I got some rather flukey traffic this week on my regular blog, Thinking Out Loud, which drove the stats to a record high.
Then there is this one, which I do mostly for myself. It has readers, but nothing close to the other. I enjoy blogging at the other, but I enjoy searching my own heart to come up with things to post to this one.
The contrasting stats reminds me of something that happened last summer, which my wife blogged as part of a longer piece:
…Boston was one of our most recent expeditions. Really interesting city (American history machine aside). Cool architecture, good subway, Chinatown, really easy to get lost, terrible maps, good food. Perfect. Some historic churches. Mostly for “freedom” reasons, of one kind or another.
We chanced upon one that really struck me. Not as old as some of the others, probably. No “Paul Revere slept through the sermon here” plaques. But a lovely red brick building, tucked away in one of the more serpentine neighborhoods. We climbed a few steps to a back door and found it unlocked, so we went in. Found ourselves in a foyer of sorts, creaky floored and unlit. There was another door in front of us, so we pulled that one open. Creak. Stepped to the threshold. Creak. Peeked through the door. Creak.
It was beautiful inside. Warm and hushed and soaring. Stained glass windows, old dark pews, draperies and candles. It smelled of polished wood and wax and flame and time and prayer. But we didn’t go in any further. We closed the door and left. Creaking all the way…
…You see, the reason why we left without really going in is that when we opened that inner door, we heard something.
Someone speaking. One voice.
One voice echoing through the room, over the pews, off the windows. The pews that were completely empty, the windows that were telling their stories to no one.
One voice, chanting in what might have been Latin. Reciting a text that no one would hear. Except the speaker and God himself. Because they were the only ones in the room.
As we left, we looked at the sign on the fence outside. “5:00 pm. Mass”. It was 5 pm. So the Mass was being said. Whether anyone was there to hear it or not. It had to be said.
Why? I have no clue. But it had to be said. If only to the antique pews and the priceless glass and the glowing candles and absolutely not a living soul. Haunted and driven by tradition. Disregarded by life and humanity.
…Church with a sermon and no congregation.
You can read her article which, in context, has a whole other set of meanings, with the most inescapable being what you get from the second last paragraph: Tradition; irrelevance; religiosity.
This is different, however. This is blogging in the original “web-log” sense of journal-keeping. This remains available for future discovery; readers driven perhaps by items here I have yet to write.
(Have you ever noticed how close “stats” sounds to “status?” So stats-seeking is really status-seeking.)
And all of this of course is being read by some people already. I’d probably do this even if there weren’t any readers. Having tasted both the highs and lows of statistics, I’m not sure that one is better than the other. It’s somewhat similar to what I wrote about the contrasts between the large church we attended two weeks ago, and the much smaller one we attended last week.
Still, I don’t know how that Boston cleric could do it. Something unseen drives him to go through the forms of the mass even though no other humans are present…
…Although, I wonder if later that day, he suddenly remembered hearing the door creaking and sensed that an individual; no, a couple came in, listened for a minute, and then left?