priest, of a place to run to, somewhere to go to be consoled, to be comforted, to be forgiven.
I remember a time when I was in college, struggling with some now forgotten trauma, and walking at nighttime in the sleepy little town where I went to school. I remember wishing I were Catholic, wondering where the nearest cathedral might be and settling for the dark steps of a Methodist church to sit and pray and be.
Today with our contemporary worship services and emphasis on multimedia entertainment and coffee-bar social setting, I worry that we've forgotten the need for sacred spaces. If someone searching for that sense of sacredness doesn't find it at the church, where will they go?
A week ago I was at a point where I simply had to get away from it all, away from work, away from the phone, away from emails, demands, complaints, desires, away from family even, away from people needing something from me, taking from me, wanting more, never feeling that what I was giving was good enough or was enough. So I left. Told my assistant I needed to run an errand and left. Drove to Shelby Farms, the largest urban park in the country, perhaps the world. And just walked. In the cold. In the wind. In the middle of the day.
It wasn't exactly a sacred space, but it came close. I was alone, except for the occasional runner or bicyclist passing. I was surrounded by God's handiwork --- birds, squirrels and a hawk or two. And I felt God's presence. The wind, the air, the rustling of the leaves. It was my adventure. And God and I were walking hand in hand.
