Lessons from a Church Armrest

In my previous post, I commented about the architectural attributes of St. Thomas up in West Hollywood. For nearly seventy years, this homage to Christian faith and to Gothic architecture has graced that little area of Hollywood, creating a sanctuary and a sense of surreal time out of time. Sitting down before the altar in the very pews that have stood the test of time, one common and typically overlooked church feature really struck me. It wasn’t the windows, or the arches, or the magnificent altar (although such things certainly did impress me). Instead, it was something far more common and mundane – the pew armrest. 

 

Many church pews are made of wood. Annoyingly, the pews creak and groan every time someone stands, sits, or shifts even slightly. In a building created as a testament to perfection and a slice of heaven in this all-too-foibled world, the base and common noise created by the pews symbolically represents each of us - the very people who invite themselves to sit – noisy, creaky, and as imperfect as the day is long.

 

Depending upon the style of pew, there may or may not be a small armrest on the very end of each long row.  Typically, as you would imagine, a person entering a particular pew might put his or her hand on that armrest while maneuvering into the very cramped space afforded by church seating. Over the course of seventy years, the layers of stain and shellac have worn very smooth on that particular area of the armrest, creating a smooth, glasslike, almost tumbled feel. The armrests lay as quiet tributes to the many hands of the many people who have come and gone through the church doors looking for something that they may or may not have found during their visits.

 

The church was built in 1930. One can only image that the very first hands to make their way along those pews may very well have been those desperate souls of the Hollywood elite suffering from the great market crash that led to the Great Depression. Were their prayers for help and guidance heard? Or did their glittering dreams slowly fade away like the final moments in a silent movie? A decade later, Californians learned of the carnage on a tiny island state just to the west. As newspaper images of pillows of smoke and sinking ships captured the headlines, scared and sorrowful Californians had to ask the painful question - could California be next? WOULD California be next? How many prayers were uttered in that church asking for… begging for… pleading for protection and for a Victory that would not come until 1945? In the victorious mid to late 40’s, when that baby boom began to hit, how many jubilant pageants processed into that church with newborns awaiting their first welcome and introduction to the church community? 

 

Over the span of decades, many hands have leaned upon the wooden rails of the pews for support – both physically and spiritually. How many wives prayed for the protection of their soldier-husbands? How many mothers wept at the loss of their children through war, disease, or other horrors? How many tears of sadness were shed? How many tears of joy? How many people left the church, never to return again? How many people returned time after time after time, wearing their own impression into the armrests, leaving their own silent and anonymous imprint to last long after they are gone?

 

The saints stand silent, with compassionate fingers raised to silently bless the modest visitor. Yet, as quiet as the church may stand with the eyes of the saints ever watchful and vigilant over each visitor, much emotion has cascaded across the span of each and every detail, from the altar, to the pews, and to each and every graceful arch reaching across the wooden ceiling towards the heavens themselves. 

 

Yet hidden among the glittering gilding, ornate carvings, and the jewel-like gleam of the windows, you will find the richest testament to the span of time and devotion. When you look at the eyes of the saints, you may feel many things – peace, serenity, warmth, compassion, or maybe even a sense of guilt. When you look at the graceful and rich details of the elements of the altar, you may be struck with an overwhelming sense and presence of the divine. Yet, as you lean against the armrest, and you hear that slightly embarrassing and disconcerting creak, afford yourself just a moment to remember that you, just like everyone else over the span of ages, are connected for this one moment. For one moment, you all have something in common. For one moment, you all have or had similar wants and needs. For one moment, afford yourself that second to remember that you too are human. And as you get up from the pew, feel free to use that armrest to help you out of your seat. And know that you too are now part of its history.