Communion

Three weeks in our new community, and I have some observations.

I have noticed the sun rises in the east here, as well. Also, people drive too fast down my street, just as they did in Interlochen. And strangely enough, some folks here really don't care for Donald Trump. We ran into that Up North too.

Go figure.

Oddly (and I mean this sincerely), the most emotional moment I've had thus far came during a worship service. The oddness stems not from it's having happened in a worship service, but from it's having happened in the particular one it did. Last Sunday we worshiped with our neighboring congregations on Terre Haute's Church Row. We joined the Methodists and the Episcopalians...for a week at least. Most ecumenical services I have attended have felt constricted and contrived. In an attempt not to make anybody uncomfortable the planners pull their punches.

This service did not feel diluted. We celebrated communion in our host Episcopalians' manner. It did seem more mysterious and even holy to me. The Presbyterian preacher (not I) delivered a well-sourced and thoughtful sermon—true to our roots. The congregation over-filled the sanctuary. They sang enthusiastically. When the hymns ended you could hear a reverberation up in the arched ceiling.

The thing that moved me most happened right after I delivered the children's sermon. Jim, a member of the church I have just started serving, accompanied the children on guitar as they sang the chorus to Shout to the Lord. The second they started I was transported back twenty-one years. In the early days of our church plant in Traverse City we sang it frequently. Watching these children singing, my mind's eye saw our children in that generation, at their then ages, singing the same words. I saw our own Laura—now with a child of her own—and Dan, now treating children. I saw Kaitlyn, now an engineer and wife and mother. Ian, who served his country and has twin daughters. Taylor, conquering the world in Brooklyn. Ryan, pastoring college students. Sam and Dan, the Tatar Tots. Kirsta and Dana, Lynzee, Mackenzie. Even Chris and Justin, sitting in back and choosing not to sing.

We all belong to one family. Methodists, Episcopalians, Presbyterians. Children who grew up in another home but shared the Lord's house with us.

A few weeks ago Justin came home all the way from Berlin for his grandfather's funeral. While in town he made a point of meeting me. He thanked me for my influence on him. For a long spell I thought I had no influence on him. I guess I was wrong. Thank God. Thank God for all of it.