The neighborhood Episcopal church of my youth gave me a feeling of deep reverence for God. I felt it in the liturgy, music, and prayers of its services. And I especially felt it one unforgettable day in my teens.
It was midweek. Afternoon. For some reason long forgotten, I was feeling directionless and depressed, not knowing where to turn for help. But I recalled that the doors to the church's sanctuary were kept open at all times so people could come there to pray—and I headed in that direction.
I'd been in this sanctuary many times before, but never when it was entirely empty. I stood there alone. In the stillness. In the vastness and grandeur of high ceilings and magnificent architecture. I felt the presence of God. In fact, I felt enveloped in God's presence, and I knelt in prayer. As I prayed, whatever had been troubling me melted into insignificance; a keen sense of the greatness of God was moving my heart in new directions—what seemed important to me now was simply to live in a way that would honor God. I wanted to hold on to that feeling. I wanted to stay in that sanctuary. But, of course, I couldn't stay there, and I didn't. Yet the memory of this experience obviously did stay with me.
