Old Churches

I love old churches, not for the lavishness of their painted ceilings or the gilded picture frames, but for the high degree of skill in their brick and mortar. Their walls reflect care and pride. I love absorbing the artistry and the consideration that went into their design, especially the stained glass windows that tell stories of old. I love the wooden pews and the craftsmanship in their carpentry. I sit confidently in their ancient sturdiness and study the grooves of their shaping. I appreciate a time when craftsmen were proud of their skill & trade.

Sitting in an empty old church makes me contemplative. It puts me at peace with the world and myself. In an old church, I feel free from my prejudices, internal conflicts and self-criticism. I feel shielded from the external harmful ideas and conversations that whirl around from social media, 24-hour News, and the general environment. Old churches have become my refuge.

Rushorooza Cathedral

My love for old churches started young, at Rushorooza Cathedral, in Kabale Uganda.

As a little girl, I looked forward to Sunday mornings… dressing up, and climbing the steep hill to the brown-brick church just to observe the effect of the sunlight at the altar. The sun streaming in through the coloured glass windows high above the altar on the west side, cast a celestial impression on the priests and the huge mural of The Ascension behind the altar. The dancing movements of the shadows shrouded by the musky scented smoke of burning incense, was a mesmerizing scene.

The many sideshows of Rushorooza Cathedral, especially at Easter time, were part of the appeal. A lady almost collapsing under the weight of a crucifix she carried to the altar and another tripping & falling over the huge long rosary she bore around her neck on her way to receive holy communion, solicited forbidden giggles and laughter. These incidents have remained with me and still make me laugh decades later whenever I am in an old church.

‘Traveller’s Church’

This is the same fascination I have for what must be one of the world’s smallest churches, the Mai Mahiu Catholic Church in Kenya, also referred to as the ‘Traveller’s Church’. This little church just off a highway in Kenya can tell a story.

Built in 1942 by Italian POWs under the watchful eye of the British, this church is rich in contradiction, mystery, myth and symbolism. For instance, it has a clock that can be heard ticking but cannot be seen. Then there is a decades-long story claiming that the Italians hid a massive fortune in its concrete columns.

This pentagon shaped church is inundated with Latin inscriptions & symbols above its stained glass windows and entrance doors. Some like ‘Haec Est Victoria Quae Vincit Mundum Fides Mustra’ (This is the Victory that has won the world by our faith) leave a lot to interpretation. Who dictated that inscription? Was it the British in a victorious mood stamping their glory or the Italians though defeated still hopeful?

Behind the altar, the 75 –year-old arched mural of the Nativity scene on a brick wall background, with the baby Jesus surrounded by Mary, Joseph and the angels is so foreign in theme, and yet local in fabric.

This tiny church in the middle of remote Africa is an intersection of many histories… World War II, colonialism and the fate of the colonized. Like many other old churches, this little church carries the burden of connecting the bits and pieces of history of the ground it stands on.

Why Old Churches?

Old churches are not just a place of orthodox prayer for me, but a space of pause and self-reflection. They are my haven from the hectic fast-paced world outside. They are a place where I recall my fondest memories.

Old churches exhibit fortitude, having stood stoic against wars and natural calamities for years, decades or centuries. Their longevity is a dependable pillar, for many communities the world over. In a world of rapidly changing cultures pulling us in all directions often leaving us in a daze of turmoil, I find the unchanging nature of old churches very grounding. They remain standing, waiting patiently for years or decades for your return.

In my late teens, the newer churches swayed me because they were in vogue. Their charismatic way of worship was very enticing and exciting. However, when I went to study in the UK, I found myself feeling isolated and disconnected from the past and home.  It was in an old church that I found sanctuary and home.

In an empty church, I find my faith in the encompassing silence, reverence and visual elements. I ponder the history the specific church, and speculate on what its walls have witnessed and the secrets they keep. I marvel at the different people that have come and gone and the ones yet to follow.

Old churches are my safe space. It is here that I spend quality time with myself coming to grips with the most important questions of my life. They act as a lighthouse, guiding me away from peril. I find room to listen to and tune into my inner voice without the disruptions & distractions of daily living. I think about life’s amusing situations and its interesting ironies. I laugh at the heartening times and cry at the tricky ones. I say a prayer of gratitude for the life I have lived and the experiences I have had. In an old church, I balance my mind. I exit an old church with feelings of happiness and calm.