SANCTUARY
2 Corinthians 5:1 For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
How do I describe the medieval, pure sense of sanctuary, the tears and relief that come to me as I walk into Central Congregational Church each September 11 and make my way toward the chancel of this church?
You see, I used to work at the World Trade Center and 34 people who worked for me perished in that moment in 2001. The following year, September 11, 2002, found me newly relocated to Providence, in search of a church home, and trying to understand what my soul and heart sought in that first anniversary of a horrific event. I only knew that I needed quiet space and the only church I had visited in Providence was Central.
I made my way that Wednesday morning to this imposing Central Congregational Church building, having previously made arrangements with a kind voice known as “Rebecca” to open the doors early. With me, I had my childhood Bible and had placed within it the names of those I wished to honor and celebrate. I brought writings of mine from that day a year previous, and a pile of snapshots I had taken of the twin towers and lower Manhattan.
My minutes in this space progressed from the timing of the first plane attack on the buildings, to the second plane hitting, to the second building collapsing, to the implosion of the first tower. During this time, I went through the things I had gathered that morning before coming to the church.
Sitting in one of these pews, I finally began to look through the photographs—most of them taken on a trip to Ellis Island several years earlier. There were the beautiful vaulted arches of the main immigration building at Ellis Island. I saw the lovely simplicity of the light fixtures on the photographed ceiling. The unique, exquisitely crafted tiles caught my eye. The final photograph in my hand was an image through the patterned window of the Ellis Island building, across the waters of my beloved Hudson River, to the view of lower Manhattan and the silhouette of the twin towers.
At what point did it strike me that the arches, the tiles, and the light fixtures in my photographs were also above me at Central? I only knew that the uniqueness and total beauty of the hand-crafted tiles was not accidental. It was a puzzle, but one I put away as I closed those 102 minutes with a prayer.
That afternoon the voice of “Rebecca” called me. “Have you ever been to Ellis Island,” I asked. “Did you know that the tiles on Central’s ceiling are the same as those at Ellis Island?” “Yes,” the voice said. “Both were designed by the same man.” At that moment, I knew I had found my new church home.
Every year on the anniversary of this difficult day, as I enter the doors at Central and approach the true “sanctuary” of this space, my heart is filled with a surrendering of all my external protections. It is one of the most powerful moments and images in my life—the concept of complete sanctuary, a place of refuge, a safety from violence.