The View from the Church Steps....

Went to church yesterday and it wasn’t that bad.  Fact is, it wasn’t even Sunday.  Other than pastors and church secretaries, how many people do you know that go to church on any of the other six days of the week? Not many, I bet.  But this church was pretty crowded.  OK, the church was located on a seminary campus which means that there was an higher concentration of religious types than what you’d find out on the streets.  So, the chances might have been a little better than normal that people would be in church on a day other than Sunday.  Although, after all that theology and church history and ecclesiology and soteriology, which all sounds Greek to me, would bright, studied, and already religiously minded folks really want to sit through a chapel worship service?  

Evidently, yes, at least here.  So I went along with the flow and found myself sitting through not just one, but three chapel services.  And I found out why folks were there everyday, and even though I’m not so heavenly minded that I can’t be any earthly good, if I lived nearby I’d be getting there on days that weren’t Sundays too. When I tried to tell Myrtle about this, I just couldn’t bring it life.  She told me I needed to take some time and write down my thoughts, then I’d be able to pass them on a bit better, and folks could understand. So, I did.  And here they are, the view from the chapel steps.

“The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant.....” 

“I will forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more.”

(Jeremiah 31:31a, 34b)

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

(John 12:32)

The hour had come. It was time.  The sanctuary was as full as it was going to get.  Sunlight streaming in through the glass doors in the narthex met up with the dancing colors refracted through the tall stain glass window at the other end, radiating warmth and welcome, and a certain holy calm.  The notes from a piano sang in syncopated melodies while a sassy trumpet danced along in artful improvisation. Such soothing delight.

In the narthex was a long table covered in crumpled blue velvet cloth with thousands of little silver sprinkles scattered all over it giving the impression of sunlight glittering on the ripples of deep blue sea.  About a third of the way down the table was a sizable, flat rock, on which rested a large, hand thrown bowl, brimming with clear, cool water.  Some touched the water on their way in, dabbing a bit on their foreheads, little droplets of water running down cheeks, around noses.  One even scooped up a handful, and drank it. Water.  As earth is some 70% water, so our are bodies.  Eight glasses a day experts say we should drink, but God needs only a few drops to make us new. The soul of the African American pianist was leaking out his fingers onto the keys bringing life to this holy place, filling the holy space of each.  The blind man playing the trumpet saw not how his hauntingly beautiful tune brought forth worship from those in the pew.

And not only in the pew, for they were seated and standing and gathered all around the chancel, some sitting with backs propped against pulpit, others at the base of the stained glass window, and many scattered about the musicians and instruments like they wanted to be as close as they could get to whatever it was that was happening.

Psalm 42 and 43 were happening.  A young lady in jeans, no Bible in hand, intoned, “As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God.  My soul thirsts for God, for the living God....” and on the other side another stood and spoke of dry, parched souls thirsting for something, thirsting for God, or for God only knows what.  The desperate searchers in the crowd nodded in agreement. “My tears have been my food, day and night....” the psalm went on.... while the blind trumpeter’s blind wife was having her fill of the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts; all your waves and billows have gone over me.”  When it rains it pours, and judging from these faces the churning chaotic waters had left many gasping for life’s breath.

Yes, the many, and from many different places: Ethiopia, Jamaica, Georgia, backwoods Tennessee, Brazil, San Francisco.  A dark eyed Sudanese woman, head wrapped with silken scarf, sat next to a blond fellow in a Hawaiian shirt.  The liturgist was great with child, due the following week.  Some were clean shaven, a few bearded, several sported tattoos along with various artistic body piercings.  Professional women dressed for success sat in chancel chairs along the side.  A woman in the first pew leaned on her cane, while another seated on the chancel steps, head bowed, wept.  An older gentleman sporting a tie, but no coat, gently rubbed her back.  All had gathered there, at the front of the sanctuary around the table. And on the table was a massive, pottery bowl overlaid with multicolored clay hands holding on to one another. Spreading out from underneath the bowl, flowing over the table, down on to the floor and even down the steps and part way into the center isle draped a blue-green cloth dotted with what must have been a hundred, lighted candles in clear glass holders. Ah, yes.... Down from the font the water flows, sparkling with light, bringing life and healing to the nations.

The crowd rose, and began to gather around the bowl.  “You were baptized,” read the liturgist, “in the name of the Father, Son and Spirit.  Made clean, forgiven, and drawn into the divine company, and now put in the company of one another.”  As she spoke, the piano played softly till the final Amen and then the whole company started singing, “Shall We Gather at the River.”  Up around the table with the bowl for a font, one person would gently wash the hands of another, who in turn would then wash the hands of another.  The blind trumpeter was ushered through, as was his still weeping wife, though now tears were joyful, so her beautiful smile declared; the woman with the cane was gently escorted up the steps, and all the hands, yes mine too, were washed in the waters of forgiveness so that each would know the love of God, and all together would become the new covenant writ large on our communal heart.

And above the font, shining through the stained glass, high and lifted up, the cross of Jesus, drawing all to himself.

Shall we gather at the river,

Drawn by the cross of love.

Washed made clean forever,

Forgiven by our God above.