A little trip out west--viii

 

Listen, this is Believe It or Not stuff.

But first an old story you might have heard.

There's a guy, an old soldier maybe, some poor soul left behind on an otherwise deserted Pacific island (swap oceans if you'd like). Poor guy's been on his own for fifty years, sole occupant of this tiny island otherwise overlooked. 

One day finally, someone drops by, first visitor in all those years. The visitor is astounded at the city the old guy has built. He had nothing else to do for fifty years, I suppose, so he built himself an entire town.

"There's my post office," the old guy says, "and right there's my town hall. And right up the block here--see the steeple?--that's my church." Broad smile. Proud. 

Mr. First Visitor looks down the other direction, where he's spotted yet another steeple. He points, draws his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders, as if confounded.

"Oh yeah," the old man says, "that's the church I used to go to."

Where two or three or gathered, someone's pretty likely to leave.

If you think I'm talking about your church, lighten up a bit. When first I heard that story, I heard it from Jewish folks talking "temple." I'm not kidding.

You're not likely to believe this Little Church. It's in a town so small the only gas station is Standard Oil, and that's gone too.

Keystone, Nebraska, is barely a village--but then it wasn't in 1908 either, when its newly settled citizens, blessed with an almost divine civil spirit, built The Little Church. Not mega, believe me, so small you can almost throw it in the back of the van and take it along home. Put a choir inside and there'd be no room for a congregation; you'd have to pipe in a preacher if you wanted a sermon. Some people, I'm sure, have bigger sheds. Five miles away beside the lake hundreds of travel trailers make this look like a water closet.

Seriously, The Little Church is nowhere near fifty feet, stem to stern, front to back--no, front to front. Yeah--"front to front." Here's the thing: this little church has done something for the ages by sweetly combining whole congregations--whole denominations--for the very first time since Luther's Reformation. Seriously. On one end there's an altar for the Catholics, who need to hold mass come the First Day of the week. 

Turn around, and on the other end of the sanctuary stands a pulpit for the Protestants, who need sermons more than wine and wafers. The Little Church is a spiritual switch-hitter. Okay, both sides meeting together could create a problem, but that won't likely occur 'till Kingdom Come. For this time being at least, The Little Church belongs to everyone.

Kevin Costner, years ago, became Iowa's favorite adopted son, when, in Field of Dreams, he said. . .well listen in for yourself.

Keystone, Nebraska, is close enough to Nebraska's big Lake Mac to pick up more vacationers these days than it has since The Little Church was built, but only the truly devoted townies would mistake Keystone for heaven. 

But it testifies to something beautiful anyway.  The Little Church stands in a broad field of green grass cleanly cut. No gravel anywhere because there's no need for a parking lot. It's just this darling little church, a block up from the blacktop that zooms in and out of town. The Little Church is a tiny place, but you can't miss it. 

And you shouldn't. It is its own kind of heavenly place, a shelter in the time of storm, a little palace of peace, a taste of heaven.

I'll admit to my sin. I too was skeptical. I too figured this little church too good to be true, so I left town in a scramble rather than tour Keystone, rather than look around. I didn't want to know if there was yet another church someplace around the town, the church people used to attend. 

I'm not saying there isn't, only that if there are two churches in Keystone, Nebraska, I don't want to know.

Visit Keystone sometime if you're anywhere near to Lake Mac. A visit to The Little Church--just to know it's there--will do your heart a blessing, just plain-old good for the soul.