Little Portion at Clairvaux Farm
The Cold Chapel
by Carl Mazza

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized and robed as destinies
And that much can never be obsolete,
since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in...

- Philip Larkin

In the spring if 1985 I was walking in the back field of Clairvaux Farm with Carlos, a Salvadoran refugee who was living with us at the time. We were getting ready for the arrival of one of our first work camps, and their order of business was to construct a chapel. Beside some emergency renovations which we did on the farmhouse, the chapel was the first construction project at Clairvaux Farm. Carlos and I were looking for an appropriate spot for such an important building, and when we arrived at a quiet, secluded clearing behind some enormous wild rose bushes Carlos stopped -- he looked at me and said one word, aqui (here)!

I walked into the chapel a few weeks ago just before Christmas. We were getting ready for our regular Sunday afternoon service and, as frequently happens, no one had remembered to go early and turn up the heat. The chapel was bone-chilling cold, and I set to the task of getting it warm. "How many times have I done this over the years," I thought. As I got busy on this task, I was revisited by a familiar feeling which the chapel had frequently inspired in me over the years. Although I was alone in a frigid, semi-dark room I was instantly surrounded by voices and snapshots of 13 years.

I remembered the infant Alicia when she was baptized and the chapel was so filled with people I thought that the floor might not withstand the weight. Just last summer her mother told me she was entering middle school. And I saw Dave and Bonnie at their wedding and the stark chapel was suddenly filled with fresh flowers. I saw a dozen candles lit around the room, providing the only light on an otherwise solidly dark evening -- as Donna led an unforgettable service on Mothers Day. I thought about so many small circles of people who came to chapel expecting to sit passively, finding themselves drawn into a spiritual experience of simply talking with other homeless people, and as we spoke, we climbed as it were a spiral staircase reaching ever higher.

I heard crying. There were so many volunteer work campers -- young people who shed tears as they remembered their week of experiences and talked about their feelings of leaving to go home the next day, and how new relationships had changed their minds and converted their spirits.

I looked around and saw the silver and green cross which hung on the wall, made entirely of tightly folded Wrigley's chewing gum wrappers. It was crafted by Elmer for the chapel in the many months he was in jail. I also saw the hand-stitched tapestry made by Elizabeth, on it are embroidered the words of the poem she wrote about Clairvaux Farm. Then there are the banners made by so many church groups and individuals, including the one with the rabbit being pulled from the magician's hat, which Herb and the children decided the chapel very much needed. All these are among the memorials to Martin Luther King, Oscar Romero, Dorothy Day, St. Francis, an un-named Guatemalan girl, a homeless man and our brother Jesus.

I visualized many of our long line of distinguished chapel leaders, some clergy, seminarians, mission volunteers, and homeless persons -- named: Alison, Terri, Barb E., Kay, Tim R., Kathy, John A. Haro, Jeff, Rets, Helen, Herb, Carrie, Garrett, Laura, Marcy, Bill, Donna, Ken S., Nicki, Penny, Harv, Henri, Al, Barb A., Kirsten, Tim C., Pat, Marsha, Schaunel, and Ron. And there were many others like Pete, Dolores, Joie, Elizabeth, Hans, and Erika who didn't care to lead the chapel meetings, but led by encouraging others to participate by their sheer love for being a part of it.

I remembered that Mel never came to chapel, but was adamant that the building should be fixed up and made to look its best. He used to get after some of the younger residents to shovel the snow off the path promptly, and liked to joke every Sunday that he'd get to chapel "one of these days." And so it was, for his funeral service -- one of the most memorable we ever had -- Mel's physical presence and jesting spirit finally joined together in attendance.

After each service on Sunday afternoon, as we leave the chapel, extinguishing the candles and turning down the heat, I usually pause to look back and think of all that has taken place within these four walls. I recall the dedication of the young people who first put up the structure, from the Crafton Heights Presbyterian Church in Pittsburgh. And I remember the similar hard work over two summers of the Towson Presbyterian Church youth and adults as they remodeled the interior, and Bob who completed the roof over the chapel porch.

"These are only lumber, nails, and paint," I thought. They are not sacred-- although at times they seem to be. Surely, it is the space between the walls that is, in itself, hallowed. But this could not be so. The empty place, formidable in its neutrality, does not engender the passion or the deep sentient wells of joy and sorrow. Rather, what has made the difference over the years, and has so deeply moved us into new creation, has been nothing less than -- our Creator with us. The One who loved us into existence remains with us and among us in our relationships.

It has not always been easy. In fact, not at all. Often, like dispelling the chilly winter air, much time and patience has been required to warm the space which is between us in our varied lives. But the Little Portion Chapel is cold only on some Sundays. We occasionally pin our memories and longings to the place, but it remains, despite our soulful dreams, stoic and sometimes cold. The real chapel has always been inside of us, and, happily, among us -- where it blazes with warmth -- always.