How A Gathering Commenced

 

It took place two years ago this December. Dixie and I and a few others were having dinner in a restaurant, prior to attending a Christmas concert at Seattle’s Benaroya Hall. The conversation turned toward ‘church.’ All present, with a single exception, participated in the same church. All were active in roles of volunteerism and leadership. And all were expressing deep feelings of dissatisfaction. I listened. Then we paid our bill and went to the concert.

Days later, I found myself returning to that same conversation. It felt unfinished. Yet I hesitated. Was it my place to be a self-appointed ‘spiritual patriarch’ and attempt to re-engage the discussion? I thought and prayed about it. Then I sent an email to each person to ask if they would like to reopen the conversation and talk further about ‘church.’

The response was an immediate, “Yes.” So an invitation was given. Let’s meet at 10 o’clock on Sunday morning. If you’d like to attend the early service before, please do so. But we will expect you at 10. A menu was divided up among us for brunch to follow.

 

Our home is ideal for this sort of thing. Intimate. Personal. By 10 o’clock, everyone is seated. We can see each other. We can talk. I read some Scripture and we say a prayer. I briefly explain my concern over our Christmas conversation, encouraging each person to express any angst, frustrations and emotions. Share your heart. Tell us whatever. Don’t hold back. Say what you want to say. It doesn’t take long. There are tears. There is honesty. It is the beginning of a necessary healing. Like an infected wound that needs purged and cleansed.

After awhile, we arrive at the bottom line question. The morning’s self-appointed patriarch asks, “Do you want to leave the church and find somewhere else to worship?” Now, I have to say there is enough ‘pastor’ in me that wants never to ask that question of anyone. Especially if you think those you are asking have the ability, and perhaps the willingness, to say, “Yes.”

The consensus however is, “No, we don’t want to leave our church. We just want things to be different.” So what might that look like? Conversation continues in vulnerable fashion. We’re volunteers, not staff. We try to help others feel appreciated, but we’re not “feeling the love” ourselves. It seems like no one cares, at least not in the way we need for him or her to care. My needs aren’t being met. The conversation goes on. This is what we see. What we think. How we feel. We pray. And then the Bread and the Cup. There is something about The Presence that trumps everything else. We come to the table with Jesus, and we know. He sees us. He hears us. He feels with us. He cares.

At last we have brunch together. It is well into the afternoon when I am asked, “Can we do this again?” “Do you want to do it again?” “Yes.” “Why? To what purpose?” “We need this level of security, of vulnerability, of sharing our lives with people who truly care about us.”

 

And that’s how an ordinary moment became extraordinary and changed our lives forever. Three single women. Two married couples. Concerns about aging parents and adult children. Work. Retirement. Children. Grandchildren. No living parents. No family within hundreds of miles. No family at all. How then shall we live? How might we best serve and be served by our church? How do we share Christ with lost people?

A two-year-old Christmas conversation. A feeling of unfinished business. It all led to a question I asked recently while we were at brunch. Are we finished now? Has the need that brought us together been met? The answer to “the need” question was, “We’re better now than we were.” But as I listened to their answers, I realized something else had happened along the way. We had become family. Teaching. Praying. The Bread and the Cup together with Jesus. Eating the “family meal.” Laughing. Crying. Sharing life.

And so we continue. We all participate in the same church, except for one. “The Gathering,” as our coming together has been dubbed, is the church for her right now. She’s been on a long spiritual journey. Yet she’s at the table. Adopted by our Lord. By us. She’s closer to home than she’s been in a while. Isn’t this what families are for?

 

Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

Ward