Jerry hadn’t attended a worship service since he walked out on his own. Easter was around the corner. Like a sudden craving for a beloved food he hadn’t had in too long, he wanted to go. He glanced through the church ads in The Port Townsend Leader. “The Little Church, a non-denomination house of worship. No matter where you are in your spiritual journey, this is a safe place to take the next step.”
He rolled up its long, dirt driveway in a thickly forested area, parked his car and proceeded into a building that looked like it was part of a low income housing project. Inside a band played from the chancel with an electric guitar and bass, keyboard and full drum set. Three women before mike stands sang and swayed. Up above, a screen projected the lyrics.
The place was packed. Families, youngsters, retired folk, simple, humble, filled the pews. No ties and jackets here. Jerry found a seat in a back pew. The worship bulletin informed him this was the first Sunday of Lent and the sermon was titled Does Jesus Have Anger Issues? A sermon on anger: synchronicity. Jerry smiled.
The pastor stepped into the pulpit. In his 30s, his black hair slicked back, broad shoulders filled out a floral Hawaiian shirt. His dark eyes took in the congregation.
“I am reading from Matthew 21:12-13: ‘Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. ‘It is written,’ he said to them, ‘My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a den of robbers.’”
The pastor looked up from his Bible. “When I was a young man and not yet a Christian, I ran with a tough crowd. I rode a motorcycle and was a member of a biker gang. I lived in a rough neighborhood. Across from my dingy apartment lived another biker. He was huge. I thought I was pretty big, but this guy dwarfed me. He was a mean mother… and I can’t say the next word in this holy place.”
The congregation cracked up.
“If I crossed this guy, he could make my life miserable.
“Our scripture today marks the beginning of Jesus’ triumphant and final return into Jerusalem. And Jesus, who is usually cool, calm and collected, loses it.
“Given how important Jesus is in our lives, shouldn’t we want to know what made him so mad? Like how it was important for me to know that about my neighbor so he wouldn’t waste me.”
“You tell ‘em, brother,” called out a parishoner.
“If Jesus knocked on your door, entered your temple, would he get mad? Would he start throwing things around?
“As we prepare for Easter Sunday, this Lent, let’s take inventory of our house, our temple. Let’s clean up. Let’s give it a good Spring cleaning. Amen.”
Many from the congregation responded, “Amen.”
“Now is the time to let Jesus into your life. No matter who you are, no matter how bad you think you are, if you want Jesus in your life, then come on down this aisle and say yes to Jesus.”
Why not me? Why not now? I want Jesus in my life. He’s offering Jesus. Should I go? There’s no time for thinking. Anyway I spent three years thinking. And where did that get me? I’m sick of thinking. Time to offer my body.
His knees shook. The band wailed. The congregation rose to its feet clapping, many slapping Jerry on the back as he drifted towards the front. One woman spoke in tongues. Another large lady jumped into the aisle and danced, jumping back and forth on her feet, her arms flailing, almost whacking Jerry in the face, but he lurched out of the way just in time.
He reached the front with some others. “What’s your name son?” asked the minister.
“Jerry.”
He planted his cool palm on Jerry’s forehead. “The blood of Jesus wash away your sins. Receive the baptism. Be washed anew. In the name of Jesus, amen.” He pushed back on Jerry while elders stood behind ready to catch him. Jerry stayed put. The minister moved on to the next person, who fell backwards. Jerry felt like he missed his cue.
“I’m so happy we have brought these people to Jesus,” shouted the preacher to the congregation.
Shouts of “Praise god,” “Thank you, Jesus,” “Hallelujah,” “Amen” answered back.
“Let us pray for these saved souls.”
Jerry floated back to his pew.
When the service ended, Jerry gazed at the plain wood cross hanging over the chancel. Sun streamed through the windows on one side casting shafts of light down onto the blood red carpet below.
He felt a small tug at his shirtsleeve. A small girl stood next to him. She had blond hair, a toothy smile, clear blue eyes, and a deformed arm about one half the length of her other, ending in a partial hand consisting of two fingers and a thumb.
With her deformed hand she gave him a broken egg shell painted gold. Emerging from the egg was a yellow marshmallow with cloves for eyes and a paper beak, a little baby bird.
“I’m so happy you met Jesus today,” she said, smiling up at him.
Air blowing in his face as he drove home was all Jerry needed to restore cold reason to its throne. Although he was impressed by his bold move to answer the pastor’s call, he also knew he did not meet Jesus today. Then again, who was that little girl?
***
Jerry awakened on Easter Sunday. Something was astir. The call to respond rang forth again.
White lilies filled the front of the chancel of the Presbyterian church down the street from him. A robust choir squeezed into its sides. And a brass quartet announced the good news from the center.
Jerry fed on the service like comfort food, it resonated so deeply with him. Yes, this was a home familiar to him and perhaps a way to his home within.
The woman minister announced, “We now turn to this table. We invite you to participate.”
Jerry had never felt comfortable about communion. Eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood rang so pagan. He doubted Jesus instituted the tradition. The early church fathers cooked it up in order to give them power: they had something others could not have on their own.
Yet a yearning rose from his belly. As he headed with other worshippers towards the alter, the congregation sang:
Shall we gather at the river?
Where bright angel feet have trod
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God
Yes, we’ll gather at the river
The beautiful, the beautiful river
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God
Soon we’ll reach the shining river
Soon our pilgrimage will cease
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace
Yes, we’ll gather at the river
The beautiful, the beautiful river
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God
He dropped to his knees. Into his supplicant hands the woman pressed a thin wafer. She leaned in and whispered, “The body of Christ broken for you.”
His skin tingled; his eyes moistened. He placed the desert dry fragment into his mouth.
She returned with the cup from which Jerry tasted the sour bite of wine. “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” she said. He felt her breath.
Tears fell. Indeed something was astir. Walls dissipated, commingling commenced, everything outside was now inside, everything inside was now outside. It was like meditating when he reached mindlessness and nothing was held onto, not a thought, not a moment, just an awareness of flow. He was part of a seamless fabric.
He returned to his place. Let it be; let it be. Quiet the mind, he counseled. This is your body talking. And from the vast, loamy fields of his heart, not the turret of his brain, a tiny seed sprouted.