When I was young, there existed within me a church. A Ukrainian Orthodox church crowned with golden onion domes firing heavenward like candle flames atop its solid stone exterior. Inside, a towering icon screen grew like a living wall from floor to ceiling, depicting ancient people and ancient stories speaking their wisdom through the silence of brushstroke and color. The “smell and bells” of incense, as they say, with censer swung and billowing clouds of smoke rising as prayers to the rafters and beyond, rising with the ancient chants and melodies that echoed back from the vaulted ceilings. A priest, donning shimmering robes that transformeth mere mortals into angels, also raised holy books and sacred vessels with humble hands. Partaking of the taste of bread and wine—Body and Blood—where flesh and spirit were intermingled and embodied in breath, word, and action. Each service flowed with an eternal rhythm that captured those present into its net of ordered symbolism, touched all the bodily senses, and danced us through a disciplined offering to the heavens. This church within, built on my childhood experiences, represented the only knowledge of spirituality that I possessed at the time. And it lifted my eyes up and out of the secular and into the sacred, sparking and nurturing my curiosities within the expanse of its mysteries.
But childlike faith evolved (degraded?) into the logic and rebellion of adolescence: if there is an inside to this church, there must also be an outside. I tugged opened its heavy wooden doors one day and was struck by the world that began just beyond its front steps. A whole buffet table of beliefs and practices, each with different spiritual nutrients, different flavors. And I walked the line, sampling here and there: some faiths were too salty in their outlooks; others too sour towards our ultimate fate; a few too stale or bitter for my palate. But among them were those sweet and good bites that at long last satisfied deep inner cravings that I was just now discovering within myself. A spoonful of this, a heaping platter of that, my hunger for spiritual wisdom never satiated but instead intensified with each new morsel.
The greatest draw was towards those philosophies that sought the Creator within His creation. Nature is the foundation of our entire existence no matter how far removed from its nurturance we convince ourselves to be. To glimpse God, then, even fleetingly within the white clouds above, or the yellow flowers of spring, in the fiery orange glows of campfires and sunsets, or the reds of a Cardinal’s feather; to stare deep into the blackness of a starry sky and to unnervingly feel that Void staring back into me.
Nature became sacred; the woods became my temples. Flower and field were more inspiring than painted icons, birdsong more cherubic than human chanting. My inner church no longer provided refuge; it instead seemed to separate me from the greater spiritual landscape within which it now existed. It was first locked up, then it fell into neglect, eventually abandoned. I later disassembled it piece by piece, every wooden board, every stone, every brick and candle and bench and icon dismantled and piled into some corner of my being, intact but ignored. Sometimes a gentle process, sometimes more forcefully and violently, other times disuse caused it to crumble on its own.
The taking down of a building invariably allows nature to return. In this new landscape, the grasses sprung back, flowers bloomed, animals made their homes, and soon a forest arose, teeming with life where once there was only a hollow structure. This natural setting provided a much more expansive view of the surrounding landscape, no longer enclosed in cavernous walls and a protective roof. The trees stood as cathedral columns; the dome of the sky a limitless ceiling; the plants both a community and a communion; the animals as brothers and sisters; the earth a vibrant, living carpet underfoot; and all of it a connection to something much larger than myself. That connection was further strengthened by my pursuit of primitive-living skills, learning how to procure shelter, water, fire, and food from what raw materials the wilderness offers. Walking in harmony with the elements, this natural paradise revealed a depth of spirit unfettered by the shackles of custom and ceremony. I discovered the seeds of pure spirituality in this wild place, and the pile of church parts nearly disappeared into the undergrowth.
Years later, a trail of breadcrumbs (divinely placed, no doubt) beckoned me back to this mound. I reluctantly poked through it piece by piece like an archaeological dig, and what I found there shocked and enlightened me. The wooden beams that once held the walls and ceiling of that church long ago were hewed from the very same wood that I touched and communed with in a living tree. The stone foundation was shaped from the same rocks that taught me to hold patience and steadfastness in the midst of life’s storms. The candle flames were of the very same fire that, with awe and reverence, I learned to make through the friction-ceremony of wood spun on wood. The icons were painted with egg yolks and powdered minerals as an expression of the duality of flesh and spirit. And all these pieces—some admittedly very changed from their original, natural, and living forms—were the works of humans, another of God’s creations who were searching for the same connection that I had found in my wilderness paradise. People who harvested raw and natural materials, modified them, wrapped them with their heartfelt faith and prayers, and built them into a beautiful expression of their love for their Creator, and as a place to gather in community to honor Him.
It took me several years to reconstruct this inner church from the pieces left behind: brick by brick, understanding by understanding, learning not only how to build this structure, but the deeper significance of each part. The wooden supports are honored for their gift of life from a fallen tree. The stones and bricks still breathe the spirit of the rocks from which they came. The candles connect to industrious bees and sacred fires, glorified further by the flame-shaped onion dome above. Reassembled in harmony with the spiritual landscape that surrounds, this new church, while humble in its naturalness, is a fitting structure within which to continue learning and growing on this path. Its teachings, too, drawn originally from creation, are now traceable to their initial conception within the bowels of wilderness. But this time around there is a greater acceptance of how and why it was built, a recognition of the pure materials at its core, and a commitment to honoring it as an embodiment and prayerful elevation of the earthen sources from which it was constructed.
This wilderness temple now exists within a much greater world of natural beauty. The immediate grounds are planted with gardens of wildflowers; beyond are the same lush woodland temples, pristine wetlands, and montane meadows that sheltered and inspired my wanderings through this spiritual landscape. These are now two united manifestations of God, each existing within the expansive mysteries of the other. When I enter the church, my prayers are of the church. And upon exiting, I breathe deep the fresh morning air, walk down the stairs, remove my sandals upon this, Thy sacred earth, and carry the spirit of that Church into the purity of the woods and fields that surround.
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