From where I sit in the choir loft, I can gaze into the faces of the people of my faith community. There I can see looks of deep sadness from those adjusting to profound loss; strained smiles of those recovering from illness and disability; joy of birth and rebirth; and the peaceful countenance of those able to enter into Sabbath rest or at least enjoy a break before the next scheduled event.
I watch members greeting one another, coming in late, leaving early. I notice the seating arrangement making it possible to determine if someone is present or absent. I take note of the many details of their lives as they file into place and ready themselves to worship God.
During the sermon, I try not to get distracted looking at the people who are looking back at the pastor, even though it can be quite telling as to whether they sit with arms folded, scowling, whispering to each other behind a bulletin or more recently glow with unbridled joy and radiant smiles. It is not my business how someone else is receiving the message the pastor has been given to share, so I will often avert my eyes to the stained glass windows.
There are eight windows depicting the life of Jesus. The basics are covered: birth, baptism, the crucifixion, as well as several that show Jesus teaching either as a boy in the temple or during his ministry. My eyesight does not allow me to know exactly what the two windows furthest from me show, but I would like to think they have to do with casting out demons or turning water into wine, representing some of my favorite Bible stories.
My eyes usually rest on the window with Jesus kneeling over a large boulder with hands clasped in prayer looking heavenward. According to the Scriptures he is asking his Father one last time if it is ok not to go through with the plan, but in the end says he will do it even though it will be the most difficult path he will ever walk. The intensity of this difficulty includes: the heartache that accompanies betrayal from a friend; the excruciating physical pain of being put to death in the manner prophesied; and the emotional endurance it will require as those who love him most either flee in terror or stand weeping nearby waiting for him to take his last breath.
Even though I know I would probably have also fallen asleep like the disciples he had asked to wait with him for one hour during his time of need, I find myself wanting to pray with him now. I want to kneel next to him at that boulder looking heavenward with him to inquire of God's will for my life.
So many times in the quiet hours of the early morning, I have found myself praying. Wondering. Asking. Waiting.
Today my eyes traveled to the back wall of the sanctuary and landed on the immense garland of prayer flags hanging there as a silent testimony to the faith of those just starting out on the paths where God is leading. Colorful, cotton canvases, each one a prayer, are draped peacefully in the back of the church forming what looks like the outline of giant bird wings.
Perhaps the bird is a dove, the symbol of the Holy Spirit, and with large, graceful wings unfurled he carries the prayers straight to the heart of God.
My spirit longs to feel the breeze. How I long to fly . . . again.
I watch members greeting one another, coming in late, leaving early. I notice the seating arrangement making it possible to determine if someone is present or absent. I take note of the many details of their lives as they file into place and ready themselves to worship God.
During the sermon, I try not to get distracted looking at the people who are looking back at the pastor, even though it can be quite telling as to whether they sit with arms folded, scowling, whispering to each other behind a bulletin or more recently glow with unbridled joy and radiant smiles. It is not my business how someone else is receiving the message the pastor has been given to share, so I will often avert my eyes to the stained glass windows.
There are eight windows depicting the life of Jesus. The basics are covered: birth, baptism, the crucifixion, as well as several that show Jesus teaching either as a boy in the temple or during his ministry. My eyesight does not allow me to know exactly what the two windows furthest from me show, but I would like to think they have to do with casting out demons or turning water into wine, representing some of my favorite Bible stories.
My eyes usually rest on the window with Jesus kneeling over a large boulder with hands clasped in prayer looking heavenward. According to the Scriptures he is asking his Father one last time if it is ok not to go through with the plan, but in the end says he will do it even though it will be the most difficult path he will ever walk. The intensity of this difficulty includes: the heartache that accompanies betrayal from a friend; the excruciating physical pain of being put to death in the manner prophesied; and the emotional endurance it will require as those who love him most either flee in terror or stand weeping nearby waiting for him to take his last breath.
Even though I know I would probably have also fallen asleep like the disciples he had asked to wait with him for one hour during his time of need, I find myself wanting to pray with him now. I want to kneel next to him at that boulder looking heavenward with him to inquire of God's will for my life.
So many times in the quiet hours of the early morning, I have found myself praying. Wondering. Asking. Waiting.
Today my eyes traveled to the back wall of the sanctuary and landed on the immense garland of prayer flags hanging there as a silent testimony to the faith of those just starting out on the paths where God is leading. Colorful, cotton canvases, each one a prayer, are draped peacefully in the back of the church forming what looks like the outline of giant bird wings.
Perhaps the bird is a dove, the symbol of the Holy Spirit, and with large, graceful wings unfurled he carries the prayers straight to the heart of God.
My spirit longs to feel the breeze. How I long to fly . . . again.
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