How was your weekend?

As surely as Monday follows Sunday, I know that Joseph, our security guard, will greet me with a friendly smile when I walk in the door at the beginning of the week, and ask, “How was your weekend, Bishop?”  I usually respond in a vague, non-committal way.  “Fine, Joseph, how was yours?”  This week, though, I’m going to be more enthusiastic.  “It was great, Joseph.  I hope yours was.”

Now, to tell you the truth, I was not looking forward to this weekend very much.  Ginger is away for the summer so the weekends she isn’t here are not ones I look forward to.  Plus, this weekend was a work weekend, a fairly heavy work weekend.

I was in Omaha to meet with a network of Sudanese Episcopalians who are struggling to find their place in the church they grew up in (although, admittedly, with a lot of differences).  I knew that would be interesting and probably inspiring (it was), but I did not see it as the stuff of a great weekend. 

What made it one anyway was church on Sunday.  Now, every Monday on which Joseph asks me how my weekend was has been preceded by church on Sunday.  So it is obviously not just any Sunday that makes for a great weekend.  This one was different.

Church is often, maybe usually, good.  This one was no exception.  The liturgy was well done.  The congregation sang with sincerity.  The pews were well populated.  The congregation reflected something of the reign of God—people of all ages, lots of children, multiple races.  

Worship at All Saints, Omaha on Sunday went beyond the usual, though.  It didn’t have to do with a different worship style (the worship was fairly traditional) or an outstanding sermon (the preacher, after all, was me) or the fact that some of my favorite hymns were included (although that always helps). It had to do with three particular people and the Sudanese congregation itself, each of whom made it easier for me to recognize that the Lord was present in our midst.

One was a woman, shall we say of mature years (by which I mean older than I) who sang the offertory—“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  She sang it with great feeling.  You could tell she had practiced diligently.  She had given a lot of thought to her interpretation, which was both traditional and personal.  Every cell in her body reverberated with the words, “Comin’ for to carry me home.”  It could not have been more beautiful if it were the Metropolitan Opera. 

Then there was a man who had, I would guess, Cerebral Palsy.  His communication was difficult.  Every word was a struggle.  The effort to produce each one frequently took longer than the rest of the congregation.  He was not deterred.  I could hear him clearly, a beat or two behind everyone else, and not easily understood.  But he was in there, every step of the way.  He gave meaning to the words of the psalm:  “Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!”  (95:2) 

And if that weren’t enough, there was a little boy seated (well, not so much seated) in the back of the church with his family, parents, grandparents, and sister.  I noticed him as soon as the procession entered.  He was moving his arms ecstatically in great arcs to the music as if he were orchestrating it all.  I watched him back there from the altar.  It was the same during every hymn, at the offertory, at every opportunity for congregational singing.  He was particularly enthusiastic at the Sanctus:  Holy, Holy, Holy.  When the procession left the Church, I couldn’t resist joining him.  We conducted together (although he took the lead).

His parents told me as they left that he is autistic.  I had suspected as much.  They also told me how much their nine-year-old autistic son loved coming to church.  And they told me how proud they were of him.  I don’t doubt it.  He was having more fun than most church-goers I experience.  Being in God’s presence, if it is anything, ought to be fun. 

And if that weren’t enough, the Sudanese service followed.  Like the earlier service, which was enriched by a smattering of African Americans and Sudanese, the Dinka service was enriched by a number of white Americans.  And it was majorly enriched by the drums.  There was no piano, no organ—just drums.  They were more than enough.  And they produced some wonderful, and highly infectious, singing.  More joy.  More fun.

It was a day of joy upon joy, a lot of fun, coming from people conventional wisdom would tell you could not be joyful—a church matriarch, a very sick young man, a boy locked inside himself by a mystery, and a people who have suffered things we cannot begin to imagine.  Still, it was there.  Joy.  Abounding joy.

It is what I would wish church would always be.  It is what I would wish every weekend would be.

It was a great weekend, Joseph.  Thanks for asking.

Peace,