Sundays in the City #7
“…There are only hints and guesses. Hints followed by guesses; And the rest is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action. The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation…”
― T.S. Eliot
It was nearing fall the day I ran into her in the store. I’d come to pick up a wedding gift and looked up to catch the eye of a long time friend I hadn’t seen in a while since I’d stepped out of a Para-church ministry where we’d served together. With hugs and “how are you’s” we caught up on the standard “catch up”, followed by a foray into the mid-life fits and starts of fresh beginnings inspired by the aspirations of our newly adult kids. Having heard about my pilgrimage through places of worship in our city, she inquired about my progress. Midway through my third sentence she smiled and interrupted to ask me if I’d found “one to join”.
“Oh Kelli, she said with a tone of impatience and maybe a hint of derision, “stop looking for a perfect church, you aren’t perfect; no one is. Just choose a congregation, join it and serve!”
Right there in the foyer of Crate and Barrel standing in between faux fruit adorned wreaths and the five best sellers in flatware, I felt my face flush. The wisp of breath that lay between misunderstanding and judgment had been roundly knocked out of me. I stammered some sort of plea for a reboot of my intent, as she shook her head with a small “no”. I felt her hand give a gentle squeeze on my arm as she took her leave. Her genuine concern for my spiritual well being was evident; I recognized and received it as a gesture of love; and yet it was a love devoid of curiosity; one that I think has for too long, marred my own approach to faith and life. Patterns designed to draw us into community and communion with God can become the focus rather than the intended facilitator of relationship. I was not hoping to find a church that checked all my boxes; I wanted to tell my friend, but rather I was on the fast track of watching the Spirit’s deft ability to open and dismantle them. And in the so doing, I was learning to discern which of my own apprehensions and aspirations were born of indoctrination; bereft of the ever-unfolding imaginations of God.
I meandered through the aisles afterward, trying to untangle the chains of emotion and introspection rendered by our conversation. Approached no less than three times with an eager “May I help you find something?” offer by the sales folks, I answered a polite “no, thank you” with far little too imagination of my own. Winding my way down the stairs for a final time, I happened upon a sacred moment I will not soon forget.
Under the patient tutelage of the registry associate, a young couple worked to come to agreement on what pattern of dish to select. With the quiet but clearly frustrated tones of the ‘too many lists and too little time’ version of conversation, watery tears were beginning to take shape in at least the one set of eyes I could see.
“Ok, ok”, said the voice of wisdom and calm, the one wearing the name tag
“Close your eyes” she said, “no really, close your eyes”
Now each of you…
Envision yourself in your kitchen…
Take a serving tray and put a small candle on it…
Now light that candle.
Now turn to the counter and pick up a serving spoon…
Now I want you to walk over to your stove and begin to gently scoop up your fiancé’s favorite food…
Which, by the way, you have spent your one afternoon off preparing…
Now, open your eyes and tell me, which dish is it on?
What had begun in my witness as decision cloaked in the unnecessary, but oh so traditional garments of ceremony and ritual gave way to giggling and embrace and the promise of devotion that couldn’t care less about patterns or more about the other.
As I pushed the door to exit the breeze met the wind chime in melodic benediction. “Amen” I said, to no one in particular.
