Not quite communion

Abandoned by my wife and daughter, and trying to eradicate the guilt I felt when I considered the small number of tenors in our church choir, I left home on Sunday morning and drove over to our church. A five minute drive according to my wife, who masqueraded as mapquest in our family, I left my parked car and walked across the asphalt to the entry to the church. As I strode over toward the entrance, a friend of mine came out to greet me and we shared a short conversation about next to nothing.

As the clock ticked in my head, I finally answered its call and walked into the narthex. I took a bulletin from one of the ushers at the front and stepped around the conversing groups jamming the entrance to the sanctuary. I quickly stepped down the main aisle and found a spot to park myself near the front, on the left. This, of course, was the traditional spot for my family.

I knew this because I went to church with my grandmother one time in Clarksville, Tennessee, back to the Presbyterian Church she attended when she was a child, and after chatting with a member who had gone to college with my parents, my grandmother led me directly to a spot in the church which corresponded with the general area in which my family always sat when we went to church.

We are creatures of habit. I knew that. But that was not only somewhat ridiculous, but amazingly territorial. Generationally so.

At any rate, I sat down in the front, right center of the church, the Baynham area, if you will, and perused the bulletin. I had realized earlier on, that this was Youth Sunday, and that there would be no need for adult choir members. There would be no need for my particular voice.

As the sanctuary filled, I noticed more and more extended family members, boyfriends, brothers from college, girlfriends, and such, filling up the pews around me. As I sat there, I realized that I was almost completely surrounded by people with whom I was only passingly familiar.

At the same time, I noticed that a lot of the church-members with which I was familiar, were here, surrounded by their friends and neighbors who also had children who were graduating seniors, underclassmen in the various high schools in the area, and other family members. They laughed and conversed happily in the pews and from the aisles around me.

My head was swimming as I looked around for recognition. But there was to be none on this Sunday morning. This was a morning for the young, for the parents of the young, and their respective families and friends.

I realized again that at some deeper level, I really didn't belong here. These were the children and families and friends of a different generation. Somehow, somewhere, I had lost the connection to these children, these neighbors, these friends. Even though some lived down the street or in the adjoining neighborhood, there was little connection.

The service began, and young girls and boys ascended to the pulpit and spoke of youth missions and senior appreciation dinners to be served that night. All the little boys looked much older. The precious little girls so adult. Years had passed and I was no longer connected.

We sang praise music which was familiar to the young and their teachers and leaders, but not me. I strained to match the melody. Young people rang the bells, sang the songs, spoke the scripture. It was all so unfamiliar.

Finally, the graduating seniors approached the pulpit. There were five of them, I believe. Their faces were familiar, but there speeches thanked other adults and other family members sitting, beaming in the pews. It had been a long time since I had been on the youth staff at the church.
I realized again I had little connection to these young adults, children and their families and friends.

Finally, the service came to an end and we ended with a singing of the old hymn, "Amazing Grace". As our voices swelled, you could hear more effort from all of the members of the congregation. I stood among the throng, the hymnal closed in my right hand, and sang the verses, from my memory and heart, to the old stained glass emplaced in the wall above the organ at the front of the church. As I sang to the colored designs, the sun illuminated the colored glass. Colors and light beamed through the glass like Spring, itself.

It appeared as if God, himself, were trying to tell me that though I felt little communion with the people in this sanctuary, that His spirit was still reaching for me. That no matter how few people reached out to take my hand after the service, or speak to me as I passed from the sanctuary to the gloom and grey skies on this Sunday afternoon, there was still one hand that was reaching for mine.

I stopped and spoke with the graduating seniors. They all recognized me. I thought of their future journeys. I thought of their lives apart from this congregation. I tried to offer some sense of concern for their futures. I tried to offer a little of what God had offered from the sunshine gleaming through the stained glass.

I felt better as I stepped to my car. Something, perhaps, was still missing. But something was still being offered. Not quite communion. But perceived, and real, nonetheless.