You see the signs in every town. Shortly after pulling off the highway or passing the city limits, a white sign imprinted with a red, white, and blue shield pops up, bearing the slogan, “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.” All the other religions could care less if you live or die, I guess, but the Episcopalians welcome you to set a spell, enjoy the sights, and, if you feel like it, maybe stop by the church. No pressure. Episcopalians do not evangelize — they offer you coffee and a Danish.

On October 1, I was torn between four lovely churches on south Ashland. Baptist or Apostolic? Greek Orthodox or Episcopalian? The decision was made for me by (1) waking up late, thus reducing my choices to catching the 11 a.m. with the Baptists or the Episcopalians, and (2) my impending marriage to one of the latter. Taking advantage of the stupendous street parking, I booked up the steps of the Church of the Epiphany, arriving with moments to spare.

Late, I failed to notice the church’s lovely, rust-colored, Lake Superior sandstone exterior, which gives it the friendly appearance of a freshbaked gingerbread church or a high-grade steakhouse. No, I’m not being facetious. Built 130 years ago — according to their literature — the church’s Richardsonian Romanesque style was intended to engender the image of a “warm, cheerful, devotional parish church … at once a place of reverent worship and a home for God’s children.” It also reeks of money. Old, pre-income tax money. America may not have a national religion, but Episcopalianism — with more US presidents in its ranks than any other religion — certainly has its bluest blood.

Imagine my shock at the switcheroo within.

Inside, Epiphany is an aristocrat gone to seed. A shade of glamour is there, but one abridged by a sad shabbiness. Much is missing, such as the wooden scrollwork behind the altar and several terra cotta tiles covering the walls. Much should be missing, like the gadawful, diamond-patterned stained glass windows — pathetic replacements for whatever glorious artifacts rested there before. Two original windows remain though, one displaying the little-known Christ symbol of a pelican pecking its chest open to feed its young with its blood. The roof is sweeping and dark, supported by the building’s four corners — Surprise! no columns — and constructed of immense wooden beams. The raised roof also grants heart-stopping acoustical power to the church’s dandy pipe organ.

Too much time on the architecture and not enough on the churchin’, you say?

Patience.

The congregation is sparse. With pews for 250 or more, only 30 to 35 Episcopalians are in attendance (Chicago’s Episcopalian population wavers around the 40,000 mark, compared with the city’s 2.3 million Catholics). The breakdown between black and white parishioners is about even. African-American parishioners, however, tend to be young to middle-aged mothers with kidlings in tow, while the white faces are creased and topped with grey.

The aforementioned pipe organ is quite impressive, exuberantly resounding upon my entrance, though I doubt for my benefit. Entering from the side, The Reverend R. Kirk Galloway appears with a small entourage of servers and choir members. That rara avis among clergymen, Fr. Galloway can sing — and quite nicely, too. A fortunate thing, for at Epiphany the Gospel is sung rather than read. In voice, he is also well-suited for the church, which, as in the olden days, possesses no PA system. The choir is small, but accomplished — neither flying to the rafters nor mumbling into their cassocks. While enjoying the sweetness of hymn #718, the church’s single, aged usher approaches me from behind, offering a bulletin/itinerary for the mass. Books of Common Prayer — the Episcopalian instruction manual — are plentiful. Now that’s service.

Overall, there is a melancholy simplicity to the service in this sparsely attended and crumbling church; a return to the basics rather than the following of blind ritual, knowing that attendees cannot be taken for granted. Fr. Galloway’s sermon is personal, to the point, and delivered from the foot of the altar rather than its pulpit. Of special note: the moment when two lone female choir members teamed with the organist for hymn #586. “Jesus Thou divine companion…” the song begins, and it is unbearably sweet and forlorn. Almost overwhelmed by the swoop and grandeur of the organ and lost in a corner of the church’s shabby magnificence, the two women sing their hearts out. It’s a treasurable moment.

The sign of peace — that moment when one turns to one’s neighbor and offers a hearty handshake — is an invigorating experience. “Let us offer one another the sign of peace,” intones Our Priest, much like a quarterback giving the order to “Break!” A scramble of parishioners, eager to press the flesh, run holus-bolus about the church, risking an avalanche of rooftop rosewood. Several parishioners home in on me, pegging me as an outsider, though in a positive way. “Hi, I’m Carol; welcome to Epiphany,” says a distinguished, silver-haired woman while shaking my hand. “We’re having a coffee service in the guild hall after mass … right through those doors.” She gestures thereunto.

My new friend Carol isn’t the only greeter. Several elderly, fiercely Protestant-looking, and unusually tall laypersons stroll up with an assaying friendliness, shake my hand, and welcome the perceived fresh meat. Yep, this Episcopal church certainly welcomes you; a slightly unnerving, but not distasteful experience for this misanthropic writer. Unpleasant events were few and far between, but it is worth noting two things. Firstly, except for a few individual units, Epiphany has no kneelers. Unless you are into mortification, stake a claim on one of the portable jobbers, or prepare for sustained kneeling on an uncarpeted floor. Secondly, Epiphany is big on incense. Personally, I dislike that most modern churches forgo incense, not realizing that memory and atmosphere come through the nose. Epiphany, however, practically fumigates the building, which caused me to wonder if I was experiencing olfactory hallucinations for the rest of the day … until I realized the sickly smell was issuing from my pants.

After the ceremony, Carol beelined toward me once more. Who was I? Did I live in the area? What drew me to Epiphany? Responding that I was a, ahem, religious writer, Carol handed me off to Jim Lenz, a bigwig on the church restoration committee. Mr. Lenz graciously regaled me with the church’s history and current efforts to bring it back to its former glory. With nearby UIC expanding its power and presence, this is a changing neighborhood, and Mr. Lenz and his fellow committee members want to ensure a revitalized Epiphany awaits whatever new demographics spring up.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Lenz introduces me to Emma, a faithful parishioner for 84 years, held up by a four-pronged cane and God knows what else. Emma tells us that at age 30 she couldn’t walk a step — but look at her now, by jing. Emma further tells us she thanks God every day that she’s still here to thank God every day.

Emma and the Church of the Epiphany have much in common.