Grace, Peace

Grace to you and peace, probably one of the most civilized and beautiful greetings ever written.

I don’t know if you hear the readings better or the sermon comes through clearer when you are one of four people at the early service—four meaning, one priest (Patricia), one altar helper (chalice bearer? Renee Kastanakis), and two parishioners—me and Penny France.

I was the first and only worshiper in the sanctuary at the start of the service and so as Patricia and Renee entered processing toward the altar and stood and Patricia whispered, sort of whispered in the nearly empty room with the jazz band equipment packed up by the choir loft, if I was the only one, then I needed to sit in the front and be sure to say all of the responses.

I can respond, I said. Others will come. And another did come, Penny. So there were two of us to listen to Renee reading the scripture, in as steady and convincing a voice as if she were reading to a full house.

Paul to the Thessalonians, “Grace to you and peace . . .your faith is growing abundantly and the love of everyone of you for one another is increasing.”

The sermon was about one of the many tax collectors in the Bible (the one that climbed up a sycamore tree to see Jesus over a crowd?). I could imagine Jesus doing such a thing, giving this rousing speech then picking out the most despised person in the place, the saddest, the one weighted down by bad deeds and greed, picking this person to basically hang out with—and openly love. The message? Nobody is beyond redemption. I might add, not to be testimonial or anything, that might be interpreted also as nobody is beyond the love of God. (But read the sermon if you haven’t heard it. My interpretations are not always the best.)

Anyway, with four people total, Patricia invited me and Penny up to the altar for the Eucharist—a little something different for the small crowd. We both stopped at the rail but she called us forth, further—no, she meant the altar altar.

I’ve never put my hands on the altar during communion, felt the linen cloth on the tips of my fingers, seen so up close the blessing of the bread and wine, spoken the words so clearly, eternal God, heavenly father, thank you for feeding us with the most precious body and blood of your son . . . and for assuring us in these holy mysteries that we are living members.

It was intimate, so few but it felt so expansive. I had to ask again in Sunday School, how many people do you need to have communion? Apparently just two.

So where was everyone else this morning? Well, they had marked their calendars for the regular service so they could attend the annual Jazz Eucharist—it is All Saints Sunday, All Hallows Eve. In fact, as I was leaving the church, I did so to the sound of music that I could sway my hips to, and that’s just what I did.