Who Needs Religion When You Have A Church?
All I need is the building.
In the Jamestown settlement, there is a church.
There’s nothing inherently special about the church. It’s not original. There are no grand spires or towers. There are no hunchbacks ringing bells or grand choirs singing hymns. But if you paid the park entrance fee, followed a path through trees and fog, past ankle-high ruins and a statue of Pocahontas, you’d happen on the church. The small, brick church, overlooking the Atlantic.
And if you paid your entrance fee on a rainy spring morning and walked through the trees and fog, and past the ankle-high ruins and a statue of Pocahontas, you might have found me sitting inside the one-room church.
But you wouldn’t have been looking for me. You would have entered through the arched door, your feet heavy on wooden beams. You’d hear the sound of your steps and breathing inside the single room, which was somehow brighter than outside. If you looked closely, you’d see the red of the brick walls reflected in the glossy, dark wood of backless pews. You’d know it was a church because the outside sign said as much, but other than a simple cross hidden amongst windows and sunlight, religion did not show its face.
Inside, if you sat down on the backless pew, you were alone with only the…
