I came across a quote today:
What I am for you petrifies me. What I am with you consoles me.
For you, I am a priest. With you, I am a Christian.
These words resonate with me. What I am for my community, as a shepherd, teacher, leader--these things seem too big for me, like a pair of giant shoes that I will never adequately fill, or a pair of oversized pants I've never aspired to wear. But what I am with my community--a seeker, a doubter, a child--these things console me. In this way I was consoled last night.
At 8:30pm the college and career folks piled into "The Beast," our big white fifteen passenger van, and drove into Seattle. Our destination: St. Mark's Cathedral. On Sunday evenings they chant the compline service there, and some of us had never been before. I wanted them to have an experience rooted in the tradition of our faith. I needed to find an oasis, myself.
I tried to look and observe the service through fresh eyes. After leading the group to a long bench, I sat back and watched people trickle in. The monks appeared in their robes and sneakers, each of them so different from the one before, bearded, clean-cut, grandfatherly and fresh-faced; I loved the symmetry of their dress, a long line of white robes matching the tall pillars that held up the roof. I loved also the obvious humanness of robes and tennis shoes. That pairing struck me as particularly appropriate--how often do we foolishly expect God's hands and feet to be clad in supple gloves and golden sandals?
During the chanting, as the melodies weaved between the pews and bounced off the blue stained glass and echoed around the raftered ceiling, I paid attention to the people listening alongside me. They were sitting with hands listless or raised in prayer, clasped or laid gently on their partners' thighs, spread thinly on pew backs or clustered in laps. Their eyes were shut tight, or glassy and dim, or roving like mine. Near me, my friend moved his lips in silent conversation with God.
It all struck me as fiercely beautiful. This trickle of humanity had found itself a pool to lie in, quiet now and distinct from the roaring waves of interstates and politics. I found myself with a profound sense of being with these people: the chanting men so disparate from one another were the same as me, and the woman with her eyes tight before the icon of Christ, and the pair of college students stretched out on the floor. And beside me, the young men and women who had ridden in the Beast were a consolation, rather than a pair of too-big shoes that I would never fill. There I was, right alongside them. God was working.
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