Faith . . . In a Visual World
I grew up in a family who attended Sunday morning worship every week, no questions asked. Mom played the organ, Dad taught Sunday School and was on the Church Council, Mom was part of the Women's Fellowship, we kids were part of the choirs and youth groups and everyone in our family was expected not only to show up, but also to participate. It was, and in many ways still is, who we were and are.
Going to Sunday morning worship no more makes you a Christian than standing in a garage makes you a car. Yet, if you never stand in a garage you will never know how a car feels when it is cared for and protected from the elements, just as if you never go to Sunday worship you will have a hard time experiencing the Love and Care of God made manifest in the gathering of the congregation. This may not be perfect imagery, but you get the idea.
The Church, the gathered faith community, the congregation, the faith family, whatever you want to call God's people gathered together in the name of Jesus Christ, is not perfect. Period. Stating that is neither license for others to disparage the Church, nor permission for the Church to continue in their imperfections. It is simply stating a fact. Were we all perfect, Christ would not have been necessary.
All of that said, some of the most powerful messages I heard growing up were never spoken in a human voice. I remember the folded hands of the older members of the congregation clasped tightly in prayer, eyes closed, words being spoken which I never heard. I remember men shaking hands and women offering hugs as the congregation gathered, expressions of genuine gratitude and pleasure in seeing one another after a long week of work. I remember hugs being offered as family and friends gathered at a visitation or funeral, holding up the grief-stricken, comforting the mourning, loving each other for all the tomorrows which never would be. I remember men and women building an educational wing on our worship facility, pouring concrete, hammering nails, laying brick, adding plaster, painting and decorating, all in the hope of generations to come finding their way home to the family of faith. I remember the adults standing, silently, shoulder to shoulder, searching for words which would never come, sharing the pain of crops which didn't produce, children who left this world far too young, dreams which died from lack of opportunity and community which withered when the next generation began leaving for jobs not found around here. I remember sermons never preached by pastors, powerfully articulated in the lives and faith of ordinary, work-a-day, men and women who made no effort to find the correct word, yet spent their entire lives striving for a meaningful, faithful existence together.
I remember the examples they set, not the orders they gave. I remember the caring they offered, far more poignantly than the offerings they may have shared. I remember the acceptance and tolerance they demonstrated, more than the prejudice and intolerance others showed to them. I remember the humility of giving to others that which most you needed to assist you in living. I remember the laughter and love which was at the basis of every family encounter and transaction, more than the tears which ran down the cheeks when deception and duplicity crushed a moment with despair. I remember . . . and still I am shaped by them all these years later.
Remembering all of them causes me to wonder what it is others will remember of me, of this generation, of this culture. Will it be of hands clasped in prayer or lifted against each other? Will it be of welcoming handshakes and hugs or of poisoned actions and words separating the have's from the have-not's? Will it be of folk standing shoulder to shoulder with each other in every adversity or will it be of people standing up against each other causing only more adversity? Will it be of freeing examples set or of enslaving laws enacted? Will it be of genuine acceptance and welcome or of reluctant tolerance and territorialism? Regarding any of this I cannot speak for others, yet this I say for myself . . .
My hands are folded before God for the sake of humanity, as well as family. My welcome of others is rooted in striving to reflect the Lord of my faith who welcomes everyone. My solidarity with you is practiced on a daily basis without fanfare or need to advertise, precisely because God stands with us all in Emmanuel in every moment, known and unknown, recognized and unrecognized. My love for you is exercised in every handshake and hug, in every shoulder-to-shoulder moment and in the quiet 'being-with-you' times. My advocacy on your behalf is my soul's expression of Spirit led equity and justice for all of humankind, endeavoring for you as God endeavors for us all. My life is lived for you in the manner Christ taught us to live for each other, doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly with God.
What you remember of me I cannot control, but if you remember anything of me I pray it is who I was to you as a brother, a friend and a fellow pilgrim on the Way of Jesus. Of such memories there are few words to quote and a lifetime to savor. I can offer no more and I pray you find no less.
May it be so remembered of you, as well, in your lifetime, our shared gift to God.
It is . . . Something to ponder on the journey.
(c)dcw2020
