The church building in Hirsau is open all the time. I’m not sure that’s been true for the more than 500 years it’s been here, but it’s true in this season.
If you want to sit for a moment, there are the old wood pews on either side of the aisle, two-thirds of the way to the front, like a church. They creak, they don’t have cushions.
If you can read German, the sign that welcomes you also offers other places to sit. And if you can use Google Translate, the welcome extends to you, too.
There is a chair a few feet (or meters) from the altar, facing the altar. If the room was full of people, sitting in this chair would make you feel exposed, sitting in the middle of everything. With the room being mostly empty of people, I felt invited to sit in silence at the altar, unobstructed view seating.
There is another chair near the side of the altar, with a clear view of the crucifix. There are other places to stop and be still and talk with God.
I know, because I know church history and I know humans, that not everyone who has been in this chapel for the last 500 years has agreed about politics or about theology or about national borders or about what they think God might want.
What I’m grateful for, though, is that the doors are unlocked and the invitation is open to sit and talk with God. There is an implied assumption that God has more than enough capacity to guide that conversation, to be more present than we can ever be. It’s more than implied, of course. The crucifix bears constant, silent witness to that willingness to be present with people.
We weren’t the room for long. It was a family visit, not a pilgrimage.
But I’m wandering back in my heart.
Feel free to join me.
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