Almost Perfect (standard:non fiction, 1334 words)
Author: J. Nicklaus	Added: Nov 10 2003	Views/Reads: 3411/2253	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There but for the grace of God go I...

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struck a deal with another church for two other smaller statues of 
kneeling angels, much more proportionate to the altar. He told me about 
the smaller pews on either side of the church which were covered up 
during the Great Depression, and of tiny electrical sockets still 
hidden amidst the nooks and crannies of the heavenward ceiling. Seems 
when they were installed in the 1920's they still relied on gas lamps, 
but had the electrical ones installed for the newly available 
electricity. They just didn't trust electricity yet. From his 
description the effect of having so many tiny bulbs lit in the ceiling 
only added to the church's mystical appeal. 

He showed me some wonderful tile work on the altar which one priest had
drilled a hole through and covered with plywood for a microphone stand. 
"I couldn't wait to get that thing removed," he said. We then proceeded 
through a door to the right of the altar, down into the basement. 
Directly underneath the altar was an old coffin lift. He explained how 
this type of lift was used to raise the coffin from the basement to the 
altar for viewing, and I thought he mentioned this is where the old 
saying "raising the dead" came from; I'm likely wrong, but I never knew 
such lifts existed and again I was impressed. I was also shown the 
aforementioned remaining walls of the old church, as well as a room 
which was created as a bomb shelter during WWII. It still bore the ugly 
blue paint an earlier pastor chose to paint the entire church with. 
Thankfully that paint is long gone from the church above. 

Then we walked down the middle aisle out into the vestibule again, Don
spouting one fascinating fact after another as we walked. We walked up 
a cramped spiral staircase which lead to the second-floor balcony and 
the pipe organ he is so fond of. "This balcony doesn't get used for 
services anymore, but once in a while we have a chorus up here and the 
acoustics in the church are amazing." We squeezed behind the wooden 
pipes themselves where he showed me scratches on the wood from years 
ago; these were the real deal, not some fiberglass mock-up. 

The stained glass windows along the sides of the church were imported
from Innsbruck, while the three panels adorning the wall above the 
altar were American made in the early part of the 1900's. The 
difference in quality between the two was distinctive. This is one area 
the American craftsman couldn't touch. Other round stained glass 
windows had given way to air conditioning ducts. 

This small church contains all the requisite pieces of ecclesiastical
pomp and circumstance, yet by the end of my impromptu tour I knew it 
held something far more important. You see, anyone who knows me knows 
I'm not from DC--I live in Arizona. Prior to that Sunday I had never 
met Don. Here was a man who, without reservation, took a complete 
stranger on an almost magical tour of his church. He gave of his time 
to a complete unknown in a town where they'd just as soon stab you in 
the political back than give you the time of day. When he did finally 
walk away to tend to some other matters before Mass started, it dawned 
on me that I had probably seen and heard things that parishioners who'd 
been attending Mass there for many years have never seen nor known. And 
I'm not even one of their flock. 

I took my place again in the pews near the back. The wood creaked
slightly as I entered the pew. The Sunday crowd was starting to filter 
in, quietly, reverently walking through the dim interior. 

Short of Heaven, this small church may be as close to perfection as I
may ever witness. God willing, I'll find out how Heaven matches up to 
St. Mary's on 5th and H. 

J. Nicklaus November 1, 2003


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