Fr. Brian A.T. Bovee, the rector of Saint Mary’s Oratory in Rockford, sometimes calls his church Santa Maria Inter Carceres—Saint Mary’s Among the Jails.  It’s a (half-)joking reference to the oratory’s location just to the west of the Public Safety Building, just to the east of the new Winnebago County Jail, and just to the north of Rockford’s federal courthouse.  The only Catholic church in downtown Rockford, Saint Mary’s is one of the few nongovernmental buildings remaining in the southwestern quadrant of downtown, despite the efforts of some county-board members several years ago to seize the property to clear the way for the construction of the new jail.

Since the oratory is now surrounded on three sides, it’s not immediately obvious that it sits on a high point in downtown, with the ground falling away fairly dramatically to the west and to the south toward Kent Creek, and more gently to the east toward the Rock River.  Both the automobile and, paradoxically, the modern high-rise have flattened our sense of topography.  Sometimes, the only way to get the lay of the land is to park the car and walk the streets, letting our shins and our heart and our lungs tell us which way the ground rises.

Saint Mary’s is the second-oldest Catholic church in Rockford.  The oldest, Saint James Protocathedral, is similarly situated just north of downtown, on the east side of the Rock River.  Neither ended up where it is by accident.  The tradition of building temples on rises is as old as, well, temples.  Church spires and bell towers heighten the effect, and, throughout the river towns of the Midwest, the Catholic visitor can often find his way to Sunday Mass by simply driving to the river and looking up.

Rockford’s downtown as a whole lies lower than some of the surrounding areas of the city, and heading north along the Rock River from Saint Mary’s, the ground rises, forming a ridge along the western bank.  Where that ridge reaches its peak in all directions stands St. Peter’s Cathedral, the heart of the diocese of Rockford.  Prominent throughout the year, it cannot be missed as fall slides inevitably into winter, and the surrounding trees shed their last leaves to reveal the light stone walls, vaulted stained-glass windows, and terra-cotta tile roof.  Even arriving by car, the visitor to Saint Peter’s knows that he has ascended the heights.

In an increasingly post-Christian society, churches play a less prominent role than in the past, and new church buildings are often built on the plains (as Rockford’s largest Catholic church, Holy Family, is) or even in a hollow, designed to blend in with their surroundings (as is Saint Rita’s, on the southeast side).  But while Saint Mary’s and Saint James and Saint Peter’s may no longer serve as expressions of the aspirations of a significant portion of the population of Rockford, their positions of prominence allow them to act now as signs of contradiction—especially for Catholics who know that the Blessed Sacrament, the Body and Blood of Christ, is reserved therein.

In entrusting Saint Mary’s to the administration of the Institute of Christ the King, Sovereign Priest, Bishop Thomas Doran was attempting to safeguard such a sign of contradiction.  Failing for nearly 30 years as a parish, Saint Mary’s has found new life as an oratory devoted to the celebration of the Traditional Latin Mass, and on the first Sunday of Advent 2007, the Institute celebrated its tenth anniversary at Saint Mary’s.

While those of us on the oratory’s rolls are deeply grateful for Bishop Doran’s decision to allow the Latin Mass, it likely had as much to do with continuing to provide the Sacraments—Confession as well as Communion—to public officials who could benefit from such a sign of contradiction in their everyday routine.  The commonwealth may no longer be Christian, but that doesn’t mean that the Church should abandon the commonwealth.  It’s fashionable today to build churches “where the people are,” abandoning the brick-and-stone buildings built to last centuries but stranded in older, struggling neighborhoods in favor of glorified pole barns in the suburbs that will collapse as soon as the vinyl-sided ranches around them do.  What, though, about placing churches where the people should be?  Christ Himself said that “And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all things to myself.”  For Christians who believe in the Real Presence, those words have a physical as well as a spiritual meaning.

“I have lifted up my eyes to the mountains, from whence help shall come to me.  My help is from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”  Drawn upward through the city toward the church, we continue to be drawn upward inside, especially in a church such as Saint Mary’s, where the high altar remains, with the tabernacle centered upon it, holding the Body of Christ.  Kneeling in His Presence, we look up to our salvation, and the words of the Psalmist still ring true: “To thee have I lifted up my eyes, who dwellest in heaven.”

In traditional church architecture, the altar rail or iconostasis separates the nave from the sanctuary—the congregation, still mired in the things of this world, from Heaven.  We kneel at the gates of Heaven to receive the Bread of Angels, and we return into the world to spread the light of Christ—and, God willing, to help draw others unto Him.  When we knock down the rail and tear down the altar and place the tabernacle in a corner, out of sight and out of mind, we haven’t, as we might think, destroyed the barriers that separate us from God; we’ve simply removed the Presence of Christ and of Heaven from our lives.  We’ve rid the interior of our churches of any sign of contradiction, just as we rid our cities of such signs by razing the churches themselves.

“He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not.”  Small wonder, then, that the darkness presses in, and the barbarians are inside the gates.  After all, we’re in our churches, too.