Celtic Advent - XXXVII- December 22

 

Celtic Advent – Day XXXVII – December 22

 

“Some rabbis say that, at birth, we are each tied to God with a string, and that every time we sin, the string breaks. To those who repent of their sins, especially in the days of Rosh Hashanah, God sends the angel Gabriel to make knots in the string, so that the humble and contrite are once again tied to God. Because each one of us fails, because we all lose our way on the path to righteousness from time to time, our strings are full of knots. But, the rabbis like to say a string with many knots is shorter than one without knots. So the person with many sins but a humble heart is closer to God.”      

                         ~Rachel Held Evans, A Year of Biblical Womanhood

 

 

I was a newly ordained priest at my first call as Chaplain at University of Lowell, in Lowell, MA. One of the first mission projects I created was to establish a weekly Eucharist at the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center. I had carefully trained a handful of students in how to lead worship and, together, we had decided that two of them would come with me to the Center, on a rotating basis.

 

The third floor of the Center was a 'locked unit' - pretty much a human waste basket for all those people who had been released from psychiatric facilities - where they would stay for a few weeks, be released to the streets for a few weeks and then, readmitted again after a brief stopover at the Lowell Police Station and the City Jail for some obtuse, vague charge as 'disturbing the peace'.

 

I had secured permission to provide a service of Holy Communion, as it would be advertised, making sure the staff knew that I would be bringing in bread (or, hosts, if need be) and wine.

 

"Nope," they said, "can't bring in anything - not hosts, not bread - from the outside. Especially not wine."

 

"Okay," I said, "Can you provide me with a few slices of bread and some grape juice?"

 

"No bread," they said, "We had a 'suicide-by-stuffing-bread' last year. No bread on the ward. And, no peanut butter. That's even worse."

 

"Okay," I said, "No problem with the peanut butter. How about some saltine crackers and some grape juice?"

 

"Deal," they said, "We keep them in packages of two - no 'stuffing' - and you can just open up as many packages as you need."

 

Imagine my surprise when I appeared for that first service and found, waiting for me, some graham crackers and grapefruit juice.

"It's all we had," they said without apology, adding, "It's the end of the month. Supplies are low."

 

In I went, to the locked "Recreation Room". I heard the door lock behind me and realized that I was alone in the room with two terrified students and about 25 people who were in all sort and manner of 'altered states' of consciousness.

 

People were walking around nervously, pacing, smoking, muttering to themselves, occasionally shouting out obscenities.

 

I set the table, yelled out what was about to happen, and asked people to take their seats.

 

No one did.

 

I started anyway - said a few, abbreviated opening words, one of the students read the first lesson, the other led the psalm. I went right to the gospel and then said a few words about it.

 

To my amazement, some of the folks actually sat down and were listening to me. The room was not exactly quiet, but the din had certainly decreased a few decibels and was now a dull buzz.

 

As I started to say the Eucharistic Prayer, one woman in the front - Helen, I'll never forget her - spoke up.  Helen's eyes looked like the last 20 or 30 years of her life had witnessed some pretty rough roads. Makeup clung to the deep wrinkles and lines in her face, her eyelids were a bright blue with a crooked line of mascara outlining them, and her lips were a misshapen bright cherry red.

 

She looked like a tragic clown in a very painfully human circus in this "Recreational Room".

 

"Hey, are you allowed to do that? I mean, being a woman and all," she asked in a gravelly voice.

 

"Yes, I am an ordained Episcopal Priest," I said, sounding every bit like a newly ordained and slightly insecure Episcopal Priest.

 

"Yeah, sure you are" she said, taking a drag from her cigarette, "and I’m the Queen of Sheba. Well, I can't take communion. Divorced, you know."

 

"Sure you can," I said, "Everyone is welcome at the Lord's Table."

 

She looked at the oblong utility table where I had set out the starched, white corporal, and had the shiny silver paten and chalice, raised an eyebrow of suspicion, shrugged her shoulders, and lit another cigarette from the one she had almost finished.

 

I got through the Eucharistic Prayer and marveled as most of the people in the room seemed to be paying close attention to what I was doing. Perhaps a memory from childhood or an earlier day was awakened, and they recognized this as a holy moment.

 

Even after the words of institution, the mood in the room remained solemn. As I prepared to distribute communion, Helen called out, "Hey, shouldn't we be singing something?"

 

"Sure," I said, "Why don't you lead us in singing one of your favorite hymns?"

 

Oh, do be careful what you ask for. I asked her to sing. And so, she did.

 

She leaned back her head, closed her eyes and started singing in the most reverent tones I've ever heard, "She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes. She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes. . . ."

 

By the third verse, about a dozen or so people joined her. "She'll be driving six white horses, she'll be drivin' six white horses (big finish) WHEN. SHE. COOOMMMES!!"

 

You know what? In that moment, when the absurd met reality, and the profane intersected with the sacred, I knew that Jesus was already there, in that locked Recreational Room, on the third floor of the locked ward of the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center, in Lowell, MA.

 

And, I had this epiphany. Jesus was fully present to us, but not just in the graham crackers and grapefruit juice. I had already figured that out.

 

My epiphany was this: We hadn’t brought Jesus to church. We had only just brought the church to Jesus.

 

We are three days away from celebrating the birth of Jesus. It is still unthinkable to me that we will not be in Church on Christmas Eve. I cannot get my head wrapped around the fact that there will be no Christmas Pageant, no organ music accompanying the choir singing all our favorite Christmas carols.

 

The worst is that we will not have That Moment when the house lights go down, the candle tapers are lit, we get on our knees and sing, “Silent Night”.

 

As tempting as it is to wallow in my sorrow, I find myself thinking of that Eucharist – indeed, those Eucharists – at the Solomon Carter Center in Lowell, MA.

 

The ancient church did not meet in a building they called “the church”. They understood themselves to be the church. They celebrated Jesus in their midst in their homes.

 

This Christmas, we can’t go to church but we can be the church – in front of our laptops or smart phones or television sets – and worship God together in the best way we can which, turns out, is also the most ancient way.

 

And, Jesus will be present.

 

 

“This is what God's kingdom is like: a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes. And there's always room for more.” ~ Rachel Held Evans

 

 

“Christianity is one beggar telling another beggar where he found bread.”

                                                                                    ~ D.T. Niles

 

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in.

                        Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”