Occasionally I envy Roman Catholics their experience of the Real Presence of Christ. No matter how well or poorly the rest of the liturgy goes, once they come to the eucharist they know they are receiving and sharing in the body and blood of Christ. We poor Protestants don't have a sacrament quite like it.
Yesterday, though, something special happened in our worship. For me, it began with 8-year-old Melanie leading us in the call to worship and the reading for the lighting of the first candle of Lent. Her calm, unhurried presence. Her quiet sense of occasion. Her willingness to wait in silence until the time was right to begin. Her clear, confident leadership through the call and the prayer. We could not but feel ourselves invited and drawn into a reality greater than ourselves -- into a real Presence.
Then the Joy Choir. Their smiling faces and cheerful voices. Their easy gestures and fluid motions. Their infectious happiness just to be doing something fun together and offering it to us and to God. Somehow they carried the joy of the Presence that we all desire.
Right after that, the Children's Time -- quite effectively taken over by them, the delightful fullness of their knowledge, imagination and open-ness steering me and the whole congregation away from my prepared script. And the ease -- when they graciously gave the time back to me, to let me close it in prayer -- with which they moved and adjusted their circle of held hands from the front of the sanctuary to the length of the east aisle, in order to reach out to, and include Zoe who was not able to join them easily at the front. How could we not see the open and inclusive love of the Presence in and through them all?
Something in all that, maybe, about the Sacrament of the Children.
And then, just in case I had not yet got the point ... as I was preparing finally to leave the building after worship and the after-worship Chili Cook-Off were over, I went to the church nursery beside my office to brush my teeth, and found six-year-old Marlee there by herself playing with a jack-in-the-box while her parents were finishing with the post-chili clean-up in the Lower Hall.
She asked why I was brushing my teeth, and I explained I was visiting someone on the way home, and didn't want to smell like chili.
I could chew some gum, she said. I said yes, but I didn't have any.
Come with me, she said, and began walking to the door -- ostensibly to where she knew she might be able to get me some gum. Her mother's purse, I imagined. Thank you, but I really don't like gum, I said, hoping to bring this to a quiet end, and be on my way.
She turned, looked at me, and simply said again, Come with me. I think she even waved with her hand for me to follow her as she walked through the door and down the stairs. I had no choice but to follow her, and I did -- as she walked not straight ahead down the stairs where her parents were, but made a left turn into the front of the sanctuary. I followed her there, where she patiently led me (Come with me, she said again -- just to make sure I was still following) up the platform steps to the pulpit. When she reached the back of the pulpit -- the very spot I stand to preach every Sunday morning, she reached into the shelves inside, and pulled out a little, dark blue, metal box of Excel breath mints.
I had no idea how long ago I had stashed them there, and then forgotten about them. With a smile on her face wordlessly she handed the box to me. I said thank you ... they're mints ... I had forgotten all about them ... but you knew they were there ... would you like one?
Are they spicy, she said. A little, I said. I've had them before, she said.
So I gave her one, took one myself, and together we shared our mints in the sanctuary.
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