Taste of Heaven
I have been going to what is euphemistically called in most churches "the contemporary service." I sit by myself in a crowded but relatively dark gymnasium-turned-auditorium, able to focus better and not obligated to be friendly until afterward. The church I attend (which I love immensely) has a "traditional" service in the sanctuary but it is just as loud in its music as the contemporary and very bright, and we have to shake hands. I'm an extrovert in general, but after teaching a Bible lesson I want some solitude. Mainly, I get to see young people from my college at the contemporary service, and their coffee is much better.
Today we had communion. In this venue, the congregants walk to the front and get the elements rather than being served. Good Baptists, we get our wafers and grape juice, return to our seats, and wait for the Scriptural commandment to take of the elements. Because I was seated at the front, I got mine quickly and scooted back to my seat to watch the others.
What a parade of the faithful, the redeemed, the believing. While mostly white and young, there were sufficient numbers of African-American, older and middle-aged, and foreign born. While mostly middle class, there were poorer and richer. One fellow wore biker's clothes and a pony tail. A couple from Sri Lanka came to the front. Children and elderly.
Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest, our Savior said and says, still.
My heart rose and sang to see this collection. As the line diminished and everyone was returning to their seats to await the admonition, we listened to the band finish the song. Almost at the end, a little girl, long-haired and dark skinned--from a distance I couldn't tell if she was Hispanic, Asian Indian, or some other ethnicity--ran to the front, the last one, to get her bread and fruit of the vine (non-fermented).
How like us all, I thought. Running to be included, following hard after, as if to say, "I'm coming, let me in," and of course the doors are open for her, the table is set for her. For us.
Today we had communion. In this venue, the congregants walk to the front and get the elements rather than being served. Good Baptists, we get our wafers and grape juice, return to our seats, and wait for the Scriptural commandment to take of the elements. Because I was seated at the front, I got mine quickly and scooted back to my seat to watch the others.
What a parade of the faithful, the redeemed, the believing. While mostly white and young, there were sufficient numbers of African-American, older and middle-aged, and foreign born. While mostly middle class, there were poorer and richer. One fellow wore biker's clothes and a pony tail. A couple from Sri Lanka came to the front. Children and elderly.
Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest, our Savior said and says, still.
My heart rose and sang to see this collection. As the line diminished and everyone was returning to their seats to await the admonition, we listened to the band finish the song. Almost at the end, a little girl, long-haired and dark skinned--from a distance I couldn't tell if she was Hispanic, Asian Indian, or some other ethnicity--ran to the front, the last one, to get her bread and fruit of the vine (non-fermented).
How like us all, I thought. Running to be included, following hard after, as if to say, "I'm coming, let me in," and of course the doors are open for her, the table is set for her. For us.
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