God on the Road

(Friday game night)

Traditionally, the second Sunday after Easter is a day where the Divine breaks through into the mundane.

Eastern Orthodox readings focus on Thomas, Roman Catholic readings on conversations along the road, Protestant readings on the blinding of the apostle Paul and fish for breakfast by the sea shore. 

Emmaus. Damascus. 

Doubts soothed. Bellies filled. Eyes opened. Eyes closed. Pathways and water. Glory that comes unexpected. In the midst of life and travel and work. And, sometimes, right in the middle of our huddled fear.

"Courage, dear heart."

Lion's breath is warm in my ear, in the memory that is pure imagination. Because, there is sunshine here, climbing temperatures and summer kissed faces on desert kids who don't know how to do anything but soak up the light while it lasts. And, Glory comes unexpected.

"The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever."

And, I think that forever might be a little bit like this, a little bit like the thing that we call church. Surely we will run up and down hills, laughing and goofy as we learn about the gifts that we have been given. It might be a bit less slippery, because, maybe, in the New Earth, grass won't die over the winter. But, maybe it will, and we will still laugh anyways, because God is there, and even these strands leaching nutrients back into the soil can be bright in the light of glory.

Surely we will sit afterwards, with our bodies pleasantly tired, and share around whatever happens to come into our hands. Because, in a kingdom of plenty, why would we not?

Because, already, not yet, God is here.

God is in the little ones who watch carefully to ensure that I mark off each blonde head on the dog eared check in sheet. In the overtired attempts at a pout. In the worried watching and tracking and keeping the time. In the almost complaints before they realize that they have nothing to complain about.

God is here when they wrap Kenyan scarves around their shoulders and when they tell me about the bake sale they are planning to help an older sibling raise money for Haiti. When one who wasn't here pops in between services just because. When middle schoolers make their slow way from one end of the church to the other, God is here.

This is church. These are the called out ones.

This rainbow of 8th graders who seem to have collectively decided that this is the week to show the persistence of their courage. That this is a week for stories with endings. Because, in the irony of faith, endings help us to grasp the idea of an end that isn't. Eternity somehow makes sense against the temporal-ness of the mundane. Fish. Fire. Late night work. Early morning feast. Long walks and the screeching voices of kids who are staring high school straight in the face.

They have been called to a purpose and a passion that is greater than any of us. Greater than the watching of this careful dance that we do, words and actions that circle round and round until we finally intersect, find the places where, for a moment, everything is right. And, there are echoes of it in everything that we do. Stories are held, carefully, gently, as if the past were a living thing, a tiny heartbeat inside of our cupped hands. "I saw you," Grace whispers into the silent spaces between words, "I see you," "I remember who you are."

I remember that time that you...broke your collar bone just before the last event; crawled under the obstacle course to hide; ran wild playing tag; came as a 4th grader. I'll hold those stories for as long as you want, pass them back to you in the moments where you need a little extra courage. I know when you are here, and I miss you when you are not. Let me remind you. Remind you that you are known. You are seen. You are loved.

Eternally.

They are proud of themselves and full of energy and bright with sunlight, and I can't help but smile. Because sunshine around here is contagious.

It leads to high schoolers up trees and just inside the door, phone in one hand and chalk in the other as they carefully mark the wall in Circular Gallifreyan. Games go a little sideways and teenagers somersault across the grass. "My Redeemer lives," they sing the lyrics that are older than half of them, but, this week, we don't just sing. Instead, they link elbows, skip and twirl, hoe down to the chorus. And, it's chaotic and noisy and always just a little lopsided, off kilter. Our Redeemer lives. We are a people who believe in the impossibility that is Resurrection. Why shouldn't we dance?

Dance and laugh and talk about the tangled concepts of non-linear time as we try to wrap our minds around the sovereignty of God. Listen as they tell stories of the times that God stepped into their lives in the messy, everyday ways that the Divine often does. Washed passports. Injured shoulders. Changed schools.

It's the second Sunday after Easter. This is Christ broken into the mundane. This is Aslan on the move.