I grew up in the Church of the Brethren. In the church where I grew up, they only celebrated communion – they called it Love Feast – twice a year. (The twice a year, from what I understand, was a congregational choice rather than a denominational doctrine.) One of these was always Maundy Thursday, and the second, as I recall, fell sometime in October, usually on a Sunday evening. There would be a period of preparation in the sanctuary, after which everyone would move to the Fellowship Hall. All of the women would sit at tables at the far end of the room, and all of the men would sit at tables at the other end. (I don’t know why it was separate. A nod to Old Testament roots? Maybe.) I recall it being a dark event – the lights would be off and there would be several candles on each table.
The Love Feast began with a simple meal. It was some sort of beef with broth. There was white bread mixed in, and while I generally despise soggy bread, there was something amazing about this. I remember thinking it was the best food I’d ever tasted.
After the meal, basins of water were brought out to each table, and we’d wash each others’ feet. (As someone with extremely ticklish feet who risked the disapproving glares of mother and grandmother for giggling, I hated this part.) A basin of water for washing hands followed the foot washing.
Then, it was time for the “Love Feast.” Lined up down the center of each table were a set of wooden blocks. There were four circles cut out of each of the blocks, which held thimble-sized cups of grape juice. Stacked in between the cups were two pieces of unleavened bread.
The bread was made the day before “Love Feast” by the wives of the deacons. (Or maybe the day of. Those details are blurry at this point. )I was never allowed in the church kitchen while this was happening, but I recall some mixing, putting it into jelly roll pans, baking it in the oven, and then cutting it into the pieces that fit snuggly between the two rows of little cups. I think maybe a fork was used to “perforate” each piece. During the “Love Feast,” at the appropriate time, people on opposite sides of the table would each hold an end of the piece of bread while the story of the Last Supper was read from a Gospel. When the reader said, “Do this in memory of me,” we would break the bread, like splitting a wishbone. (Really. It was just like that.) And the bread was very, very chewy. Dense. Strange.
________________________
My first experience of receiving communion every Sunday was in the Lutheran church, with High School Boyfriend. Even though it was more recent, the details are less clear. (By more recent, I mean, nearly ten years ago.) I seem to remember there being one loaf of bread, which Pastor Terri (Yes, a woman.) would tear in half during the prayers (Again, blurry details. It was like the Eucharistic prayer, but Lutheran? ) and then each person would come up and tear off a piece of the bread. Or maybe she would tear off the piece and hand it to us. Seriously, can’t remember. The bread was a normal loaf of bread. I mean, not split-top, sandwich sliced bread. But it was… bread. Fluffy, soft, crusty.
There were the thimble-sized cups again, but these were filled with wine. I do remember the first time I received communion in the Lutheran church, High School Boyfriend said, “Remember, it’s real wine.” I waved him off; it wasn’t a big deal. I may have been from a grape juice kind of church, but how bad could a little wine be? I took the cup, drank the smaller-than-a-shot amount of wine… and I coughed. I thought my chest was on fire. And my ears. And my face was beet read. (Okay, so we know I wasn’t drinking alcohol during my high school days…)
__________________________________________
My first Mass was in the chapel of one of the Marianist houses on campus. I assisted one of the brothers with his class during the first semester of my second year, and he had invited me to dinner as a gesture of gratitude. Mass would take place before dinner, and I was also invited for Mass. I explained that I wasn’t Catholic; that I’d never been to Mass. He said it was okay; they wouldn’t bring out the snakes on my first visit. (Really. He said that.) There were maybe ten people present the first time I encountered the Eucharist. All I remember is being completely overwhelmed by the responses.
My second encounter was just a few weeks later – Christmas on Campus Mass. There were, seemingly, ten thousand people present. (Maybe not 10,000. But a lot. The place was packed.) It was there, in those weeks before Christmas, with a two hundred person choir, (Again, maybe not quite that many, but a lot.) and a poinsettia procession, and liturgical dancers, that I realized there was something different about this communion that I could not receive. I remember watching the people leave their seats, file past me, receive this mysterious wafer, and return to their seats. It was different. I didn’t understand how. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t receive it. But I knew it was different.
About a year prior to my first Mass experience, I had started questioning matters of faith. I never questioned the existence of God. I knew God was real. But I wasn’t sure that I believed everything I had been taught to believe about God. I assumed the questions I was asking would be answered in ways that would affirm that which I had believed my entire life. When my questions kept leading to a comparison between what I was raised with, and what the Catholic Church taught, I figured it was just a matter of environment. I was, after all, at a Catholic university. I was terrified at the first inkling that maybe, just maybe, God was calling me to the Catholic Church.
I was at Christmas on Campus Mass, because my boyfriend’s parents had invited us to join them. Boyfriend didn’t show up. Jesus did.
For the first time in my life, “I am the Bread of Life,” made perfect sense. “This is my body,” did not really mean “This is a piece of bread that represents my body.” It meant, “This is my body.” And that was confusing. Terrifying, even.
As I progressed through RCIA (three times, over five years), Real Presence was not something I struggled to embrace. (The Mass response, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed,” on the other hand… that was devastating. ) The journey, the thought process, the whole experience of conversion is another post (or ten), but by the time I received Eucharist for the very first time, I believed that Christ was truly present. It was in my third year of working in parish ministry, however, that I really, in a very real, tangible way, came to understand Christ present in the Eucharist.
One of my responsibilities as CRE was to be a Eucharistic minister during the PREP Masses. As I distributed the Body of Christ on that Monday evening in October, I became very aware of people’s hands.
“The Body of Christ.”
Rough, cracked, calloused hands of the parish maintenance man, slightly stained from the days of working in dirt and grease and grime.
“Amen.”
“The Body of Christ.”
Pale, fragile hands of the elderly woman, a matriarch to this parish. Her skin translucent, slightly blue from the visible veins. Her fingers, slightly gnarled from arthritis.
“Amen.”
“The Body of Christ.”
Smooth, young hands of a fourth grader. Also slightly blue, but from ink rather than veins.
“Amen.”
“The Body of Christ.”
Thick, strong hands of a farmer. Perfectly manicured, gold and diamond laden hands of the Room Mom. Tiny, hesitant hands of third graders.
“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”
All of these hands reaching out. Reaching for Jesus. Jesus. Not a chewy representation. Not ordinary bread. They wanted Jesus. The Christ. And they were reaching out to him. In the Eucharist.
“I am the Bread of Life.”
“This is the Body of Christ.”
Amen.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Parish Shopping, redux
As previously noted, I have been church shopping. An interesting adventure, that. I was tempted to blog about each of the parishes I visited, documenting what I saw, heard, felt as a visitor to each community. However, as I can be overly critical about matters liturgical (okay, fine. I can be overly critical about everything), I felt that could be interpreted as inappropriate and hurtful. (Of course, that would require having readers…)
I did blog about my experience at one parish, and while the first encounter certainly seemed grace-filled, I wasn’t sold. I did, indeed, return, and it was, again, a comfortable experience. Joyful, even. But I wasn’t sold. I had yet to walk into a parish and think, “Yes. This is it. This is where I feel most at home.”
And then a puzzling phenomena occurred. Articles and blog posts about church shopping started popping up like dandelions on an abandoned lot in May. It started with Busted Halo. Then, Amy Welborn posted not about parish shopping, but about her “Month of Sundays.” Even the National Catholic Reporter featured an article in the “Young Voices” column about “Finding home,” where the author details the challenges of finding a spiritual home and community.
Perhaps I’m placing too much emphasis on this phenomena. Maybe I’m too “mystical” about matters. But it seems to me that e-articles might be the new handwriting on the wall, and blog posts are replacing burning bushes. It is difficult to believe that God is NOT trying to get my attention when the very matters of my heart are suddenly the very subject of my reading routine. THREE posts show up, beginning on Thursday, with the last being posted on Sunday? It’s at least worth a second consideration. Superstitious or not, I pay attention to these things.
The gist of the articles/blog posts were to not get caught up in the small details, no parish is perfect, prioritize what qualities are being sought, etc. etc. etc. Nothing I didn’t know or hadn’t done.
So what am I looking for? I want to find the community where I best encounter Christ – where Eucharist is a verb; an animator of the Gospel message. I want a parish where people love Jesus, even when it’s hard and confusing and they don’t feel like their prayers being heard beyond the rafters. I want a community where people come as they are, bringing their messy lives and placing them on the altar as holy sacrifices in this beautiful chaos we call life, because that’s what they have to offer. I want a parish where people help others to pick up their lives again, and carry them back out into the world, mindful that we are all in this together.
I want a place where I can fall in love with God again and again. I want a community that will encourage me to continue to seek God’s grace in my day to day living, and to remind me that Christ is present, even in the mundane tasks of day-to-day living. Especially in the day-to-day business of living. I want a parish that will nourish my hungry soul, and help fill me to overflowing with love for God, for God’s work.
Beyond that, I want a place where I can use my gifts, and figure out the gifts that I don’t even know I have. I want to be involved. No, really. I do.
So does this place exist? I don’t know. I haven’t found it yet, if it does. Is it idealistic? Probably. I may not ever find this place. I hope to find some place close.
Amy Welborn’s closing thoughts, in many ways, summarized what I want. She writes, “I followed God around a small bit of his world, and he followed me. Never abandoned, never alone, able to pick out words of hope and truth no matter what the language, challenged to think bigger, to dig more deeply for others, joining in the sacrifice of praise, voiced in many languages, but really only one.”
I want to find the place where I am able to pick out the words of hope and truth, in a community of people who also are seeking hope and truth. I want to be challenged to think bigger, to dig deeper.
** So I've spent a week trying to "finish" this blog...and I can't find an end. I realized today that this is appropriate, because I haven't found what it is I seek. Stay tuned...
I did blog about my experience at one parish, and while the first encounter certainly seemed grace-filled, I wasn’t sold. I did, indeed, return, and it was, again, a comfortable experience. Joyful, even. But I wasn’t sold. I had yet to walk into a parish and think, “Yes. This is it. This is where I feel most at home.”
And then a puzzling phenomena occurred. Articles and blog posts about church shopping started popping up like dandelions on an abandoned lot in May. It started with Busted Halo. Then, Amy Welborn posted not about parish shopping, but about her “Month of Sundays.” Even the National Catholic Reporter featured an article in the “Young Voices” column about “Finding home,” where the author details the challenges of finding a spiritual home and community.
Perhaps I’m placing too much emphasis on this phenomena. Maybe I’m too “mystical” about matters. But it seems to me that e-articles might be the new handwriting on the wall, and blog posts are replacing burning bushes. It is difficult to believe that God is NOT trying to get my attention when the very matters of my heart are suddenly the very subject of my reading routine. THREE posts show up, beginning on Thursday, with the last being posted on Sunday? It’s at least worth a second consideration. Superstitious or not, I pay attention to these things.
The gist of the articles/blog posts were to not get caught up in the small details, no parish is perfect, prioritize what qualities are being sought, etc. etc. etc. Nothing I didn’t know or hadn’t done.
So what am I looking for? I want to find the community where I best encounter Christ – where Eucharist is a verb; an animator of the Gospel message. I want a parish where people love Jesus, even when it’s hard and confusing and they don’t feel like their prayers being heard beyond the rafters. I want a community where people come as they are, bringing their messy lives and placing them on the altar as holy sacrifices in this beautiful chaos we call life, because that’s what they have to offer. I want a parish where people help others to pick up their lives again, and carry them back out into the world, mindful that we are all in this together.
I want a place where I can fall in love with God again and again. I want a community that will encourage me to continue to seek God’s grace in my day to day living, and to remind me that Christ is present, even in the mundane tasks of day-to-day living. Especially in the day-to-day business of living. I want a parish that will nourish my hungry soul, and help fill me to overflowing with love for God, for God’s work.
Beyond that, I want a place where I can use my gifts, and figure out the gifts that I don’t even know I have. I want to be involved. No, really. I do.
So does this place exist? I don’t know. I haven’t found it yet, if it does. Is it idealistic? Probably. I may not ever find this place. I hope to find some place close.
Amy Welborn’s closing thoughts, in many ways, summarized what I want. She writes, “I followed God around a small bit of his world, and he followed me. Never abandoned, never alone, able to pick out words of hope and truth no matter what the language, challenged to think bigger, to dig more deeply for others, joining in the sacrifice of praise, voiced in many languages, but really only one.”
I want to find the place where I am able to pick out the words of hope and truth, in a community of people who also are seeking hope and truth. I want to be challenged to think bigger, to dig deeper.
** So I've spent a week trying to "finish" this blog...and I can't find an end. I realized today that this is appropriate, because I haven't found what it is I seek. Stay tuned...
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
What Was I Thinking?!?! Wednesday!
With a shout out to Tabatha’s Totally Awkward Tuesdays, welcome to What Was I Thinking!?! Wednesday!
The other day I was remembering of some of the “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…” moment s in my life, and I came to two conclusions. First, I’ve done some REALLY stupid things in my life, and second, it’s probably more than just a minor miracle that I’m still alive. (Okay, let’s be honest… while I recognize the ridiculously dangerous and stupid nature of such events, I would probably do it again. I guess that means I’m not quite old enough to know better…)
It was one of those obnoxious October days in Ohio. In the afternoon, it was sunny and 80 degrees. By four o’clock, it was overcast and 35. I was sitting in my dorm room… er… residence hall room… with Freshman Roommate and Other Roommate. All three of us were at our computers, giving a semblance of diligently doing homework. In reality, I’m sure I was holding at least four different conversations on AIM and obsessively checking e-mail.
To give a little context, Freshman Roommate, Other Roommate and I had randomly been placed together. We lived on the fifth floor of a predominantly First Year Student Residence. Our room had at one point been a lounge. Consequently, we had a slightly larger than the average triple right next door to the community bathroom. (Read: LOTS of people traffic by our door… which was always open, of course.)
Coincidentally, Freshman Roommate and I had met before college at a journalism summer camp. She was from the Cleveland area, full of laughter, somewhat crazy, and I loved her. Other Roommate was (and I imagine, still is) one of the most down-to-earth, genuinely caring people I have ever met. We got along well, and generally enjoyed sharing a living space. (A living space where a guy would come to visit Freshman Roommate, talk to me instead, and, ten years later, I call him Wasband. (A term I lovingly plagiarized from Madre...who is not my biological mother... but let's not get confused.)
Around 11 pm on this obnoxious October night, Freshman Roommate gets up from her chair, closes the door, and starts swapping out her signature sweatpants for a pair of jeans. While she’s digging through her sweatshirts, Other Roommate asks, “Where are you going?”
“Carillon Park.”
I turn from my computer. “What? Now? Why?”
Freshman Roommate proceeds to explain how she has been chatting online with this guy, who found her through God knows how. He lives relatively nearby and he’s walking his pit bull to Carillon Park (Big park by the river. About five blocks from our hall.) AND SHE’S GOING TO MEET HIM. By herself. In a park. At midnight.
Okay, now you need to remember, this is 1999. My roommate was not finding her perfect match based on the 87 indicators on eHarmony.com. She was a cute college girl; this guy was a complete stranger. A complete stranger, walking his PIT BULL in a park at midnight.
After several minutes of trying to convince her that this was a bad idea, it was dangerous, she could end up as the morning headlines, we were NOT going to the morgue to claim her body, we finally came to a rational agreement.
Ten minutes later, I was walking down Stewart Street, trying to pull my winter coat tighter around me, cursing the fact that I had been wearing shorts earlier in the day. I was going with her. Because, of course, it’s so much safer to have TWO cute college girls go to a park at midnight to meet Strange Man who was walking his pit bull.
Strange Man ended up being pretty normal. His dog was the sweetest little girl around, and we just chatted and acted stupid. He told us about his job at a department store; we told him about our roommate. (As a result of this night, I can tell you that it is possible to make your shadow stretch more than half the height of the Carillon Tower…in case you were ever wondering.) After an hour or so, the cold became unbearable for people who hadn’t bothered to find gloves. We walked back to our dorm; Strange Man went …wherever it was that Strange Man was going next…
I believe my boss was the first to ask what the (enter your favorite expletive here) I was thinking. Her husband was on the local police force, and there had been a homicide in Carillon Park overnight. (I’m happy to report that Strange Man was neither the victim nor the suspect.)
Well. It seemed like a good idea at the time…
The other day I was remembering of some of the “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…” moment s in my life, and I came to two conclusions. First, I’ve done some REALLY stupid things in my life, and second, it’s probably more than just a minor miracle that I’m still alive. (Okay, let’s be honest… while I recognize the ridiculously dangerous and stupid nature of such events, I would probably do it again. I guess that means I’m not quite old enough to know better…)
It was one of those obnoxious October days in Ohio. In the afternoon, it was sunny and 80 degrees. By four o’clock, it was overcast and 35. I was sitting in my dorm room… er… residence hall room… with Freshman Roommate and Other Roommate. All three of us were at our computers, giving a semblance of diligently doing homework. In reality, I’m sure I was holding at least four different conversations on AIM and obsessively checking e-mail.
To give a little context, Freshman Roommate, Other Roommate and I had randomly been placed together. We lived on the fifth floor of a predominantly First Year Student Residence. Our room had at one point been a lounge. Consequently, we had a slightly larger than the average triple right next door to the community bathroom. (Read: LOTS of people traffic by our door… which was always open, of course.)
Coincidentally, Freshman Roommate and I had met before college at a journalism summer camp. She was from the Cleveland area, full of laughter, somewhat crazy, and I loved her. Other Roommate was (and I imagine, still is) one of the most down-to-earth, genuinely caring people I have ever met. We got along well, and generally enjoyed sharing a living space. (A living space where a guy would come to visit Freshman Roommate, talk to me instead, and, ten years later, I call him Wasband. (A term I lovingly plagiarized from Madre...who is not my biological mother... but let's not get confused.)
Around 11 pm on this obnoxious October night, Freshman Roommate gets up from her chair, closes the door, and starts swapping out her signature sweatpants for a pair of jeans. While she’s digging through her sweatshirts, Other Roommate asks, “Where are you going?”
“Carillon Park.”
I turn from my computer. “What? Now? Why?”
Freshman Roommate proceeds to explain how she has been chatting online with this guy, who found her through God knows how. He lives relatively nearby and he’s walking his pit bull to Carillon Park (Big park by the river. About five blocks from our hall.) AND SHE’S GOING TO MEET HIM. By herself. In a park. At midnight.
Okay, now you need to remember, this is 1999. My roommate was not finding her perfect match based on the 87 indicators on eHarmony.com. She was a cute college girl; this guy was a complete stranger. A complete stranger, walking his PIT BULL in a park at midnight.
After several minutes of trying to convince her that this was a bad idea, it was dangerous, she could end up as the morning headlines, we were NOT going to the morgue to claim her body, we finally came to a rational agreement.
Ten minutes later, I was walking down Stewart Street, trying to pull my winter coat tighter around me, cursing the fact that I had been wearing shorts earlier in the day. I was going with her. Because, of course, it’s so much safer to have TWO cute college girls go to a park at midnight to meet Strange Man who was walking his pit bull.
Strange Man ended up being pretty normal. His dog was the sweetest little girl around, and we just chatted and acted stupid. He told us about his job at a department store; we told him about our roommate. (As a result of this night, I can tell you that it is possible to make your shadow stretch more than half the height of the Carillon Tower…in case you were ever wondering.) After an hour or so, the cold became unbearable for people who hadn’t bothered to find gloves. We walked back to our dorm; Strange Man went …wherever it was that Strange Man was going next…
I believe my boss was the first to ask what the (enter your favorite expletive here) I was thinking. Her husband was on the local police force, and there had been a homicide in Carillon Park overnight. (I’m happy to report that Strange Man was neither the victim nor the suspect.)
Well. It seemed like a good idea at the time…
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Parish Shopping
(New post, as promised. This, however, was not the topic I thought I would be blogging about, but it was what came together in a coherent fashion. I'm hoping to be better about posting on a regular basis, but we'll see. :))
I am parish shopping. Since moving, I’ve been attending Mass at the University on the weekends I’m home (which has been about… two.) I love Mass on campus, but realize I need to be a grown up Catholic and find a parish home. (Actually, it’s far more complicated than that, but that’s for another post.)This past Sunday, I took the opportunity to scope out a parish that I had heard was great. And I was taking Boyfriend with me.
As a result of sleeping late, and then spending twenty minutes trying to figure out the Mass times for said parish, I found myself waiting in the gathering space for the entrance procession to… enter… before getting a quick splash of holy water from the baptismal font and slipping into the row of seats that is the second from the back. The phrase from last week’s Gospel that had been lingering with me all week echoed in my mind– “Do not be afraid; just have faith.”
The pastor dove right into the greeting and the opening prayer sequence, and, being fond of church architecture, I found myself checking the aesthetics rather than calling to mind my sins during the penitential rite. Confiteor? Lord Have Mercy? Have no idea. I was mesmerized by the crucifix. The brick. The high wooden, curving beams. The glints of color from the stained glass – no images, just colored shapes. Something about this place. It beckoned something deep inside me. It was familiar, but not quite comfortable…
It was during the Gospel that it hit me.
“He left that place and came to his hometown…”
Hometown?
Home?
Left.
“And they took offense at him.”
Offense.
“Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown…”
Hometown?
“…and among their own kin…”
Kin?
“and in their own house.”
House.
House? Home. Then I realized --this parish looks remarkably like the church where I grew up. The brick. The high, wooden curving beams. The stained glass windows – no images, just colored shapes. I closed my eyes to fight back the startled tears that threatened to silently overflow down my cheeks, like the water in the baptismal font, just a few feet away.
With my eyes closed, I could see it all perfectly. Instead of a crucifix, there was plain wooden cross against the background of what I have come to call Virgin Mary blue. I remember thinking as a kid that it looked like the flannel board in my Sunday School class. The wooden ceiling flashed in my mind; I could see the place where the two knots in the wood looked like eyes, just over the grand piano – the same piano I played at my recital in fifth grade. Windmills. The song was called Windmills. The pulpit where I sang on Easter morning with Jayme and Nicole. The pews where we gathered, too many in one pew, for Danny’s funeral. The rail where I knelt at Altar Call, Yvonne on one side, Susie on the other. It all flashed by at a dizzyingly fast pace, bringing with it the barrage of hurt and loneliness, joy and awe that came from leaving that place.
“And he was amazed at their unbelief.”
I opened my eyes. The new, but oddly familiar place was filled with people. Children. Seniors. Teens. Adults. Young Adults.
As the pastor came forward for his homily, he paused and looked out over the people gathered. He said that it wasn’t part of his homily, but it had been weighing on him, so he needed to say it. He had heard people say that they didn’t like going to church. It was just a bunch of people there, because they had to be, going through the motions. But, he said. BUT. It was so cool to look out and see a young adult home from college, another just out of the hospital. A family, trying to deal with the challenges of the economy and busy schedules. It was so cool to look out and see everyone there, bringing their stories, gathered as a community of believers, trying to figure out a life in Christ. (Okay, so he didn’t say it exactly like that… but that’s the essence of it.) A community of believers.
I don’t really remember the homily (though I remember thinking it was good), and the only part of the Liturgy of the Eucharist I remember is when everyone stood up after the “Mystery of Faith,” apparently mistaking it for the Great Amen, and thinking the Our Father was next… and then slowly dropping hands with the people next to them as they realized everyone stood at the wrong time, while the pastor continued the Eucharistic Prayer.
And I remember the moment when the woman in front of me warned her daughter in the “Straighten-Up-Right-Now-Or-Else” strained whisper. “Grace.”
Grace? Grace.
As I was leaving, I stopped to shake the pastor’s hand. I knew who he was; I might have even seen him before, but I didn’t think he knew me. As I stretched out my hand, he gathered me in a hug, and said, “How are you? I’m so glad to see you.”
The next day, I reported my parish shopping trip to my co-workers. “Do you think you’ll go back?” one asked. In the same moment, I opened an e-mail message containing the Gospel for next week.
“He said to them, ‘Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave.’”
House.
Yes, I think I’ll go back.
Thanks, Grace.
I am parish shopping. Since moving, I’ve been attending Mass at the University on the weekends I’m home (which has been about… two.) I love Mass on campus, but realize I need to be a grown up Catholic and find a parish home. (Actually, it’s far more complicated than that, but that’s for another post.)This past Sunday, I took the opportunity to scope out a parish that I had heard was great. And I was taking Boyfriend with me.
As a result of sleeping late, and then spending twenty minutes trying to figure out the Mass times for said parish, I found myself waiting in the gathering space for the entrance procession to… enter… before getting a quick splash of holy water from the baptismal font and slipping into the row of seats that is the second from the back. The phrase from last week’s Gospel that had been lingering with me all week echoed in my mind– “Do not be afraid; just have faith.”
The pastor dove right into the greeting and the opening prayer sequence, and, being fond of church architecture, I found myself checking the aesthetics rather than calling to mind my sins during the penitential rite. Confiteor? Lord Have Mercy? Have no idea. I was mesmerized by the crucifix. The brick. The high wooden, curving beams. The glints of color from the stained glass – no images, just colored shapes. Something about this place. It beckoned something deep inside me. It was familiar, but not quite comfortable…
It was during the Gospel that it hit me.
“He left that place and came to his hometown…”
Hometown?
Home?
Left.
“And they took offense at him.”
Offense.
“Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown…”
Hometown?
“…and among their own kin…”
Kin?
“and in their own house.”
House.
House? Home. Then I realized --this parish looks remarkably like the church where I grew up. The brick. The high, wooden curving beams. The stained glass windows – no images, just colored shapes. I closed my eyes to fight back the startled tears that threatened to silently overflow down my cheeks, like the water in the baptismal font, just a few feet away.
With my eyes closed, I could see it all perfectly. Instead of a crucifix, there was plain wooden cross against the background of what I have come to call Virgin Mary blue. I remember thinking as a kid that it looked like the flannel board in my Sunday School class. The wooden ceiling flashed in my mind; I could see the place where the two knots in the wood looked like eyes, just over the grand piano – the same piano I played at my recital in fifth grade. Windmills. The song was called Windmills. The pulpit where I sang on Easter morning with Jayme and Nicole. The pews where we gathered, too many in one pew, for Danny’s funeral. The rail where I knelt at Altar Call, Yvonne on one side, Susie on the other. It all flashed by at a dizzyingly fast pace, bringing with it the barrage of hurt and loneliness, joy and awe that came from leaving that place.
“And he was amazed at their unbelief.”
I opened my eyes. The new, but oddly familiar place was filled with people. Children. Seniors. Teens. Adults. Young Adults.
As the pastor came forward for his homily, he paused and looked out over the people gathered. He said that it wasn’t part of his homily, but it had been weighing on him, so he needed to say it. He had heard people say that they didn’t like going to church. It was just a bunch of people there, because they had to be, going through the motions. But, he said. BUT. It was so cool to look out and see a young adult home from college, another just out of the hospital. A family, trying to deal with the challenges of the economy and busy schedules. It was so cool to look out and see everyone there, bringing their stories, gathered as a community of believers, trying to figure out a life in Christ. (Okay, so he didn’t say it exactly like that… but that’s the essence of it.) A community of believers.
I don’t really remember the homily (though I remember thinking it was good), and the only part of the Liturgy of the Eucharist I remember is when everyone stood up after the “Mystery of Faith,” apparently mistaking it for the Great Amen, and thinking the Our Father was next… and then slowly dropping hands with the people next to them as they realized everyone stood at the wrong time, while the pastor continued the Eucharistic Prayer.
And I remember the moment when the woman in front of me warned her daughter in the “Straighten-Up-Right-Now-Or-Else” strained whisper. “Grace.”
Grace? Grace.
As I was leaving, I stopped to shake the pastor’s hand. I knew who he was; I might have even seen him before, but I didn’t think he knew me. As I stretched out my hand, he gathered me in a hug, and said, “How are you? I’m so glad to see you.”
The next day, I reported my parish shopping trip to my co-workers. “Do you think you’ll go back?” one asked. In the same moment, I opened an e-mail message containing the Gospel for next week.
“He said to them, ‘Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave.’”
House.
Yes, I think I’ll go back.
Thanks, Grace.
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