We haven't been to church in a while. That's why, last week when we finally decided to make an entrance, my feelings bordered on the obsessive.
Who are these people, and why are they smiling? I found myself wondering soon after stepping inside. It's not natural to act like this! True, they weren't all approaching us with arms open wide (every church has it's quirks), but I had forgotten, the corporate joy over such a shared thing as the Spirit.
It was beautiful. The sermon, the music (imperfect, both of them) - even the tottering old man in his velvet hat who smiled at us as he picked his way across the parking lot - each of these things gave me a delicious echo of greatness. You have been here before! My awakened mind screamed. You liked this sort of thing. You thrived here!
While that statement was true, I also understood that things had changed since I'd last stepped into a church. I had grown. Adopted a few new philosophies, and let go of a few others. I felt as though, for the first time, I was observing the church from the outside - knowing of course that it was important and permissable to join such a crowd, but knowing also that it was not the only way to spiritual peace. I approached, not with a bent toward skepticism, but with an understanding that this pattern of life was not all that God had to offer.
So was it right for me - for my family?
I couldn't tell. We concluded our morning, returned home for lunch, and opted to try the same place again next week. This in itself was a first. In our past church-hunting experiences, one attendance had often been enough to frighten us away from a second.
So the next week, bright and early, we returned to the little church in the mountains. It was Communion that day: It had been Communion the week before, and I know a pattern when I see one. This church, unlike any other I'd ever attended, most likely celebrates Communion every Sunday. My husband and I, in the very farthest seats from the front, accepted the elements last. They were handed down the row to us, the little white wafers lying like scales on a silver plate from which we all partook. I imagined the germs we were sharing - especially as the last of a large group of participants. The man who handed me the bread was rotund, wearing some sort of shiny gray jacket, and clearly uncomfortable with newcomers. But he offered them all the same, with a forthrightness that seemed misplaced.
We accepted. We waited a moment, studied the words of Communion on the overhead projector in silence, and then partook of our portions. The grape juice - always so tart and poignant on the tongue - and the small, barely chewable wafers of bread. Inevitably they get stuck in the teeth - one bite crushes them, after all, and they lodge in my mouth and slowly dissolve, a dimminishing reminder of the Body that broke and bled for my love.
The service wore on. Singing, praise, sermon, prayer, and closing. At one point we greeted one another with Christmas cheer. The man beside me remained awkward, unsure. His smile barely showed itself and when it did, it appeared more of an afterthought than an intention. But when it came time to collect the Communion cups, he reached over to take ours, his sturdy arm pressing against mine with nothing of the reserve I'd expected. He must be more brave than I thought, I surmised as I surrendered our cups. This is his church, after all.
My mind wandered back to a conversation with my two-year-old daughter that morning. "Are we going to that big house?' she had asked me as I rushed her into her dress.
I had laughed. "Well, it's a church," I informed her, "but God lives there - so I guess it's a house, too."
"Is this a church?" She'd then wanted to know, looking around the purple-and-green paradise that was her room.
I smiled. "This is our house. But God lives here, too. So yes, I guess this is also a church."
In the context of the awkward gentlement beside me, this thought brought more sense to his actions. Being as this building was not just a church, but God's home, and being as he was not just a man, but God's child, it made perfect sense that he should feel a certain amount of comfort within his Dad's house.
I smiled as we stood to sing the last song. True to my prediction, the man all but bolted for the door the minute we were dismissed. But in his response, in the off-key singing of the congregants, the quirks and endearing attributes of the pastor, and even the lack of openness on the part of most of the church members, I felt at peace. We were One, after all. One Body fashioned from that first Body that lived and died to ensure our existence. This church, a small part of the larger Body, was bound together - and bound up with me - in ways that went so far beyond social niceties that they were nearly non-issues. I accepted with gratitude the few smiles and friendly overtures from several young mothers. And I agreed, with an element of pleased surprise, to my three-year-old's statement when I picked him up from his class.
"Guess what, Mom?" he beamed as he turned an exuberant circle in the foyer. "I know something special!"
"What?" I asked absently - eyes scanning the crowd for my husband. "What do you know?"
My son stopped to gaze up at my face. "These people are our family!" He announced. His glance took them all in, and he gestured broadly at the sanctuary, the small pockets of visiting friends, and the children clustering like crows in the stairwell.
"Who told you that?" I asked, astonished at the way his sentiments mirrored my own .
"Nobody!" His smile broadened, and a sheen of confidence crept into his eyes. "I just know it."
"Well, you're right!" I replied as I reached for his hand. "You're absolutely right." Nobody had heard our little exchange. Perhaps we would never return to recount it. But no matter. It was true all the same. As we made our way to the car, we passed the same distinguished old man from last week, his velvet hat perched on his head like an elaborate toupe. I felt a kinship with him - not because we have ever shared so much as a word between the two of us, but simply because we share the same Body. We are family, after all: Red, yellow, black, white - friendly and awkward alike. We are One - brought from One and worshipping One - and this makes us all related.
Who are these people, and why are they smiling? I found myself wondering soon after stepping inside. It's not natural to act like this! True, they weren't all approaching us with arms open wide (every church has it's quirks), but I had forgotten, the corporate joy over such a shared thing as the Spirit.
It was beautiful. The sermon, the music (imperfect, both of them) - even the tottering old man in his velvet hat who smiled at us as he picked his way across the parking lot - each of these things gave me a delicious echo of greatness. You have been here before! My awakened mind screamed. You liked this sort of thing. You thrived here!
While that statement was true, I also understood that things had changed since I'd last stepped into a church. I had grown. Adopted a few new philosophies, and let go of a few others. I felt as though, for the first time, I was observing the church from the outside - knowing of course that it was important and permissable to join such a crowd, but knowing also that it was not the only way to spiritual peace. I approached, not with a bent toward skepticism, but with an understanding that this pattern of life was not all that God had to offer.
So was it right for me - for my family?
I couldn't tell. We concluded our morning, returned home for lunch, and opted to try the same place again next week. This in itself was a first. In our past church-hunting experiences, one attendance had often been enough to frighten us away from a second.
So the next week, bright and early, we returned to the little church in the mountains. It was Communion that day: It had been Communion the week before, and I know a pattern when I see one. This church, unlike any other I'd ever attended, most likely celebrates Communion every Sunday. My husband and I, in the very farthest seats from the front, accepted the elements last. They were handed down the row to us, the little white wafers lying like scales on a silver plate from which we all partook. I imagined the germs we were sharing - especially as the last of a large group of participants. The man who handed me the bread was rotund, wearing some sort of shiny gray jacket, and clearly uncomfortable with newcomers. But he offered them all the same, with a forthrightness that seemed misplaced.
We accepted. We waited a moment, studied the words of Communion on the overhead projector in silence, and then partook of our portions. The grape juice - always so tart and poignant on the tongue - and the small, barely chewable wafers of bread. Inevitably they get stuck in the teeth - one bite crushes them, after all, and they lodge in my mouth and slowly dissolve, a dimminishing reminder of the Body that broke and bled for my love.
The service wore on. Singing, praise, sermon, prayer, and closing. At one point we greeted one another with Christmas cheer. The man beside me remained awkward, unsure. His smile barely showed itself and when it did, it appeared more of an afterthought than an intention. But when it came time to collect the Communion cups, he reached over to take ours, his sturdy arm pressing against mine with nothing of the reserve I'd expected. He must be more brave than I thought, I surmised as I surrendered our cups. This is his church, after all.
My mind wandered back to a conversation with my two-year-old daughter that morning. "Are we going to that big house?' she had asked me as I rushed her into her dress.
I had laughed. "Well, it's a church," I informed her, "but God lives there - so I guess it's a house, too."
"Is this a church?" She'd then wanted to know, looking around the purple-and-green paradise that was her room.
I smiled. "This is our house. But God lives here, too. So yes, I guess this is also a church."
In the context of the awkward gentlement beside me, this thought brought more sense to his actions. Being as this building was not just a church, but God's home, and being as he was not just a man, but God's child, it made perfect sense that he should feel a certain amount of comfort within his Dad's house.
I smiled as we stood to sing the last song. True to my prediction, the man all but bolted for the door the minute we were dismissed. But in his response, in the off-key singing of the congregants, the quirks and endearing attributes of the pastor, and even the lack of openness on the part of most of the church members, I felt at peace. We were One, after all. One Body fashioned from that first Body that lived and died to ensure our existence. This church, a small part of the larger Body, was bound together - and bound up with me - in ways that went so far beyond social niceties that they were nearly non-issues. I accepted with gratitude the few smiles and friendly overtures from several young mothers. And I agreed, with an element of pleased surprise, to my three-year-old's statement when I picked him up from his class.
"Guess what, Mom?" he beamed as he turned an exuberant circle in the foyer. "I know something special!"
"What?" I asked absently - eyes scanning the crowd for my husband. "What do you know?"
My son stopped to gaze up at my face. "These people are our family!" He announced. His glance took them all in, and he gestured broadly at the sanctuary, the small pockets of visiting friends, and the children clustering like crows in the stairwell.
"Who told you that?" I asked, astonished at the way his sentiments mirrored my own .
"Nobody!" His smile broadened, and a sheen of confidence crept into his eyes. "I just know it."
"Well, you're right!" I replied as I reached for his hand. "You're absolutely right." Nobody had heard our little exchange. Perhaps we would never return to recount it. But no matter. It was true all the same. As we made our way to the car, we passed the same distinguished old man from last week, his velvet hat perched on his head like an elaborate toupe. I felt a kinship with him - not because we have ever shared so much as a word between the two of us, but simply because we share the same Body. We are family, after all: Red, yellow, black, white - friendly and awkward alike. We are One - brought from One and worshipping One - and this makes us all related.
With that thought in mind, I leaned back in my seat as we drove away from the church. Who knew what the next week would hold? And who cared? I belong to something far greater than one church, one service, one denomination or religion or spiritual trend. I belong to a Family from which no power on earth can remove me. For the rest of my life, I plan on communing with those who understand this belonging, regardless of their social or religious persuasion. And that's all the Communion I need.
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