I haven’t stepped foot in a church of my own accord in a couple of years. I haven’t regularly attended in probably three or four. I’ve lost track of the time, which, after attending church nearly every Sunday from birth to 43, is saying something.
Today, I went to a short, mid-day service for Ash Wednesday after finding a local church via a quick internet search. I’m new to the area, no longer claim any one denomination, and was willing to attend wherever the doors were open. I landed on a beautiful, quite old, quite tiny Episcopal chapel, the exterior of which was white painted wood. The interior was all dark wood, floor to vaulted-A-frame ceiling, and at the end of the single, center aisle, there were two taper candles on the altar, an orange cloth on a small table, several creaky wooden pews on either side of the aisle, and unremarkable stained-glass windows beyond them.
It was raining pretty hard when my friend and I bustled from the car to the chapel, and when we sat down, peeling off our wet raincoats, I whispered, “I like the way it smells in here,” which was, I admit, an awkward thing to say upon first entering a church for a somber ritual. But I did like it; it smelled damp and oaky, like an old library. Like a place for resting.
Let’s be clear that outside of the basics of the Christian faith, I don’t know exactly what Episcopalians believe, and I had to practice which way to cross my chest in case they did that. I know the ins and outs of an evangelical mega-church service like the back of my hand, but drop me in a traditional liturgy, and I feel clumsy. Thankfully, the kind woman at the door had given us a program outlining every word to be spoken and every moment we would stand or sit or kneel. We read a few things and heard a few things. We prayed and read from the program and stood and sat and knelt.
When it came time to file to the front, to receive the imposition of ashes, I followed a tall, bald man down the center aisle, splitting off toward the left and kneeling to wait for the reverend. She was in a white robe with a purple sash, and a white, knotted rope was tied around her waist to hold it in place. She was coming down the row of us kneelers, right to left, swiping foreheads and saying her line, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” There was a gentle and firm cadence to her blessing, repeated over and over. And as she got closer, I felt a wave of anticipation — I’m not sure why — but a momentum swelled. And when she got to me, my line of sight was at her thumb pressing into the tiny pot of ash and then moving up past my eyes, and I heard her remind me I was dust. Something in the spirit washed over me then, and I choked up — I’m not sure why. I just know that we were all in a line, all recipients of something sacred, all humbled and repentant and smaller than usual, but not in the bad way.
I don’t think the revered has magic in her hands, but she did rub her presence and her love into my skin, and I felt it. And I felt people to my right and to my left, having the same experience, hearing the same words, because we had all come at noon on a Wednesday to line up, hoping to be reminded God has something good for us. God is near. These are things I already know, of course, but I miss knowing them with others. I miss us lining up and knowing what we know, and I miss us lining up and knowing that we have no idea. I miss the collective embrace of mystery and the cooperative presence of God’s people in the flesh. Are we all God’s people in the flesh in line at the grocery store? Yes, I believe we are. But we aren’t in that line for the same reason, and buying celery and kneeling with a heart cracking open on a rainy Wednesday are two different things.
And I miss it. I miss us. My chest wanted to heave, and I felt a tightness in my throat because, goodness, I miss witnessing the spirit of the living God with a community of people hungry for the supernatural, looking for magic, not necessarily in the fingers of the reverend woman, but in their own kneeling knees and their own penitent hearts.
We went back to our pew, and after a bit more reading, I could tell they were wrapping up. But then the reverend motioned for a man in a white robe to come up — let’s call him the assistant reverend — and the assistant reverend looked very serious and had little tufts of white hair and was holding a clarinet. What came next took my breath away. He raised the clarinet to his lips, and no one moved as he played the slowest, swampiest, most bluesy rendition of Amazing Grace you can imagine, one that would make the street corners of New Orleans tremble. I heard all of his inhales, and my whole body wanted to clap when he was finished, except I guess no one claps in this kind of service. But at the end, as we moved into the aisle, I told him how much I loved his song, and he beamed, almost laughing. I told him it reminded me of New Orleans, and he asked if I had been there. I said yes, and though he didn’t say it, his bright eyes told me he had been too.
The last thing I learned was that the reverend’s name was Sally, because she shook my hand on the way out and I asked her. She said, “Do I know you?” and I said, “No, it’s my first time here.” She invited us to come back, and then added, “Or if you ever want to meet for coffee, I’d love to meet you.” Believe me when I say I had wished for this as she gave the homily, and maybe God heard me; I wanted to hear her story, be invited to spend time with her. “I’d actually love that,” I said.
So, what I want to tell you is that there are several downsides to leaving church. You can’t take shelter in its oaky sanctuary during a storm; you can’t kneel elbow to elbow with a bald man who hides his face in his arms; you can’t feel your heart swell from the assistant reverend’s clarinet solo; you can’t get invited to coffee by Sally; and you can’t spend your evening trying to put into words how you’ve just been reminded that God somehow and inexplicably makes their way into every single place you go looking for them.
It’s half past midnight, and now I’m looking at the notes in my phone that I took during Sally’s homily: “Any act of piety is meant to foster engagement with people. There is no reason to fast for our good alone.” It’s the whole thing, isn’t it. The practice and prioritization of a rhythm where acts of faith draw us to a communal center, both spiritual as well as embodied, is what I miss most. In other words, as Sally put it, “I came to church for the potlucks.”
We are all in a line, receiving the ministry of the spirit, touching elbows, sometimes clumsy, sometimes breathless, but equally loveable, equally loved. And closer to each other and to God than we realize.
You are the Beloved,
Leslie
*I think Sally emblazoned us with birds, don’t you?
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Same. ❤️
This is so very marvelous. First time to find you!