The Crucifixion

I guess you can find Jesus just about anywhere.

I love contemporary worship. I do. And my home church is non-denominational, which means we welcome everyone from the casserole-bearing Baptists to common-cup Whisky-palians and everything in between. 

Our church services are a lot like a rock concert. But with less head-bangin’ and more hallelujahs. We have laser lights and fog. We pray out loud and lift our hands. We have a couple of 70-year old saints named Hollis and Linda, and then there’s the plain ole sinners named The Rest of Us. It’s a holy place--not because of us but in spite of us. And Jesus meets us every Sunday. 

My sister married a preacher, which still makes me laugh when I know she’s not looking. Because she can quote Eminem like she can quote scripture. And she’ll use that cross around her neck to strangle you if you mess with her children. There is no one who loves and works harder. But don’t mess. She can leave a well-intended wordsmith tail-tucked in a single breath—never knowing what hit him. If she lays hands on you, best stay down, mister. While you ponder if you’ve been slain by the Holy Spirit or laid prostrate by a string of cuss words from the pentacostal-turned-pastor’s wife called Sister. 

Yesterday, we visited my sister’s husband’s church. A Methodist one in Marietta. It was big and ornate. And really beautiful—inside and out. Two young acolytes adorned snow-white robes—one carried a gold cross and wore gold platform wedge shoes to match. The other carried a candle, which wouldn’t stay lit. It’s a fine line between crying and cussing in front of a congregation. I watched them navigate clomping shoes and flickering flames and leaving it all at the communion table, despite a gawking world watching. These girls are learning early--If we could all just learn to leave it at the Body and Bread broken, eh?

We said the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostle’s Creed in near-perfect unison. And, I swear, the world literally stopped turning. These ancient words echoed off high wooden beams and organ chimes and settled back into my heart. And I thought to myself, if Mr. Alzheimer ever comes to borrow cadence and chorus from my mind, I won’t let him take these two fancies. They are my forever favorites. 

A bit of liturgy was sewn into every fabric of the place—right down to the altar kneeling bench. And I like the way it stitched us all together. 

We sang out of the hymnals. It brought back memories of my childhood when thin pages of a worn-out burgundy book stuck together like the first, second and last stanza of a song. I ran my finger over a musty smelling page of poetry and it reminded me of something I’d long forgotten: There is nothing so beautiful as an old hymn. 

A lady named Alicia led the worship. There was something about her voice that ushered—said, “Come on in this place and stay awhile.” In this world, there are singers….and then there are singers. Ms. Alicia is one of “those” singers. 

I’ve read a lot of the bible. It talks about angels around the throne, singing day and night, “Holy, holy is the Lord who is and was and is to come.” My mind has always pictured feathered wings and harps and floating white. Until Sunday. I closed my eyes as Ms. Alicia sang and imagined these angels looking more like a black lady in a choir robe singing with such gusto and grace that glory gathered into sweat beads of love on an upper lip. Everything about this woman shined. And, from now on, when I read of angels singing, I’ll think of her.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but a 91 year-old gal in this church recently proved them wrong. She got saved and baptized after a lifetime of disbelief. And her whole unchurched family came to witness it all. She says on a video, “I feel protected. I just feel good.” In a world of talking heads and crazy chaos, her testimony gives me hope. Even peace, which is fitting since it bears the meaning of her name. Ms. Irene is proof that we are never too old to stop looking for God. Or maybe she’s just proof that even after 91 years, He never stops looking for us.

An old man on the end of the stage is a new believer too. He can’t keep from singing a new song. It’s like a puppet string is attached to his left arm. When his eyes close, his arm lifts. And I can’t tell if he is beckoning Jesus to come or sin to go. But the smile on his face tells me he is fine either way. My brother-in-law quoted Ronald Reagan in the sermon, but I kept thinking about Abraham Lincoln, “And in the end it's not the years in your life that count; it's the life in your years. 

A 5 month old name Noah Joseph wears white. His pink skin is mottled and soft like cotton. It bulges and rolls and dimples out of elastic while the stitching threatens. His eyes twinkle and a toothless smile ignites when the baptismal water drips and trickles over peach fuzz and rests down deep to his soul. His parents beam like the sun shining through dark clouds. And I feel warm, even on this cold Fall day. Between the sacrifice of a Savior and the sacrament of God, something tells me this baby might change the world.

The book of Matthew reminds us: “Whoever has ears, let them hear.” A deaf lady signs “Amen” on the corner pew. And my soul weeps with her. Because God hears her hands and one day these bodies who fail and falter will be made new and perfect. 

And I watch Jody in the pulpit. His wife behind me and his kids sitting to my left. I feel so proud. He wears an embellished stole and black robe and a title named doctor. But underneath it all, I still see that little boy from Mississippi who came from a broken home and lost his mama too young. I see his family of blue-collared commoners sitting around a dinner table eating cornbread and fried chicken with heads bowed to say grace. I see a man who gave up everything to surrender to a calling. And I wonder if these folks, these thousands of parishioners sitting in pews, know how hard he fights day after day. For them or for his family or for the Kingdom. And mostly, I see how far he’s come and pray he can never lose sight of where he’s going. 

Despite the glasses sitting on the end of his nose, from the looks of lives changed, I feel sure his vision is pretty good.

Yes, I love the contemporary. The fog and the smoke and the praise and the guitars and the dimmed lights and bar stools-turned-into-podiums. And I love the hymns and the rituals and the liturgy and choir and the communion table.

But mainly I love the Lord. And it doesn’t matter who we are or where we’ve been or the color of our skin. It doesn’t matter if we are old or young. If we can see or hear. It only matters if we can hope and feel. Because we can find Jesus anywhere we go.

If we are looking for Him. And even if we’re not, chances are….He’s looking for us.