Sometimes I wish we had church in caves or meadows instead of regular buildings. For all the grandeur or familiarity of houses of worship I always feel a bit cut off from my God. I'm breathing air conditioned (or stiflingly not air conditioned) air. I'm listening to the stillness of four walls, not to the stillness of a breeze. I'm bathed in artificial light, not the light of the sky and heavens above.
In the LDS church we learn of our pioneer fore-bearers who met in groves to worship and I am jealous. Regardless of the heat, humidity, bugs, wind, or cold, I would desperately love to be outside––to at least catch a whiff of fresh air. Or just some sunshine please?
Instead there are curtains over frosted glass windows.
In man made buildings I cannot help but think of the trusty arm of flesh that designed and measured what surrounds me.
So sometimes I draw a picture of a cave. Think of the blues, greens, and greys of the rock––the calming, time worn, steady rock shot with veins of minerals. I look at my picture and imagine very hard that we're all in a cave, we've brought our own chairs, and we sit close together, and we feel safe and happy. And when it's time to ponder we look at the stalagmites reaching up and the stalactites reaching down and everything is OK.
Stalagmites are formed when minerals collecting in water that's condensed on the cave ceiling drip down to the ground. Drop by drop by drop by drop the minerals build until they've formed a stalagmite. When a stalactite and a stalagmite grow together, they're called a column.
O to be a column.
amen!
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