I’m listening with tears trickling down my cheeks as a gently-spoken
husband and wife, parents of three young girls, play an achingly sweet violin
duet on the chancel before the Meditation. Beside them, in two brightly painted,
child-sized yellow wooden chairs wriggle two of their beautiful daughters as
their parents draw their bows across their instruments.
The middle girl, around 5, occasionally taps the little toy
drum her parents have given her while her older sister, around 7 and severely
autistic, rocks and shakes a clear plastic rattle, watching the beads as they
slip and roll past each other. Occasionally her younger sister gently places
the rounded end of the drumstick against her ear, she smiles and rocks a little
faster, and her sister smiles back. Their father, during his wife’s solo
section, reaches down with his bow hand to stroke his oldest daughter’s
shoulder, reassuring her that he is right there with her, that she is loved.
The youngest daughter, about 4 months old, significantly
premature and only a few days successfully weaned from her oxygen canula, is
swaddled on her mother’s back, dipping and swaying as her mother’s body dips
and sways with each note she plays. She begins to fuss, as infants will do, and
the DRE slowly, almost reverently, walks onto the chancel, and behind the parents
as they continue to play. She lifts the baby from her backpack, crossing to sit
next to the minister, and rocks her gently in time to her parents’ music.
This is why I come to church. Don’t get me wrong—I completely
embrace the cyber frontiers of the evolving UU church. I understand that we
must reach people where they are if we are to remain vibrant, relevant, if we
want to grow. I tweet the church’s Services, manage our Facebook page, support
live-streaming the Services. I have been a leader in a virtual UU church for
over 5 years and have proudly carried our banner at the past two General
Assemblies.
But these few moments, these moments of Beloved Community,
when we flawed folk come together, take care of each other and help each other
to sing the unique songs of ourselves—this is why I come to church. We don’t
love each other “in spite of” but “because of”. I see a young couple, their
young daughters with them on the chancel, playing on until the last note of
their duet dies away, knowing that their faith community is there to support
them. But I see so much more. Through my tears I see a love so bright, so
fierce, it almost hurts to look at it; it’s hard to breathe in its presence.
We talk of coming to church on Sundays to be renewed, to be
strengthened so that we may go back out into the world to do the work we are
called to do. The paid staff and volunteers work diligently on each aspect of
the Service, with an eye toward a worship experience that is “seamless”, “cohesive”,
“well-crafted”. And that diligence is to be applauded; we want that; we expect
a high level of excellence in our worship services.
But in the unscripted moments—through these cracks, if you
will—a wild joy, a dazzling grace can leak through. A love so bright, so fierce, it almost hurts to look at it. And this is why I come to
church.
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