Sanctuary

Two months ago, Jane was away for the weekend, so I broke our Sunday routine and sat alone on the back row at Blacknall Presbyterian instead of our usual spot two-thirds back on the left side. Earlier that morning, in the parking lot, a woman I’d seen before—probably mid-forties, clearly struggling with mental health or substance issues—had approached me asking for money. In our nearly cashless world, I had none to give. She muttered some expletives; I wished her a good day and headed inside.

Fifteen minutes into the service, she entered the sanctuary. I didn’t see her at first, but then felt a not-so-gentle shove to my shoulder. “Can I sit down?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said quietly, “but only if you aren’t disruptive.”

She harrumphed as I made room. Ten minutes later, as I stood for a hymn, she left.

This past Sunday, with Jane a bit under the weather, I again found myself on that back row. Ten minutes into worship, she returned. This time she chose the empty pew directly in front of me, settling in with considerable noise as she removed layers of clothing and arranged her backpack. Shortly into the sermon, she fell asleep—head tilted forward, snoring softly.

Whatever had drawn her back to this particular sanctuary, it wasn’t my hospitality. But she had come back, claiming space with growing confidence, trusting this place enough to become vulnerable in sleep.

It left me wondering: What makes a space truly sanctuary? Not our gracious welcome—I’d offered conditions, not grace. Not our protocols or propriety—she’d disrupted both. Something else had called her back, something that transcended my grudging “yes” and her failure to meet my standards of non-disruption. She had found what the word “sanctuary” originally meant: refuge, safety, a place where the hunted could rest. While I was focused on maintaining order, she was seeking something far more fundamental—a space where her humanity would be recognized, where she could exist without having to perform acceptability.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d been the one setting conditions on grace, while she’d been the one demonstrating what it means to claim sanctuary as a birthright rather than a privilege to be earned.

As the sermon began, her head dropped forward and she began to snore—not loudly, but audibly. My first instinct was embarrassment, both for her and for the disruption. But then I realized: here was someone so worn down that she felt safe enough to surrender to sleep. The profound vulnerability of becoming unconscious in a room full of strangers spoke to a trust I’m not sure I could muster. She had claimed sanctuary in its most literal sense—a place where she could let down every guard.

Then, I was truly startled. As we rose for the Sanctus—that ancient choral declaration of “Holy, holy, holy”—she stirred and awakened. Her eyes opened, she looked around briefly, but she didn’t rise or speak. She seemed calmly to bear witness to that moment when heaven and earth are declared to meet.

And then, as we settled into the Eucharistic prayer and began processing toward the altar to receive the Communion elements, she returned to sleep, snoring softly once again. Conscious for the proclamation of holiness, absent for the ritual that followed. There was something almost prophetic in her rhythm—conscious for the declaration of God’s holiness, resting during the sacred meal she was not yet ready to share.

By the time of the Benediction, I quietly slipped out to fulfill my duties at Blacknall’s new welcome counter, noticing she was beginning to stir again. Her sanctuary time was ending, but for those forty-five minutes, she had found what she needed.

As I stood at the welcome counter afterward, greeting the familiar faces filing out with their warm smiles and Sunday pleasantries, I couldn’t shake the contrast. How easy it is to love the young couple with their two precious children, their faces glowing with the satisfaction of another successful Sunday. How natural to embrace the devotion of a beloved Blacknall member who had celebrated her 94th birthday just the day before—a saint whose faithfulness spans decades.

These are the neighbors we’re comfortable loving. They follow our unspoken protocols, they smell like the rest of us, they don’t disrupt our rhythms or challenge our assumptions about who belongs in God’s house. Loving them feels less like obedience to a commandment and more like the natural overflow of affection.

But the woman who shoved my shoulder, who snored during the sermon, who stripped off layers of clothing with considerable noise—loving her requires something different. It demands that we confront our own definitions of worthiness, our own comfort with chaos, our own assumptions about who gets to claim sanctuary and under what conditions.

The First John reading last Sunday had been clear: “Love your neighbor.” Not “Love your convenient neighbor” or “Love your neighbor who follows proper church etiquette.” Just love your neighbor. Period. No footnotes, no qualifying clauses, no escape hatches for when love becomes inconvenient or uncomfortable.

Christ’s “new” commandment from that Maundy Thursday so long ago echoes the same radical inclusivity: “Love as I have loved you.” And Christ’s love, as I recall, is notoriously indiscriminate about social acceptability.