Square Buildings, Ash Wednesday, and Beauty

They shall build up the ancient ruins;

they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
the devastations of many generations.

--Isaiah, Isaiah 61:4 (ESV)

I apologize...this is going to be a long one.

In a sudden split-second decision, I attended St. Stephen's for Ash Wednesday.

I'm not sure why I decided to attend. This wasn't like Christmas--I was not obligated to go. By grace, I was saved from the certain awkward moments of attending Christmas Mass with my family at St. Stephen's. However, since then, I couldn't shake this notion that I needed to go. I needed to see. And I needed to go alone.

I should mention that the year I left St. Stephen's, the church was voting on remodeling the church building. The building we had occupied was a gray block of concrete on a considerably large tract of land. Basically, it was just an enormous square. I'm not entirely sure of what was originally planned for that building--I had heard rumors that it was originally supposed to be a gym or a school. Whatever the case, St. Stephen's was housed in a building that was never supposed to be a church.

To accommodate for what it lacked in typical church exterior glamour, St. Stephen's had a lot of space. The carpet was blue, the pews were of dark wood, and the only natural light came through the windows we had placed in the ceiling around the early 90's.

This what I remembered: St. Stephen's was a dark place with a lot of space.

And so, in the year before I left, we had little scale models to display the various phases for the church renovation project. Back then, I couldn't quite envision what it would look like, but I knew that at the end of the project, my mom would still sit in the same pew and park her car in the same spot. If we had stayed, I'm sure I would have won that bet.

In the years since I left St. Stephen's, I never saw the building after it was remodeled. And now, on this Ash Wednesday, I saw the remodeled building for the first time.

The gray block of concrete still housed the main sanctuary, but the numerous annexes and additions hid the original exterior I had remembered from my youth. The pews were of a lighter shade of wood, the walls were white, the flooring was light. My heels (of course) clicked on the tiled floor of the narthex instead of sinking into the plush carpet from the 70's. Natural light poured in through the windows that surrounded the halls. And even though there were too many people at Mass for me to be sure, I was certain that some evil genius of architecture had made the square building seem circular.

This was beyond different--this was unrecognizable.

Some things did stay the same. The first person I ran into was a member of the church council that had forbidden me to return. She recognized me immediately and gave me a look that asked, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?" Fortunately, she didn't say anything--at least to my knowledge. The choir was still led by the same guy, and the piano player still took off his shoes when he played the organ--which, incidentally, hadn't budged an inch.

Despite the mix of new and old, everything just seemed surreal.

Shortly after receiving the ashes, I ducked out early. There was one place I had to see: the basement.

The doors were closed off; but not under lock and key. A wall stood in its place, permanently sealing off the room that housed one of my most traumatic memories. I stood there, staring at this fake wall, wondering how this wall came to be and where the current basement resided. Soon, my imagination ran wild--if I somehow found the magic, secret doorway through this wall, would I walk into a world frozen in time? Would that little girl inside of me be found screaming for help?

All dramatic wanderings aside, I came upon this basic truth:

The St. Stephen's I had remembered and feared no longer exists in reality.

In essence, it's over.

I understand that God didn't build over this cold church building just for me. But in this moment of spontaneity, He showed me in a very tangible way what I already intuitively knew: this dark place that used to St. Stephen's no longer exists. He literally built over the cold building and sealed off the dark places. What was rebuilt upon these ruins would somehow bring Him glory.

The metaphor could not be more poignant. And the way God is writing my story is is far more than what I could ever produce on my own.

The young girl I had been--the one who was fragile and alone and scared and lonely--no longer exists in this reality. God has let His light in this once cold heart of mine. The dark places are closed off and healed over.

What was rebuilt upon the ruins of my heart will bring Him glory.

And there will be beauty among these ashes.

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to grant to those who mourn in Zion—to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified.

--Isaiah, Isaiah 61:1-3 (ESV)