I felt my bones ache with homesickness the moment I walked in the room. I hadn't expected that. We were early for service, Andrew was dressed up to help serve Communion. We had been talking about confirmation, Easter and the early church. All my thoughts were on him and on helping him learn the rhythm of this holy week.
But when I walked in the sanctuary, the musicians were practicing. The normal chairs in rows had been replaced by card tables covered in crisp white linens with glasses and a candle.
And I was transported.
Back to a time before kids when I had all the time in the world for music and good food and experimental worship services. I remember preaching and living in community so beautifully that it made me think that was what the early church must have been like.
And then we moved and had kids and started a startup and the memory of that life faded from view.
I tell stories from time to time or share best practices, things that worked, different ways to being church. But I hadn't felt it in my bones for ages. I didn't realize how much I missed it.
As I sat, soaking it in, I saw Philip intently watching the drummer quietly moving his hands and feet in rhythm with her. I saw Andrew uncomfortably, but diligently playing his role. And I felt a joy of sharing something of my past with boys now old enough to understand it.
Service began. It was set in a jazz restaurant. Four chairs around square tables scattered around the alter. Musicians jamming the prelude behind it. Trumpet, trombone, piano, recorder, cello, each taking a turn at lead. Music gave way to the reading of the gospel of John.
Heated towels were brought to tables by servers (the confirmands dressed in full formal blacks) and handed to us with tongs. We washed each other's hands. Baskets of bread and casks of wine brought and shared around the table. It felt light and lively and I was transported back in time to those lively early gatherings of the church when people broke bread to celebrate the resurrection. It was a party.
The service grew serious as we moved to Gethsemane. Lights went low. Instruments dropped from the ensemble until we were left with just the cello. Jesus alone in the garden praying. Jesus betrayed.
We stripped the alter in darkness and silence. Strike the candles. Strike the flowers and the white linens. Hand in hand we carried them away. The alter bare. The Christ candle alone in the darkness. The music stopped. The jazz was gone.
So many things stirred in me.
The music in my soul. I wanted to be in the band.
The story, the service, the preaching.
My kids participating.
Sitting with friends. Friends who felt like me than acquaintances. Friends who I have shared life with. I was homesick and home at the same time.
I was content and longing.
Warm towels delivered by Andrew who was wearing a suit because he wanted to participate in the ancient tradition of catechumens joining worship during Holy week.
The ancient and the contemporary blending in the room and in my heart.
The spirit of God hovered over me in all these things and called me forward into some unknown future while connecting me to a rich and beautiful past.
And in all these things i felt like I had spent an hour with Jesus
He reminded me of the simple command followed me out of the room: Love each other as I have loved you.
"I'll try, Jesus, I'll try. "
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