Laud and Lunchables

My bible, my garbage and a violet.  The violet did not attend service.

I don’t think of myself as a difficult person, I’m simply easily amused.  Or maybe I’m simple and easily amused.  In truth I’m not certain what my problem is, but whatever the origin, being in church doesn’t come easily these days. 

While growing up I attended the Anglican Church.  The service was liturgical following the “old” prayer book.  This meant as a body, we read the service together in typical response-reply patterns.  Everyone sang from the blue hymnal and when it was time to pray, we put down the kneelers in our pew, got on our knees and stayed there for a very, very long time.  When the praying part of the service was over, we stood up and made our way to the communion rail where we would kneel again.  The priest would proceed down the rail placing a communion wafer in the outstretched hands of each congregant.  The priest would then return to exchange the wafers for the communion cup.  Father Whomever would then take the cup, offer it to the parishioner, who would take a sip. The communion cup contained wine, not juice, wine: red, robust and strong enough to make you choke if you drank too deeply.   When finished, the priest would then take the white cloth in his hand, wipe the lip of the cup, turn the cup a ¼ turn and offer the cup to the next person at the rail.  He would repeat this action dozens of times.

I’m not certain when the hygiene of the ritual was called into question, but I remember going to the rail to receive communion from a cup well into my teens, which puts us somewhere near the Stone Age.  I remember some congregants dipping their wafer in the wine, as opposed to sipping for the cup, but I never remember worrying about germs in those days.  It was the way it was done. 

We now live in more complicated times and though I am not foolish enough to believe the church of my youth was the “correct” way to do church, there is something about your past that sets the perception of your future experience.  Since coming to America, I have been astonished by the church’s gifting and resources, its professionalism and marketing, its outreach and scope.  Sometimes, I miss the painfully flawed, corporate nature of the church of my youth. 

Today, as I visited a church in my hood, I had an altogether new communion experience.  The congregation was large and there was no communion rail in sight, so I watched my neighbors closely to see what was required.  Am I the only one who gets nervous visiting churches?  I heard Pastor mention the communion elements being passed around so I sat down and kept my eyes peeled.  Suddenly, someone tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a paper bucket.  

I wasn’t expecting a bucket.  

I looked in the bucket and there, inside was….something….lots of somethings…..wrapped in plastic. Now, I expect many of you have seen individual portions of communion bread and juice before.  I however, being hideously old-school, have not.  I looked in astonishment as the usher nodded encouragingly. I smiled and studied the contents of the bucket.  She nodded again.  Suddenly I realized what I was being offered and placed one on my lap.  I passed the bucket to the encouraging usher, who viewed my confusion and was wondering if she was setting a pagan up for taking the elements in an unworthy manner.  I tried smiling back and moved my bible in an effort to subliminally prove that I was an earnest believer who studied her bible so extensively it was held together with duct tape, so she needn’t worry about my eternal destination.  It was all very non-verbal. The encouraging usher grimaced and moved to the next row of more sophisticated believers.

I looked at the packet in my hand.  I felt a bit overwhelmed.  I studied it suspiciously.

My Jesus was now a lunchable.

It’s hard to stay focused when you have a mind like mine.  Thanking God for the honor of taking communion in any form, I followed Pastor through the prayers.  Then, so as not to look like an idiot, I snuck my Jesus lunchable garbage into a hanky and hid it in my purse.  I needed evidence.   I could be the only believer in all of Christendom who is so shallow, packaged communion elements are able to entirely derail my worship.  Being high tech is tricky.  I haven’t even told you about how I almost flung my juice at the two year old in front of me when the stubborn wrapping covering the juice suddenly gave way.  (It’s a good thing that little Missy is being raised in church.  She has quite the attitude for a toddler.)  About that time I started missing a few things about church in the old days.

I miss corporate prayer: a time where everyone kneels before God.  I miss kneeling.  Am I actually saying that?  Many churches I have attended don’t pray together at all, save the introductory acknowledgement and the ending benediction.  There is no time to bring before God the issues in the body, the community or the country.  I miss aching knees and wishing Mrs. Davies would stop praying for every struggling teen in the congregation, so that I could stand up again and get the blood back to my feet.  I miss hearing people of faith pray out loud.

I miss music, human voices of differing age and ability, praising God.  When I was younger there was a woman in my church that could not carry a tune.  Her voice was clear, strong and always off key.  We used to giggle ourselves silly when we heard her sing but I would give a lot to hear her praise God again.  Music in the church today is so produced, so professional, so powerful, I can rarely hear my own voice, yet alone those sitting 2 rows back.  I miss the days the organist would stumble, our voices would continue alone and Mr. McCaffrey’s beautiful welsh voice would soar from the choir loft, on key, utterly sublime.  That a man so quiet man had the voice of an angel used to thrill my 9 year old heart.  I miss hearing the warbley songs of the grandmas, whose voices have held families together for generations.  I miss the unproduced human element of worship.

Though you have changed a thousand times, God has not changed once.

Charles Spurgeon.

Like activities, church life comes in seasons.  What refreshed you one day, might seem dry the next.  Songs and traditions fall in and out of fashion.  Some parts of church life we enjoy, others parts we do not.**  Blessedly we serve a God who is unchanging, unalterable and unfailing.  He is worthy of our worship, regardless of form or style.  As we enter holy week, might I encourage to enjoy the celebration of our savior, in a country where we are free to worship.  May his radical sacrifice and unending love, move you past the form of church to true faith in Christ.   May you be amazed once more at the kindness of God.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

**Sorry.  I’ve never liked passing the peace or saying hi.  I’m staring at the floor so I don’t need to interact with you.  At this moment my shoes are very important to me and I want you to go away.