Read Online Finding Tom by Simeon Harrar - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Simeon Harrar
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
“Oh, bug off. There’s no way I’m going to church. Just leave me alone.”
“Whatever you say, but don’t blame me if you get in trouble,” I taunted as I tiptoed out to his groaning.
I arrived a few minutes before the service, which apparently was not a popular thing to do. The place was nearly empty. The chapel was as breathtaking inside as it was from the exterior. The huge stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, depicting all sorts of biblical scenes in vivid color, while giant pillars seemed to rise into the heavens, exploding into flying buttresses. On the far front wall hung a brilliant golden cross illuminated softly by rows of white candles. Upon entering, I immediately felt a sense of awe. The cool darkness seemed to calm my nerves, making me assume a posture of silence and reverence. This was not a place for running or yelling. It was a sacred space set apart in some strange way from the ordinary and the mundane. I do not know if this sense arose because I knew beforehand that this was a chapel, or if it was a natural response to the otherness of the space. At any rate, I was astutely reminded of my smallness in comparison to the greatness of the God for whom this house had been built. I had never entered into something so grand in all my life.
This place evoked in me a strikingly different response than the simple, crowded church where I had grown up. It was as if this was a monument to a different God, a greater God. This God seemed distant and unapproachable, while the God of my youth was small and unable to help me in my hour of need.
Somewhere far above, bells began to toll the eight o’clock hour, and with that, students began to stream in through the doors without the slightest awareness of the beauty surrounding them. They slumped into the pews, looking bored and trapped, and their indifferent presence defiled the sacredness of that space. Their breathing and shifting shattered the silence.
Just as the pastor (or so I assumed him to be) stood up, I saw Charles slink through the door. He looked like a train wreck. He stood in the back for a few seconds, scanning the pews before spotting me and slipping in beside me. He promptly put his head on the pew in front of him and went to sleep—he, the pious disciple, with head bowed in sincere prayer and confession before the Almighty God. I left him to his petitions.
An hour later, we were walking out the back doors, Charles rubbing his eyes and me lost in thought. I had been extremely surprised by the reverence of the service. Reverence had never been a part of my experience of God. Fear, guilt, boredom—all of these words came to mind. In spite of the best efforts of the sleepy, fidgeting students to spoil the service, the pastor was not deterred in his mission to create a sense of wonder. His preaching seemed to well up from the depths of his being as he expounded on the day’s text from the Gospel of John, chapter 1: “Behold the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Behold him who is infinite and eternal, come to save men from their sins. Behold him who created all things, who became flesh and was killed by those he loved and created.” He painted a picture of such beauty and kindness. I watched as he stood, arms outstretched, with tears in his eyes as he looked out upon those lost sheep filling his pews. This man did not belong at Locklear. His genuine spirit was awkward and out of place here. He spoke to the rich of their need for a Savior, and they mocked him with their unmoved silence. They did not believe. Money was their god. To them, this was just another extravagant building devoid of sacred meaning. They gave the holy man his hour, but they rejected his pleadings and scoffed at his tears.
Chapel was followed by brunch for all incoming freshman and then, of course, there were to be speeches by the faculty, the board, and, last, the dean of students. I was only interested in hearing Dr. Groves, so I tuned
“Whatever you say, but don’t blame me if you get in trouble,” I taunted as I tiptoed out to his groaning.
I arrived a few minutes before the service, which apparently was not a popular thing to do. The place was nearly empty. The chapel was as breathtaking inside as it was from the exterior. The huge stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, depicting all sorts of biblical scenes in vivid color, while giant pillars seemed to rise into the heavens, exploding into flying buttresses. On the far front wall hung a brilliant golden cross illuminated softly by rows of white candles. Upon entering, I immediately felt a sense of awe. The cool darkness seemed to calm my nerves, making me assume a posture of silence and reverence. This was not a place for running or yelling. It was a sacred space set apart in some strange way from the ordinary and the mundane. I do not know if this sense arose because I knew beforehand that this was a chapel, or if it was a natural response to the otherness of the space. At any rate, I was astutely reminded of my smallness in comparison to the greatness of the God for whom this house had been built. I had never entered into something so grand in all my life.
This place evoked in me a strikingly different response than the simple, crowded church where I had grown up. It was as if this was a monument to a different God, a greater God. This God seemed distant and unapproachable, while the God of my youth was small and unable to help me in my hour of need.
Somewhere far above, bells began to toll the eight o’clock hour, and with that, students began to stream in through the doors without the slightest awareness of the beauty surrounding them. They slumped into the pews, looking bored and trapped, and their indifferent presence defiled the sacredness of that space. Their breathing and shifting shattered the silence.
Just as the pastor (or so I assumed him to be) stood up, I saw Charles slink through the door. He looked like a train wreck. He stood in the back for a few seconds, scanning the pews before spotting me and slipping in beside me. He promptly put his head on the pew in front of him and went to sleep—he, the pious disciple, with head bowed in sincere prayer and confession before the Almighty God. I left him to his petitions.
An hour later, we were walking out the back doors, Charles rubbing his eyes and me lost in thought. I had been extremely surprised by the reverence of the service. Reverence had never been a part of my experience of God. Fear, guilt, boredom—all of these words came to mind. In spite of the best efforts of the sleepy, fidgeting students to spoil the service, the pastor was not deterred in his mission to create a sense of wonder. His preaching seemed to well up from the depths of his being as he expounded on the day’s text from the Gospel of John, chapter 1: “Behold the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Behold him who is infinite and eternal, come to save men from their sins. Behold him who created all things, who became flesh and was killed by those he loved and created.” He painted a picture of such beauty and kindness. I watched as he stood, arms outstretched, with tears in his eyes as he looked out upon those lost sheep filling his pews. This man did not belong at Locklear. His genuine spirit was awkward and out of place here. He spoke to the rich of their need for a Savior, and they mocked him with their unmoved silence. They did not believe. Money was their god. To them, this was just another extravagant building devoid of sacred meaning. They gave the holy man his hour, but they rejected his pleadings and scoffed at his tears.
Chapel was followed by brunch for all incoming freshman and then, of course, there were to be speeches by the faculty, the board, and, last, the dean of students. I was only interested in hearing Dr. Groves, so I tuned
Similar Books
