We were visiting family in Cincinnati last week and I planned to attend Sunday services at our old neighborhood church. I got a late start and finally found an open parking spot on the adjacent playground 5 minutes after services had already begun.
Sometimes you can peer through the stained glass doors to the sanctuary and spot an open seat, but no such luck for me. Half a dozen late-comers in the entryway gave me knowing half-smiles as I turned around... "We already looked..."
Ah, but there was still one alternative to standing there for the next hour. I peeked over to the choir loft stairway that is tucked off to the side of the main entrance. Ha! Nobody had claimed the "late seat" at the bottom of the stairs.
I had never sat on the choir steps for a service before, but I had seen many people do so. For years I had navigated up and down the narrow stairway every week hauling guitar cases, keyboards and sound equipment to lead worship with my daughter and our dear friend, Sue. At least 3-4 trips up and 3-4 trips down the stairs every week we played. Thousands.
It wasn't unusual to run down the stairs during a service to retrieve a piece of music or replace a microphone cable. And I'd have to step around the person or persons sitting at the bottom of the staircase with a whispered, "excuse me...sorry...pardon me."
So it was my turn to smile when I heard the choir door creak open during the sermon. A singer or musician was on their way down the stairs and I knew to lean tight against the wall and let them squeeze by. Now I was the one occupying the "late seat" as they knowingly smiled and stepped past.
With that extra dose of humility, I mused over the new perspective offered me. Physically removed from the "action," I was neither fully engaged in the sanctuary nor supporting it with music from the loft. Even so, I felt warmly connected there in my old home. I was able to pray and listen, and even the familiar creaks from the loft floor above were comforting to me.
That's when I noticed that sunlight began pouring in from a window on the stairway wall above. I silently noted to God that this would actually be a very pleasant worship experience if I my view wasn't obstructed by the concrete sanctuary wall - because from where I was sitting, I would be looking straight through to the front of the church and the cross.
The cross! Right there on the inside of the old oak staircase railing - just a foot away - was a lovely cross carved into the original woodwork. A cross now brightly lit by the sunshine pouring in behind me at just the right angle. It was directly in line of sight, but only for the person sitting in this particular "late seat," on the choir loft stairs. Had the original artisan thought of that? I hope so.
After attending church there for 18 years and hurrying by it thousands of times, I had never seen that cross. I wiped away tears but couldn't stop smiling at the unique gift of that moment. I wonder how many similar reactions and assurances were brought to people who had initially felt frustrated or embarrassed to be the latecomer on the stairs.
We walk right by the cross of Jesus thousands of times in our lives. Not just in a church, but on the sidewalk, at work, even in our own homes. God is in plain view, but it might take a different perspective sometimes to see him - or to see what others see from where circumstances have placed them. I'm going to look more carefully in the future.
What do you believe?
