"REFLECTIONS ON “GOING TO CHURCH”

By Helen Melvin

It is cold when we cross our doorstep Sunday morning. It is hard to waken and crawl out of a warm bed. I make all kinds of excuses to stay home from church. Perhaps it will rain and I will get a cold. Perhaps it will snow. Recently, the flesh was just too weak and I gave in. A friend dropped by with the printed service. On the back was a poem urging me:

“Wake up to the morning light.

……………………………….

        Rise from under the gray blanket of sleep,

        Open up your door,

        Keep your footsteps to the path.”

Most Sundays I do just that. How could God have known on that particular day I would fail?! Mornings are a benediction to me if I can stir myself. I drink deeply of the chilled tangy air and am filled with the wonder of it. It is a short brisk walk to Canadian Memorial. I arrive early to the enveloping sound of the choir’s last-minute practice and the warmth of the west transept, where rich maroon carpeting accepts soiled shoes, dripping umbrellas and wheelchair tires without rebuke. My attendants, Connie and Edith, arrange me comfortably in a corner and, with a reassuring “see you later,” slip out the door. I sit quietly in this gracious traditional church and observe how those who have duties preparing it for worship move comfortably around the sanctuary, as if at home, and understand a little more what is meant by “lay ministry” and “belonging” to “the family of God.”

No one enters without a smile of welcome from a “Greeter.” I used to think attending church was something one did for and by oneself. I was shocked and disturbed if voices broke the silence. A sermon changed all that. We were there, the minister said, to communicate. Meditation was for solitude; “congregating” was for sharing. Now, some of my most meaningful moments are those in which we speak, even laugh together, welcome each other’s return after illness, offer an embrace if we are aware of suffering, sharing, as we verbally express it later, “the Peace of God.” In such manner assembling is a prelude to worship.

Pinpoints of sapphire and ruby splash prisms on ivory walls, bright beams crown a floral display, and I am moved how colour and light prepare even my eyes for devotion. Facing me, above the altar, the looming figure of Christ on the Cross seems to gradually appear during Lent as the angle of the rays changes with the season. Each part of the service contributes to the theme – the music, the prayers, the scripture, even the words of the hymns, reinforce the message in the sermon. What a team it has taken to prepare this time for us. Although, in the United Church, ritual is restrained, the mantra-like introit, the children’s song, and the sung blessings in which we are invited to participate, are often the bond that bring us spiritually into focus. Similarly, The Prayer of Confession may give us pause. I once went home and copied into my computer:

“Somewhere we forgot to be still.”

“Somewhere we lost our wonder.”

Our Minister’s white vestments are symbolic. In them, the person we know as “Bruce” gives voice to a Belief, leading us, entreating us, without bombast, without reproach, to reach for truth in our own lives. His sincerity and the touching expression of faith by others cause me to reflect. When I question myself too closely why I am among them, my conscience defeats me. One of the most respected and giving members finds it difficult to lead public prayer or speak openly about going to church. Her honesty is supportive. Another expressed how my presence comforts her, the very person whose strength, in the face of loss, inspires me. This, for now, is reason enough.