A City Church
This past week I went to downtown Chicago with my mom. We enjoyed the mild January, wandering off Michigan Avenue, paying more attention to the dogs walking by rather than the street signs. Thirty-four degrees is uncommon for Chicago winter. And while I enjoy being able to feel my fingers, I did miss the blanket of snow that normally would be subduing the city.
On one side, the skeleton of the John Hancock building stretched upwards. On the other, stocky buildings of the seventies - these far more practical - with study, concrete frames and geometric lines.
It’s not a fitting environment for a church spire. It’s severely out of place. Next to the incessant honking of the city street, the drooping archways of the church are starkly juxtaposed.
Then again, I don’t know if it is at all fair to call it a mere church. It’s not reminiscent of an auditorium or the plastered walls of a basement. Notre Dame herself would protest if I called this less-than-two-hundred-year-old-church a cathedral.
The Gothic-style, pale concrete contrasted the modernity of the city. And, it wasn’t like Old Water Tower, the few buildings to survive the Great Chicago Fire. It seems older, with water stains, chipped shingles, and sleepy amber light bulbs. The ivy leaks over the arched roof and down its walls. Though its appearance out of place, it seems established, planted in an ever-changing, ever-growing city.
As we stepped out of the cold, into the main body of worship, I noticed the the large pillars that reached toward a dark, wooden ceiling. A feat of imagination and engineering. A couple of people were scattered among the pews, hunched over in big puffy coats. Like marble patrons, bent still in sleep or in prayer. Either way, I think God enjoyed the company.
The “now” of today often feels so immediate, so urgent, so important. But there’s something comforting about an old church. Weathered, but delicate. Beauty and function entwined. It existed before you - it withstood the plague, the 20th century, the 2019 Polar Vortex - and it will exist long after you and your sometimes-questionable life decisions.
Stepping off the busy street, entering its sanctuary, I was reminded of this.
As it was for me, let this structure be a reminder that, whether or not you go to the college you intended, whether or not you end up on track for the career you wanted, whether or not you end up living the kind of life or being the kind of person you thought you would be, God remains permanently planted, a constant presence to help us weather against the venom of human mediocrity and disappointment and outdated 70s architecture.
Words by Morgan Anderson and photo by Carla Haines