There may be a long tradition of houses of worship sheltering those in need, the kind of folk Jesus himself would keep company with, the destitute, the homeless, the weary traveler, the put-upon or abused, the refugee. But what of the middle-class family of four holing up for a spell in a chapel of the Lord converted into Airbnb lodging, not as a respite from the batterings of bad luck or hard times, but simply out of convenience and novelty? What of them?
Or rather us. My elder daughter was a touch “freaked out” upon setting foot on the blood-red carpet running up the center aisle of The Nest, where we spent two nights over the weekend upstate in Margaretville, at the former St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church, which is virtually unchanged since its active, worshipful use just a few years ago. Pews, pulpit, baptismal font, candlesticks the size of fenceposts, collection plate, and even, tucked away beside a keyboard just waiting to call forth the spirit in song, an 18-inch plaster of Paris Mother Mary. (Just hold the “Blessed Virgin” part.)
Heck, simply leave the two Murphy beds flat up against the wall and you could throw open the doors to the faithful once more on a moment’s notice.
If you’re like me, you’ve always found odd comfort in those blue-and-white metal signs on the way into a burg — “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You,” with the name of the local chapel and maybe the times of worship at the bottom. The surety of sameness. The sense you are not alone.
In this case it’s in the can. Above the toilet, but respectfully so, preserved, like a work of art.
There’s also a small shower in that converted altar boy closet, and across the chancel in the sacristy-turned-kitchen, more like a galley in a cabin cruiser, both of these rooms handsomely beadboarded, a four-burner electric stove and a mini fridge.
Everything you could possibly need, in other words, and no idiot box to boot.
We were in town for a tour of somewhat nearby SUNY colleges with our younger daughter, and would re-up in a heartbeat for the inevitable return visit, but word is the chapel is in contract to be sold, its days as The Nest numbered. To be some lucky soul’s arty domicile? To continue as offbeat lodging with a different absentee innkeep? As a house of prayer duly resurrected?
Whichever, our stay was sufficiently heartening that I’d consider a similarly converted church as a place to one day retire to. Not for my eternal rest, mind you, more like one night at a time. Because I slept like a lamb.