The opening of wispy gray skies pouring out always brings me to a moment of reflection.
The question had been presented to me two years ago, when a pastor asked me what type of church I wanted. Even now thinking of this causes me to laugh a little. The picture has been painted, I am sure somewhere in the recesses of our consciousness about the perfect church and I am sure what is reflected in our dreams is a congregation that is comfortable and content inside our bubble. A church where everyone agrees on the style of worship, the hymns or song, and everything goes smoothly. A congregation, as one wise pastor told me, just like when we were seven years old.
Funny how the Holy Spirit comes in and makes chaos of our lives.
As I sat posed, quietly in the assistant minster's chair as the service began last evening fragile tendrils of incense crawled upward behind me. Flames danced silently along the walls swaying as the Kyrie was chanted hauntingly, beautifully and in that moment my soul stood still our hands outstretched receiving this grace seeping into our very being. Even as ancient rhythms will always run with my spirit, bringing laughter and light to my song of praise so too does the ancient tone of voices calling the Holy Spirit within as one also moves solemnly.
There are many at the mere mention of "high church" run screaming blindly into the night. Yet there is comfort in the liturgy that can attach to one's body and spirit, as if the Creator speaks softly, gently affirming something within the heart. Closing my eyes, hands open there will be a moment when my voice too will chant, feeling the earth rumbling beneath bare feet in tune to our Creator's presence; a Gypsy's simple prayer in thanks for all the expressions of Faith and Love.