church basement

An ode to a church basement

It can’t help it. 

This church basement – like many others- is slightly redolent of kitchen gas

            and Lysol

            and old stone, soaked in ancient dampness.

It is what strikes me (the one with the sensitive nose), first.

I sit on a metal folding chair; the seat dented at all four corners,

rough edges pulling at my tights,

 the underneath of the chair hiding the gum of last Sunday’s acolyte,

who was called to move from

Sunday school to Sanctuary

in a hurry.

I look at the chair in front of me and see

scratched into the back, this name:

Jesus.

Was it a paperclip or the errant tine of a mangled kitchen fork

that dug out our Savior’s name?

The tile floor is yellowed and cracked.

The walls are Mint Green. Powder Blue.  Faded Salmon.

Two floors above, I hear the karate club working it out in the gym.

One floor above, the choir agonizes over Tallis.

And here-  in the Vestry meeting,  we

Work the numbers

Hear the reports

and

Dream of the future

And I see the hand of God

guiding, 

prodding,

drawing us

 from this basement to the world-

Where ministry continues- hour after hour after hour.

We are strengthened in that basement.

We are taught in the basement.

Salvation is won in the basement

            As God’s grace is freely given.  And received.