Last weekend I made it to St. Joseph’s Church in Albany for Flux, a three-day art event that transformed the spectacular but somewhat decrepit church into a gallery filled with sculpture, paintings, prints and gnomes. More on the gnomes later.

I’d briefly mentioned Flux in my blog, because it sounded cool, but I wasn’t actually planning on going. Too many other things to do, and all that. But then I ran into someone who’d gone to Flux on my recommendation, and really liked it. I’m not sure why, but the fact that there was at least one person on Earth who took my advice seriously made me think I should make an effort to get to Flux. So last Sunday I swung by the church, which is in Arbor Hill, in the Ten Broeck Triangle neighborhood.

I was in a hurry that day. I had errands to run, an engagement near Lake Luzerne later that afternoon, and the Red Sox-Angels game was starting at noon, although I think in hindsight we can all agree this game wasn’t worth watching unless you wanted to tear out your hair in frustration. “I’ll just run in and check it out,” I said. “It won’t take long.”

To be honest, I wasn’t really all that interested in the art at Flux. What I really wanted to see was the interior of St. Joseph’s, a gothic revival cathedral that’s listed on the National Register of Historic Places, but was almost demolished earlier this decade, as a result of abandonment and dilapidation. Everything I’d heard about this building (which is now under the control of the Historic Albany Foundation), indicated that, despite years of neglect, it’s still pretty magnificent.

I like churches.

Having grown up in a church — my father is a minister — I think of them not just as sacred spaces, but also as houses of art and architecture, mysterious playgrounds awaiting both discovery and contemplation. Our old church in Hillsboro, N.H., contained some of the most beautiful stained-glass windows I’ve ever seen, a wooden pulpit that loomed over the congregation like the bow of a ship, and closets and staircases that were good for madly sprinting up and down during games of tag and hide-and-go-seek.

It was always a special treat when my father took me up to the steeple, an excursion that involved climbing old ladders in a darkened, narrow tower, and was thus especially thrilling. The best part was standing in the bell tower and gazing at the neighboring buildings and street below — there was something intoxicating about being so high, in the open air.

When our youth group traveled to New York City to stay overnight at the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, I was similarly awed.

I’d never been to a cathedral before, and the intricacy of detail and artistry amazed me. There were chapels and passages and tombs, a basketball court in the basement (which is where we slept) and a massive pipe organ. Most impressive was the sheer size of the place: a length of 601 feet, or two football fields, and a nave ceiling about 124 feet high. My favorite part of the trip was a nighttime tour of the cathedral’s upper reaches, which eventually led to a stone balcony, where we crowded together for a glimpse of a gargoyle. I mean, who doesn’t like a gargoyle?

I don’t go to church very much anymore, but I still like exploring churches.

A few years ago, I wrote an article about squatters — people occupying abandoned buildings. Part of the story focused on a young man who was sneaking into an abandoned church at night and creating an art installation.

It had been a long time since I’d secretly ascended a building — I highly recommend the Conservatory of Music at Oberlin College, although breaking into the observatory at Peters Hall is a lot of fun, too — or surreptitiously climbed the old stone tower at Dartmouth College, and the young man’s transitory yet illegal project struck a chord.

It made me remember the nervous excitement of sneaking around, and climbing things you aren’t supposed to climb, and being in places you aren’t supposed to be. Even in its state of dusty disuse and disrepair, there was something wondrous and calming and alive about the vacant church.

That old Sunday school song may teach that “the church is not a building, the church is not a steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is a people!”, but I kind of prefer churches when they’re empty, and I have them almost all to myself.

Or when they’re filled with art, as was the case last weekend at St. Joseph’s. I wasn’t really there for the art. But when I got there, I was transfixed. There were metal animal sculptures on the front lawn, paintings and prints of flowers and insects and post-apocalyptic landscapes, pale plaster feet suspended from the ceiling, abstract designs on salvaged skateboards.

Most memorable was the gnome room, which looked like something straight out of Middle Earth, with its strategically placed greenery and brightly colored paintings of gnomes. Of course, the true star of the show was the church itself, a building that’s all the more intriguing precisely for having seen better days. So much neglect, and so much beauty — I loved it, and I slowed down. I forgot about my errands, and the Red Sox game. I looked around, and let my mind wander.

Cathedrals are amazing. But the best church I've ever been to is the outdoor chapel at my old summer camp. Every night we hiked to a sloping rock face, adorned by a simple cross made from fallen branches, and sat down for worship on the cold, hard stone. The view of the mountains, the rustling of the trees, the flat, rocky ledge that begged to be climbed — the finest human craftsmanship just couldn’t compare.

Of course, I suppose it goes without saying that I prefer visiting a place like this alone, or with a couple of friends, when nobody else is around.

Foss Forward makes a weekly appearance in print, in The Gazette’s Saturday Lifestyles section. You can email Sara at sfoss@dailygazette.net.