Column: Choirs, candles, stained-glass and other symbols of faith still stir me

I am persuaded that a person may pray at any time and in any setting.

I happen to be an evangelical Christian, and that is accepted practice for our lot. Place and circumstance are of no concern when we pray; the important thing is that we pray. No formal preparatory measure is necessary.

One may invoke the greater power while standing in line at the DMV or riding Space Mountain. God is ever approachable, never distant.

I confirm that I have no need for sacred space, rituals or mysticism.

And, yet …

Many of us long for the sacred within the context of our badly fractured world. Unfortunately, such spaces are rarely experienced. Most desire to feel physically, emotionally and spiritually attached to the eternal. That’s easier said than done.

The Scriptures tell me that I may find him anywhere, even in my closet. My 11-year-old granddaughter takes that injunction literally.

Jesus often retreated to distant, lonely places to pray. My favorite prayer locales include isolated beaches, soaring redwood groves and glacier-strewn heights. Any local carwash will do.

It’s important to me to feel his presence but that’s not always possible. Still, I pray.

A friend of mine — a moral relativist — tells me that he frequently yearns to approach an altar in a darkened church and light a candle. Even the most-hardened secularist craves an occasional spine-tingling encounter.

Lighting a candle, by the way, is more than lighting a candle. It’s a brush with the infinite. Every sentient being is drawn to the light, and multiplied billions have been attracted to the one who first spoke light into existence and is “The Light of the World.”

The churches I’ve attended most of my adult life as an evangelical feature a candle-free environment. Since my childhood as a Lutheran, the waxen stalks have cast not a single flicker on my worship experience. I’ve missed that.

Candles remind us of ancient Christian traditions. Similarly, I miss Bach preludes, old hymns, formal prayers and the Apostle’s Creed.

But, most of all, I miss ranks of guttering candles.

Though no place on Earth is more sacred than any other, I do covet “sacred spaces.” They become “real” to individuals who, for whatever reason, believe they’ve been touched there by the supernatural.

Something about a Gothic church with a pulpit and altar is more evocative to me than a storefront chapel or converted warehouse with platform, guitars and amplifiers.

I’m a sap for choirs, candles, bells, smoke, stained glass and flying buttresses.

I once attended Mass in Paris’ Notre Dame Cathedral and found it moving beyond words. I watched as the swinging sensors sent clouds of incense into the rafters, and the pipe organ exulted.

The metaphor for prayer was not lost on me.

The Notre Dame liturgy, which I used to sing a version of as a boyhood Lutheran, also touched me.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love modern worship choruses and praise band intonations and PowerPoint sermons. But there’s something powerful about tradition and liturgical fealty. Maybe it’s a baby with the bathwater thing.

Liturgy weekly champions our faith and reminds us of the treasures of the gospels.

“Non-liturgical churches,” writes Rod Dreher in his new book, “The Benedict Option: A Strategy for Christians in a Post-Christian Nation,” “are experimenting with adding historic liturgical prayers and other elements, including candles and incense, to their services. This is encouraging.”

An American entering a European cathedral finds himself rubbing elbows with Christian pilgrims from around the globe, as well as a collection of tourists armed with cameras and guidebooks. The “sightseers” engage in constant shutter clatter.

Really, people? This place may be Disney to you, but to me it’s sacred.

I pick out a spot in the nave to kneel and pray and never have to battle a European for position. Few Euros visit churches nowadays.

I’ve knelt at chapels, churches and cathedrals throughout Europe and have, many times over, sprouted gooseflesh. Invariably, I walk away feeling enriched.

Sacred spaces exist and are meaningful.

Without them, we miss something truly important.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.