Waiting to Exhale

Coming into the church sanctuary on Monday morning was quite the sight to behold. Monday was the first sunny day we have had since the new windows in the sanctuary have been installed, and the light streaming into our worship space was breathtaking (the picture doesn’t quite do it justice). I have commented to many folks in jest that I will likely need to start leading Sunday morning worship with sunglasses on…maybe sunscreen too in the summertime. 😉😎

As I have thought about these new windows, and the stained glass windows that have had the old, yellowed, covers removed from them, I have found my heart and mind drawn to more than simply the amount of light that they let in. I have found myself lingering on what they help us as a community let out.

I have watched countless St. Paul folks come into the sanctuary, see the new windows, and let out a deep breath. As if all of the light coming in, and the removal of all of the yellowed coverings and heavy stained glass has given them as individuals, and us as a congregation, permission to finally exhale. To somehow collectively push out of our lungs all of the uncertain air that has plagued this congregation for so long–questions about whether or not this church still had a place in this community. Questions about whether or not we could–or even should–look beyond the present moment. Questions about whether or not this building was too much of a burden for our community to bear.

To be clear, they aren’t magical windows. I know that. I know that we are still figuring out how to pay for phase 2 of the project. I know that we are still a small-ish community of faithful folks who, despite our best efforts to slow down Father Time, keep aging. I know that we continue to wrestle with who we are, who we welcome, and how we show up in an increasingly precarious political and cultural landscape. I know that for some of our neighbors and fellow churches, just the fact that this church exists is like a sliver under the fingernail. I know that we still have questions. I know that we still aren’t good at letting ourselves look at our future together beyond the next 5 years. 

Thankfully, we aren’t a people in need of magic–we never have been. We are a people who just need to remember to breathe–to remember that we CAN breathe. We needn’t hold our breath while hiding away in our own “top secret” Sunday morning yellow cave, we are a community breathing in the life of the Spirit and seeing clearly the community around us. And all of that stress and anxiety that we have held collectively and individually in this community of faith as we have pondered our future and second-guessed our past can be pushed out of the center of who we are, and we can inhale the goodness, the challenges, and fullness of the moment. If we let it, some of that light streaming in can even find its way into those dark, pessimistic, cynical corners of our hearts that have kept us from seeing the possibilities born of faith and a little elbow grease. 

So, yeah, there’s nothing magical about the windows, nor is there anything magical in the invitation I’m extending here, but I’m extending it all the same. I want to invite you to come–sometime soon–and just stand in the sanctuary and breathe. Let yourself exhale. Let yourself soften into the awe revealed when new light drenches a familiar place. Let your diaphragm and your lungs know the sweet release of letting anxiety, despair, and isolation leave your body. Let yourself hope again. I know hope has disappointed us all before, but try to let it happen all the same. 

We can look at the window project as simple building and maintenance, but I happen to think that it’s FAR MORE than that. It’s a spiritual project–an invitation–architectural evidence that life–real, breathing, life–is present here. And that life, as our text from this past Sunday reminds us, is the light of ALL people (John 1:5). That means our neighbors. That means you. That means me.

Let’s breathe deep of that life together, friends. And then let’s breathe that life out into the world.

Breathing with you,
Pr. Melissa    

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