I never feel so rich as I do when I walk out of the library with a tall stack of books. Even though I visit multiple times a week, each time I pass through the doors, I still think, 鈥淩eally?! You鈥檙e just going to let me walk out of here with all of these treasures?鈥�
My wonder is born of the sheer improbability of this most generous of all public institutions, a place that exists solely to provide information and opportunities for learning and growth. For free! The library is a wild and wonderful rarity, perhaps even a miracle: It isn鈥檛 often that we humans land upon an agreement to share our resources rather than hoard them. By taking part in the library system, we have an opportunity to live into what Robin Wall Kimmerer calls the gift economy, a system in which we keep our rich resources in ongoing circulation.
The library calls us to our highest selves by awakening in us not only generosity, but also curiosity. When I feel stuck, creatively or even spiritually, the library is the place I go to break through my blocks. That鈥檚 because the library stirs me to ask questions, to wonder what I might learn, or from what new vistas I might view my own work and my own life. The library is a tried-and-true stepping stone into new ways of approaching my spiritual growth; I never know what bit of wisdom I鈥檒l pick up there that will shine a new light on my inner chapel.
The library also offers us an alternative to the grinding wheels of a capitalist economy built upon the premise of scarcity. It ushers us into an abundance I can only describe as sacred: the abundance of human creative expression. Every book on the shelf was brought into being through the dedicated and deeply human partnership of an author鈥檚 mind and body. Every book on the shelf would not exist if not for this specific person鈥檚 vision and hard work. Every book encourages me to take my place in the long chain of human creativity, to make the things that only I can make.
So frequently are we trapped in our digital silos that we need the library鈥檚 tangible and physical reminder of the wild abundance of the world around us, far beyond our doorsteps, stretching into places we may never see but can still visit through the work of others. Every time I visit the library I feel like I鈥檓 stepping into a palace of possibility, entering a conversation that began long before me and will continue long after I鈥檓 gone.
In truth, the library means so much to me that I found myself struggling to express the warm sense of benevolence that envelops me every time I peruse the stacks. And then I read Pope Leo XIV鈥檚 apostolic exhortation 鈥淒ilexi te,鈥� in which he addresses the gift and necessity of education. Speaking of the liberatory effect of knowledge, he says that children 鈥渉ave a right to knowledge as a fundamental requirement for the recognition of human dignity. 鈥� Christian tradition considers knowledge a gift from God and a community responsibility鈥� (72). The same is true for us adults too, isn鈥檛 it? And where do we see that banner of community responsibility raised higher than at every branch of the library, infusing our cities with nurturing and goodwill?
The library is a sacred space precisely because it is so human 鈥� for it is in the holy space of our highest selves that we touch the divine.
