Whenever I find myself in a new place, I take a long walk. Wherever my feet take me, whichever direction my fancy leads, I go: ducking into coffee shops, sitting on park benches, checking out local businesses. I have only one rule: whenever I come across a church with an open door, I enter. Those that are listed in tour guide books, but especially, those that are not. There is treasure to behold.
Beauty to see and beauty to feel that speaks in the quiet, that provides some peace from our raucous world outside. Usually, I find myself alone, able to wander, to rest for a spell, to try and capture the sacred space with a camera. Sometimes, a soundtrack follows me when someone hidden plays the organ. Other times, a priest, or pastor, or faithful parishioner enters and softly makes ready a later service.
It is, generally, a solitary and silent practice to follow my feet inside. Except for the morning, many years ago, when I came across a very small church near Brussels’s Grand Place.
I remember it being a bit difficult to see. Dark wood, few windows, low ceilings, little light. It was a Catholic place of worship, much like any other. Crucifix and altar in the apse, holy water in a stone font near the entrance. After spending a few minutes breathing in the calm, I headed for the exit so I might join the world once more and keep walking. But then I saw an old wooden box, with a slot on top, attached to a wall. Clearly, it was meant for donations, yet there was no indication nearby as to why. No votive candles to be lit during prayer, or hand outs to detail the church’s history. Nothing. I headed over for a closer look.
What I discovered, to my tender delight, was a small sign, that asked folks, in many languages, to give alms to help those who are most often the least and the lost: widows and orphans.
I began fishing through my bag, wondering what I had on me, trying to figure out how I might tell the difference—in such low light—between Belgian francs and US dollars. Finally, I managed to locate some money and placed it in the box. I turned to go when—suddenly and surprisingly—I found myself face to face with a tiny, elderly woman wearing black from head to toe. I had found a nun.
I smiled at her, thinking she wanted to acknowledge my gift before I made my way outside. But, before I could take a step, she began to speak. In Flemish. I thought, well, this conversation is going to be short: I don’t speak Belgian Dutch. Which I tried to explain, with plenty of hand motions, in English. With a look of understanding, she appeared to recognize I am not Belgian. So she spoke again. In another of Belgium’s national languages: French. I thought, well, this conversation is going to be interesting: neither of us speaks the other’s language. So I tried the only other one I knew that was anywhere geographically close, and which just happens to be Belgium’s third national language: German. Her eyes lit up. She knew a few words, which she explained, in French. And so we entered into a very unorthodox, two-language conversation, trying with all our might to understand the other, one word or phrase or hand motion at a time.
For a few slow minutes, we spoke, I think, about the beauty of that church, the call to welcome a stranger, the love of God. It was, and remains, a profoundly holy moment in my life—when everything around us stopped. Time, noise, people. All that we knew, as we stood very close, looking into each other’s eyes, smiling, was that, to use language with which we would both resonate, but cannot, of course contain the wonder of it all, we were two children of God. It no longer mattered that we were Catholic and Protestant, old and young, Belgian and American, a resident and a visitor. All that mattered was that we knew it was important to try and understand the other: what we had each experienced, learned, chosen, decided, believed, known—however we were able, in whatever time we had. In the end, our effort was honored: we established a connection that bridged whatever divide may have existed.
Eventually, I said good-bye and walked back into the sunshine, to see people hurrying by, oblivious to all and everyone around, focused on their own little world. Everything was the same, and everything was different. I was different. I had breathed in the hallowed air of the world originally intended, a glimpse of what is to come. Something restored, redeemed, made right, fully and finally. When we are all one. When we realize we are all one. When we rejoice in the effort of remembering, and being, one. Those few moments gave me a reason to keep going and to keep trying and to keep caring. They still do.
Born and raised overseas, Kim Jackson continues to travel far and wide, collecting stories of hope and healing. As an artist and a pastor, Kim seeks to foster forgiveness and reconciliation.
