Today, during her sermon, Pastor Debbie told the story of the young boy at the Christmas Eve service who came through communion twice, presumably because he loved the homemade bread that Pastor Debbie had prepared for the service so much.
Pastor Debbie laughed telling the story. She reasoned that taking communion twice was no big deal as "you could never have too much Jesus."
Although I did wonder if she had given the boy the same baseball size lump of bread she had given me. When you're used to the wafer, a chunk of bread big enough to make a sandwich with is a little disconcerting.
But Pastor Debbie's story made me think about both physical hunger and spiritual hunger.
I remember when I was kid feeling starved during every church service. If we were with my grandparents, I could count on my grandmother for a chocolate Velamint she always kept in her purse. And then, after she died, I knew I could turn to my grandfather who always kept a handful of chocolate Nips in his pocket.
Later, when I was older, church services became less about something I was forced to survive an hour of hunger pains for, and more about something that would fill my spiritual hunger. Those tiny little wafers were never enough to stop my stomach from rumbling, but something about them filled my spirit in ways that lifted me and propelled me through the week.
In fact, during my first year at Hope Episcopal Church (almost seven years ago now), I attended both Sunday morning services and did (though never in the same service) wind up taking communion twice each Sunday.
Now I go to the early morning service and afterwards head to the Wetlands as I did today.
I always find God at the Wetlands. You might say--as many have--why go to church at all if you can find God elsewhere?
And my answer to that for those of you who may have given up on Sunday church or may be trying to decide whether or not to go back is this: I know God is at Hope Episcopal Church. I know He's there. There's never a doubt.
It's like when I used to go to my grandparents' (my other grandparents) house to do my laundry many years ago. I could always count on them being there. I could count on them sitting and listening to me talk about my week, about teaching, about politics, about anything. I could count on the washer and dryer always working, on the laundry detergent box always being full. I could count on snacks and cookies sitting on the counter. I could count on my grandmother's scrapbooks sitting in the bedroom down the hall. I could count on the smell, the old books, the antiques, the polished wood armrests of the couch.
This is church to me, a place that I can count on, a place that feels like home where I know that I am loved and cared for. No church isn't perfect. It's run by people and we're gloriously imperfect. But I can depend on God there. I can find Him there easier than I can find Him anywhere else. Yes, He's at the beach and the Wetlands and the bookstore and the movie theater and everywhere. But at church, He is more. I can see Him so much more clearly.
So I go to church on Sunday not necessarily as a way to begin my week, but as a reset, as a way to lock down and make sure my foundation is strong and steady. Things will happen through the week that will test how strong that foundation is and I want to make sure it can weather anything.
I go to church to get focus, to wipe clean the lenses in which I view the world, so that when I do go to the Wetlands, I don't have to hunt for God there. He either appears immediately, or if I'm too distracted to see Him, He sends me a messenger to point the way.
Last week, I saw a bald eagle sitting on top of a light at a golf course.
I have never seen one at the Wetlands.
But today, I was standing next to a man on the road, both of us with camera in hand, when he suddenly looked at me and said, "Did you see the eagle?"
"Where?" I asked.
He pointed directly overhead. "It's flying over us now."
And there it was.
Pastor Debbie laughed telling the story. She reasoned that taking communion twice was no big deal as "you could never have too much Jesus."
Although I did wonder if she had given the boy the same baseball size lump of bread she had given me. When you're used to the wafer, a chunk of bread big enough to make a sandwich with is a little disconcerting.
But Pastor Debbie's story made me think about both physical hunger and spiritual hunger.
I remember when I was kid feeling starved during every church service. If we were with my grandparents, I could count on my grandmother for a chocolate Velamint she always kept in her purse. And then, after she died, I knew I could turn to my grandfather who always kept a handful of chocolate Nips in his pocket.
Later, when I was older, church services became less about something I was forced to survive an hour of hunger pains for, and more about something that would fill my spiritual hunger. Those tiny little wafers were never enough to stop my stomach from rumbling, but something about them filled my spirit in ways that lifted me and propelled me through the week.
In fact, during my first year at Hope Episcopal Church (almost seven years ago now), I attended both Sunday morning services and did (though never in the same service) wind up taking communion twice each Sunday.
Now I go to the early morning service and afterwards head to the Wetlands as I did today.
I always find God at the Wetlands. You might say--as many have--why go to church at all if you can find God elsewhere?
And my answer to that for those of you who may have given up on Sunday church or may be trying to decide whether or not to go back is this: I know God is at Hope Episcopal Church. I know He's there. There's never a doubt.
It's like when I used to go to my grandparents' (my other grandparents) house to do my laundry many years ago. I could always count on them being there. I could count on them sitting and listening to me talk about my week, about teaching, about politics, about anything. I could count on the washer and dryer always working, on the laundry detergent box always being full. I could count on snacks and cookies sitting on the counter. I could count on my grandmother's scrapbooks sitting in the bedroom down the hall. I could count on the smell, the old books, the antiques, the polished wood armrests of the couch.
This is church to me, a place that I can count on, a place that feels like home where I know that I am loved and cared for. No church isn't perfect. It's run by people and we're gloriously imperfect. But I can depend on God there. I can find Him there easier than I can find Him anywhere else. Yes, He's at the beach and the Wetlands and the bookstore and the movie theater and everywhere. But at church, He is more. I can see Him so much more clearly.
So I go to church on Sunday not necessarily as a way to begin my week, but as a reset, as a way to lock down and make sure my foundation is strong and steady. Things will happen through the week that will test how strong that foundation is and I want to make sure it can weather anything.
I go to church to get focus, to wipe clean the lenses in which I view the world, so that when I do go to the Wetlands, I don't have to hunt for God there. He either appears immediately, or if I'm too distracted to see Him, He sends me a messenger to point the way.
Last week, I saw a bald eagle sitting on top of a light at a golf course.
I have never seen one at the Wetlands.
But today, I was standing next to a man on the road, both of us with camera in hand, when he suddenly looked at me and said, "Did you see the eagle?"
"Where?" I asked.
He pointed directly overhead. "It's flying over us now."
And there it was.
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