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Elder before we proceed.”
    “Go on then, speak with him,” I said.
    Cortland called another officer forward, and had Porter taken to see my father. After Porter left us, I handed a twenty to Susan.
    “What is this for?”
    “Lunch. I’m willing to bet neither of you has eaten since early this morning,” I said.
    “Thank you for coming, Keziah. I know it’s a lot to deal with,” she said as she slipped the twenty safely into the black, leather-bound Bible she always carried.
    “I’m going now. I hope he won’t be too upset.” It was a lie, I didn’t care how upset Porter was.
    Susan smiled, the first real smile she’d given me in a long time. “He might not be back first,” she said.
    I smiled at her and headed for the door. I was about to step outside when something occurred to me. “First Timothy, Six Ten?” I asked her, nodding at her Bible.
    “No, of course not, Keziah. Matthew, Five Sixteen. ”
    “
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify you Father which is in heaven.
” I nodded and left, not sure if I had been reprimanded, or not.
    *
    It wasn’t long before I found myself running my fingers appreciatively over the buttery granite walls of St. Mark’s. This congregation, these people, had built a gem of a church. Not that it was ornate; St. Mark’s wasn’t. Instead, they had built a place with meaning, and with such care and workmanship in every line as to make me wonder if they had built it themselves.
    Much has been said about what architecture says about us, and how we use our space. But what do our spaces say about our faith? St. Mark’s was a church built in the round. An unusual thing to see in itself. It was an arrangement that let the people sit around the center, in a circle, so they can see each other as a family does sitting around a dinner table. In the center was a raised area, with a communion rail encircling a simple altar. I could easily see how someone could fall and break bones on the marble floors and steps.
    Almost everything in the sanctuary was neutral. Warm, sandy colored walls and floors, maple pews, kneelers, altar and woodwork, dark cranberry cushions both before the wrought-iron Communion rail and in the pew seats. The eye could not help but be drawn to the brightly-colored crucifix over the altar, then up to the skylight above, spilling daylight over the scene. The ceiling, where there could have been frescos, was instead a restful cobalt blue.
    My father had always preached against such church buildings. A tent had been good enough for the Israelites in the desert; it was good enough for a modern people in exile from heaven. Or — in my father’s case — a plain old one-car garage was good enough for a people in exile. Church buildings actually intended, and decorated for worship, were vain, pretentious, and ostentatious, and at least one of those things was a sin. Later, much, much later, after I had actually read the Old Testament, I would come to find this insistence of my father’s a little funny. It had apparently slipped his notice that the desert tabernacle was made of goat hair, linen, brass, and acacia wood, before it was more or less covered in gold and silver. As the years have gone by, I have come to consider that it is probable my father held this view so that his poor congregation would not feel the need to build a church they could not afford, could never hope to afford.
    As for me, I’ve always felt oddly safe in churches, especially buildings as lovely as St. Mark’s. The thick stone walls give me the feeling that they could stand against armies. As if I had asked for sanctuary, it was, effectively, granted. The cool quiet helps me focus and calm myself, a great gift to a resident of chaos.
    After I had admired the walls, and the pews, I moved forward, quietly and slowly taking in the rest of the furnishings. The table of flickering votives, each representing a prayer. The banners, the hymnals, the