On a recent roadtrip, a dear friend and I landed on the discussion of what character traits we really value and really despise in friendships. I may attribute the topic to it being 2 am and us being lost in the winding roads of West Virginia, but it was so enlightening.
As my closest friend in DC, she has great ability to speak about the good (and not good, terribly bad) traits I portray. An honest and open conversation it became and we soon discussed how to remedy and not become the people or characteristics we detest.
She echoed back what I said I value most in a friendship: hospitality and trustworthiness. Not hospitality in the "let's have a slumber party at my house" way, but the type of "what's mine is yours" and "please take my jacket". I respect the individuals in my life who have shown me such a great and sacrificial welcome that I strive to be like them, and to create a world where deep hospitality is normal.
I attended a bible study in college at a professor's house. I honestly cannot tell you a lot of what we discussed, but I so vividly remember and treasure their genuine hospitality. Tim would greet us at the door, always saying "You are welcome here." I actually believed him every time. Sarah prepared the tea, and always offered her top-shelf, coveted black licorice tea. They were genuine and honest and truly welcoming.
Fast forward to a month ago when I made an extended visit to the South. Yes, the southern hospitality rumors are true. But again, it did not come in the form of a quick dinner or house party. Instead, I found genuine hospitality in the way an elderly family friend welcomed all the bridesmaids to a southern high tea at her beautiful estate. She wanted to welcome us into her home--not because she knew us or loved us--but, she said "because I know I have the ability to do this." She is gifted at making people feel comfortable and welcomed, and she beamed with love when she did so. The entire bridal family overflowed with hospitality as well--sending me back to DC with lots of food and goodies, and offering a Thanksgiving in the south. These amazing people who I have met twice make me feel ever so loved and cherished just by saying "you are welcome here."
Feeling loved evolves when one feels comfortable and welcomed. I begin to trust when I know you want me in the space you have created. Such profound conversations and friendships have evolved when someone breaks bread at their dinner table, or invites the community to their living room. I believe (and want and desire) the church should function like this; we are a community of many houses, of many spaces created to welcome any and all. What if we all welcomed in such a genuine and selfless way? There would be no person left unloved.
You are welcome here. You belong. You are loved.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
on becoming Anglican.
I claim St. Brendan's of the City as my church and community home. This group of believers gathers each Sunday night in one of the city's homeless shelters, gathers around a single piano, and takes the Eucharist together. These people challenge me each week to see the gospel spilling over in each passage of scripture and in each step of the service. From the communal confession to the passing of the peace, we practice the gospel together in our actions and words; creating and orchestrating a rhythm we're to follow the rest of the week.
Attending church week after week is often hard for me. After a busy work week and a full Saturday, sometimes I receive more rest and restoration from staying home on Sunday nights. The community and gathering of believers, though, cannot function if everyone decides to receive refreshment at home. If I claim to want to practice the sacraments with this community, then I must step outside of myself to seek to share the peace with these people.
Becoming a member of St. Brendan's community is nothing more than a verbal commitment to these people. I decide to say that the Body is greater than my needs, teaching the children is the most important speech I'll give all week, and my body and soul can return to the patterns--and the reflective and restorative Sabbath-- of the service.
I love the pattern of the Anglican service. The Eucharist clearly takes the precedence of the service; the service never relies on the sermon, or if the speaker had a bad day. Instead, taking communion together as a body demonstrates a union between one another, and between the Body and Christ. Every week we come together, to confess our sins, to celebrate each other, and to draw strength from the personhood and sacrifice of Christ.
Often in sermon-heavy churches, we can never remember the point of the message. I remember growing up how my family would often talk about the most awkward thing the pastor said that week, and I humbly admit that I could rarely remember the purpose of the sermon the next time I stepped in the church. I rejoice in the liturgy because the patterns of the service are the things that permeate my mind and actions during the week: confession, worship, prayer, passing the peace, rejoicing in Christ. I remember the words of the benediction and the purpose of why we confess as a body, much more so than I ever remembered the sermons of my church growing up. I love the repetition, the beauty of the liturgical calendar and how it wonderfully represents the seasons and the timeliness of Creation. I love how our patterns mirror the Scriptures, and the deep meaning within each gospel reading.
In two weeks I will join the Anglican Church. I will join the history of believers who proclaim the gospel in liturgy, who confess to knowing nothing beyond the love of Christ. I will join this church and commit to these people. I will say the first “I dos” in this church, representing a communcl promise to staying unified with these people. As we confess and grow and learn and discover God’s grace, we will further the kingdom together and know the beauty of the love of Christ.
Attending church week after week is often hard for me. After a busy work week and a full Saturday, sometimes I receive more rest and restoration from staying home on Sunday nights. The community and gathering of believers, though, cannot function if everyone decides to receive refreshment at home. If I claim to want to practice the sacraments with this community, then I must step outside of myself to seek to share the peace with these people.
Becoming a member of St. Brendan's community is nothing more than a verbal commitment to these people. I decide to say that the Body is greater than my needs, teaching the children is the most important speech I'll give all week, and my body and soul can return to the patterns--and the reflective and restorative Sabbath-- of the service.
I love the pattern of the Anglican service. The Eucharist clearly takes the precedence of the service; the service never relies on the sermon, or if the speaker had a bad day. Instead, taking communion together as a body demonstrates a union between one another, and between the Body and Christ. Every week we come together, to confess our sins, to celebrate each other, and to draw strength from the personhood and sacrifice of Christ.
Often in sermon-heavy churches, we can never remember the point of the message. I remember growing up how my family would often talk about the most awkward thing the pastor said that week, and I humbly admit that I could rarely remember the purpose of the sermon the next time I stepped in the church. I rejoice in the liturgy because the patterns of the service are the things that permeate my mind and actions during the week: confession, worship, prayer, passing the peace, rejoicing in Christ. I remember the words of the benediction and the purpose of why we confess as a body, much more so than I ever remembered the sermons of my church growing up. I love the repetition, the beauty of the liturgical calendar and how it wonderfully represents the seasons and the timeliness of Creation. I love how our patterns mirror the Scriptures, and the deep meaning within each gospel reading.
In two weeks I will join the Anglican Church. I will join the history of believers who proclaim the gospel in liturgy, who confess to knowing nothing beyond the love of Christ. I will join this church and commit to these people. I will say the first “I dos” in this church, representing a communcl promise to staying unified with these people. As we confess and grow and learn and discover God’s grace, we will further the kingdom together and know the beauty of the love of Christ.
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