The small chapel on 2nd Avenue draws very little attention to itself. If buildings were capable of humility, this one would win the contest. But a contest to see who or what is the humblest seems to defeat the idea completely.

There is nothing ornate about its architecture. No massive spire. No intricate stained glass. The brick façade is painted a creamy white of sorts. I am not good with colors, but it reminds me of the stucco seen on a Spanish mission, or an Italian villa. If it had a clay tile roof and was removed to the arid regions of the Mediterranean, it might just look like it belongs.

It is so ordinary that it is almost invisible. A tire store across the street. Next to that an empty, overgrown lot. A retail store on the north side. Sidewalks on the south side that lead into a neighborhood whose houses have seen better days.

The street out front is lined with power poles that lean under the weight of wires strung together like a tangle of spaghetti. The daily commute along 2nd Ave is busy. Folks on their way downtown into a world of hushed meetings, glass walls and pressured deadlines. Their eyes are forward, and their minds are occupied.

To most, this little chapel doesn’t even exist.

The building sits up on a raised lot, maybe four feet above street level. It’s so close to the pavement that a brick retaining wall holds back the earth and frames the structure along the sidewalk’s edge. It gives the impression that the chapel hovers quietly above the roar of the four-laned street out front.

From the sidewalk a set of plain concrete steps makes its way up through the wall and onto the approach to the front door. The grey paint is peeling. On either side of the steps a set of small red crosses are embossed against the face of the wall, two to the left and two to the right.

A little chapel like this doesn’t have the financial backing to keep up with all of its needs. There are cracks in the retaining wall that follow the mortar lines between the bricks. The iron pipe handrail beside the steps is bent. Some of the shingles on the roof are mismatched.

Regardless of its imperfections there is a tidiness about the chapel’s appearance. It’s worn but clean. A little rough around the edges but comfortable. Unadorned but inviting.

I have a pair of jeans like that. They are my favorite to wear. They fit. Feel right. They look a little rough, but they’re exactly the way I like them.

Walking through the front door is like putting on those jeans.

The inside is just as plain as the outside. Concrete floor. Straight up oak pews that are hard enough to dislocate your lower lumbar region. A center row of pews flanked by an aisle on either side, which are also flanked by outer rows of pews that slant slightly facing the oak pulpit up front. The whole space is hardly bigger than a shoebox. Sixty people would leave standing room only.

There’s nothing formal in this place. No iconic statues of saints. No polished gold or brass. A lone piano sits up front at floor level on the left. The pulpit sits in the middle, two steps higher than anything in the room. The platform is carpeted. And there is an artificial stained glass of a river and a dove on the front wall behind the pulpit.

Even the cross in the room is unadorned. It sits on the front ledge of the pulpit, not much taller than a glass of tea. A simple piece made from sticks with the bark still on them. A rounded chunk of a limb is the base. It is cut in half, so it lies flat. Two smaller sticks intersect and are tied together with a piece of twine in the shape of a cross. The tall piece stands tilted in the base.

The first thing that hits you when you walk off the street through the front doors is the odor of an old building. It’s not unpleasant. Just noticeable. It’s the same smell you get when you walk into an old courthouse or an old library. It’s the kind of aroma that makes you close your eyes to see the history of the room. You feel as though you suddenly belong to something from a time past.

I know this place because I have been coming here once a month for the last twenty years. Every third Wednesday evening my buddy, Shawn, and I make our way down 2nd Avenue to meet with the men of Valley Rescue Mission. We play music and sing a few songs with them. We take turns at leading a simple devotion. We invite them to pray with us.

Last night one of the guys got up and asked if we could play a song for him. We almost never get requests, but we knew this one. And, in twenty years we have never ever had someone who wanted to sing for the group.

Shawn and I exchanged a look that said, “Why not?”

The mission guys are a hard-knock group. Some of them have been homeless. Most of them struggle with some sort of addiction. Their lives are broken. Their hearts are hungry. Every few months the faces change but the stories are always the same.

I’ll call him Brian. He stood up front and turned to face the other men. Hands in his pockets. Tattoos spilling down each arm. I didn’t know what to expect. Shawn began.

He sang about the reckless love of God.

“O, it chases me down, fights ‘til I’m found . . .”

I’ve heard this song many times. I know the music and the melody. But they say that when someone sings a song they really believe in, it changes things. Words are just words until they come from a place down deep inside. I got the idea that Brian knew what it meant to be found.

“When I was your foe, still Your love fought for me.”

I got a little lost in the moment because I could tell he had been that foe. Here stood a man genuinely grateful that the shepherd had left the other 99 to fight for him.

“When I felt no worth, You paid it all for me.”

The world tells men like Brian that they are worthless. They’re not fit for society. They don’t belong.

“O, the overwhelming, never ending, reckless love of God.”
“I couldn’t earn it; I don’t deserve it.”

There was a pain in his voice that was raw. Rocking back and forth, his eyes were closed.

“There’s no wall You won’t kick down, no lie You won’t tear down, coming after me.”
(Lyrics of “Reckless Love” by Cory Asbury)

When he was done, there was a stillness in that little chapel that could only be described as overwhelming. We all knew we had just been in the presence of a great Mystery.

One small building. Unassuming. Unnoticed.

Never let outside appearances fool you.

That goes for people, too.