We were having Sunday mass at Faith
Lutheran Church and I was distributing the sacrament. The Praise Team
was singing the communion anthem behind me. They were a little off
rhythm because most of them hadn't been to rehearsal that week. Not
that it mattered. They were so uncertain of the new hymn that they
all kept their mouths far enough away from their microphones so no
one could hear them anyway. Which was also just as well because the
sound system was out of balance and giving us feedback.
David, a sweet but mentally challenged
young man from the neighborhood, was walking in and out of the
worship space. This would be
a little distracting, but the neighborhood kids playing ball right
outside the church windows were creating enough of a distraction to
keep most of the worshipers' minds off of prayer or the sacrament.
Although, I really don't mind the ball-players that much since they
create less of a ruckus than the property committee when they decides
to run the lawn tractor during worship time.
Of
course, scores of little kids were fidgeting, giggling, and squirming
during the distribution of the mass, but this was not really as much
of an issue for me on this particular Sunday as Jack, one of the
neighborhood guys, had stumbled into worship that morning. Jack—God
love him—is out of work and suffers from health problems
and emotional issues caused by childhood traumas and combat
experiences. He comes by every once in a while to ask me for a few
bucks or to attend an AA meeting. I handed him the wafer as he knelt
at the altar rail.
“Hey,
Father. Can I speak to you for a minute?” Jack asked. He reeked of
alcohol.
I was
standing at the altar, cyborium in had, right in the middle of public
worship. “Uh, I'm a little busy at the moment, Jack. Can it wait
'til after church?”
Jack
started to cry.
“Okay,”
I said. “What is it?”
“Just
pray for my friend. He died last night.”
“I
will,” I said. Jack walked back up the aisle and left the church. A
kneeling communicant smiled at me and shrugged her shoulders.
I
looked around at our make-shift worship space. It's a 1950's style
“first unit.” That is, it's a collection of cinder blocks
intended to be only temporary, but it has turned out to be the
permanent church for this community for over fifty years. It's not
aesthetically pleasing nor is it particularly functional as an
architectural space. It is merciless to the handicapped and
inadequate for a large Sunday School. Things in this building tend to
break down or clog up with startling regularity. But we make it work.
I
thought to myself, “This is the REAL
church.” It's imperfect and full of problems—spiritual,
financial, personnel, and otherwise—but it's where the people of
God are and where I am.
I've
been pastor here for almost fifteen years and I've learned to see
this as a holy place. I've learned to love the people, to rejoice and
mourn with them. I could certainly wish for a fancier, more pious,
and more financially secure congregation, but after hanging on here
as long as I have, I realize that I am blessed. Just like Jacob at
the ford of the Jabbok (Genesis 32).
It
may be easy to see God as the unjust judge Jesus describes in Luke
18, deaf to our needs, our cries, and our prayers. But Jesus counsels
us to be persistent. Our circumstances may not change, but our hearts
will.
Thanks
for dropping by.
Hey..!
I really do believe in being persistent. Let's ask Pope Francis to
open the communion table and worship with us Lutherans once again. Sign my petition by clicking
here.
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