A LITTLE CHURCH
A little church on Sunday morning is a negligible thing. It may be the meekest, and the least conspicuous, thing in America. Someone zipping between Baltimore’s airport and beltway might pass this one, a little stone church drowsing like a hen at the corner of Maple and Camp Meade Road. At dawn, all is silent, except for the click every thirty seconds as the oblivious traffic light rotates through its cycle. The building’s bell tower seems out of proportion, too large and squat and short to match. Other than that, there’s nothing much to catch the eye. In a few hours, heaven will strike earth like lightning on this spot. The worshipers in this little building will be swept into a divine worship that proceeds eternally, grand with seraphim and incense and God enthroned, “high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple” (Isaiah 6:1). The foundations of that temple shake with the voice of angels calling “Holy” to each…
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