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BY TOM BRUNKOW

The magnificent bells of Foundry UMC?s carillon were pealing joyously one Sunday morning, as if rousing the neighborhood dwellers from sleep and sloth and calling them to worship God. It seemed to be working.

P and 16th streets were filled with people, and some were actually heading for the doors of this historic, stone fortress of a church.

Searching for a parking space, I circled the block several times but found nothing. I spotted cars heading into the Colonial Parking Garage across from the church and followed them down into the bowels of the lot located under a massive apartment building.

At the attendant?s little booth I noted the sign 'Free Parking on Sundays,' my first glimmer of Sabbath beneficence.

Spiraling down several levels, I finally found a place. I looked for the elevator, not wanting to retrace my path up the long ramp. I saw only a stairwell. Up and up I climbed. Words to the old hymn urged me on: 'Time is now fleeting, the moments are passing.'

By now the service had begun, and I was late.

'How does one get out of here?' I mused. Finally I came upon a door. 'Emergency Exit' the sign said. 'This is an emergency,' I reasoned to myself. 'I?ve got to get to church!'

An alarm sounded as I opened the door.

Stepping out, I found myself in the lovely, landscaped garden of the apartment complex. 'What a beautiful place,' I thought as I scanned the area on this gorgeous, sunny September morning.

I discovered that the courtyard was enclosed on all sides by an elegant 10-foot high fence of iron bars and the building itself. The gate to the street, I noticed, was locked for security purposes.

I supposed it was to keep intruders from getting in. But now the sickening thought came: the security plan was also preventing me from getting out!

I hurried back to the emergency door which had spit me out into this predicament, but it was locked tight and had no handle on the outside.

Across the manicured lawn I saw the glass doors of the main entrance to the lobby. Not a soul in sight. My pounding on the glass roused no one, nor had the alarm bell. This once, I wished my reverse trespass had been discovered by someone. No such luck.

I laughed out loud at the absurdity of my predicament, but only for a moment.

Worry began filling my soul as water fills a sinking ship. Not only was I late for worship, but I was trapped inside this luxuriant cage like a Bengal tiger at the zoo. How am I going to get out of here?

I prowled the fence line, not unlike that tiger, in search of some narrow space I could squeeze though. Nothing.

I came upon the swimming pool area next to the building. The fence around the pool deck was a little lower.

But more woe: I could see that once over this obstacle another fence loomed even higher. I had no choice. I jumped, grabbed the top bar of iron, found a foot-hold and pulled myself up using my arms. I felt something pop in my chest on the right side. 'Oh, no,' I winced, 'I?ve pulled a muscle!'

Suspended atop the iron barrier, my mind flooded now with paradoxical guilt.

Here I am, a retired man-of-the-cloth, simply trying to get to church, but feeling more like a miscreant, a thief of sorts, scaling backyard fences, as if fleeing from the police or at least an angry security guard. What if someone saw me now!

I jumped down to the pool deck and quickly moved to my last and most formidable obstacle ? another expanse of iron bars looming ten feet high. It ran from the pool house to the adjacent apartment.

My injured fugitive?s heart sank. What now? I was getting more creative in my desperation. I spied a garbage can and a bicycle nearby. From the can, I stepped up to the handlebars. From there I was able to pull myself up and over and jump down to freedom on the other side.

Hurrying towards the street that would take me to church, I peeked over my shoulder to see who had noticed this escapade. But no one came after me shaking a scolding finger. I was doing a pretty good job of that to myself.

By the time I slipped into my pew sweating, the associate pastor was telling the children?s sermon. Being so rattled, I couldn?t take it in. But an anthem that followed, the Shaker hymn 'More Love,' helped. The a cappella singing was so lovely that all my shame and guilt melted away.

I certainly take no moral from this embarrassing incident, but it did set me to musing.

Some days getting to church is as easy as apple pie, but some days getting to church is as hard as bruising a rib while climbing a fence. Truth be told, most of us arrive at church bruised in one way or another. If we will only let the Word enter us, whether sung or read or preached, we can be healed.

The Rev. Tom Brunkow is a retired pastor in the Baltimore-Washington Conference.