Church by the lake

The church that meant the most to me as a child wasn’t a real church but the gathering held at the end of each busy day at summer camp. When the bell rang calling us to chapel, the whole camp fell slowly into a magical silence. Walking in groups or alone, we made our way to the three-tiered campfire circle sheltered by tall oaks and pines and set close to the long deep lake at the heart of camp.  Settling into the silence, the sounds of the forest and the lake would become known to us, wind rippling through leaves, water lapping onto the shore, the scuffle of stone on dirt. Such quiet brought us into ourselves if only for a moment to be with our tender hearts, full of the play, excitement, and adventure of camp and maybe a sweet tender homesickness for those far away.  Then, the chosen cabin would lead us in song or read poem or play a skit about our cherished belonging at camp and in nature and with each other.  It was a precious gift to be quiet together in that circle by the lake, to feel the welcoming embrace of evening breeze through the pine trees, the reverence for lake and the loons, the song and poetry to awaken our hearts.  My first resonant experience of belonging in my uniqueness outside of my family.

The church I go to know reminds me of that chapel by the lake.  It is a welcoming church with the pews set in the round with the altar in the middle so we can see each other and all be at the same level. Everyone is welcomed into the church with a greeter and the sign outside that reads “Chapel Open for Rest”. We wear nametags so we can learn and remember each other’s names and from the start are invited to join groups for reading, reflection, teaching, and service.  We sing songs, read poems and the ancient scriptures, offer each other the sign of peace.  We are all welcomed into the prayers for healing for ourselves and our loved ones and the ritual sharing of the bread and the wine, no penance or rosary required. We collect food for children’s weekend meals and are invited after service to the coffee, lemonade, and cakes served at the altar.  Our Reverend and those visiting speak to us about how we might open up our hearts to receive and give from the overflow of divine love that flows generously within and beyond us, to finds ways into fellowship with others in our church, our community, our world, to find God in the cry of the suffering and our courage to care. The whole of the experience transforms us through reverence and belonging to become more compassionate and caring people. 

When I feel the impulse to harshly judge or stereotype another, I think of how I would feel towards them if I were welcoming them into church, if I saw them in their vulnerability and hope asking for a healing blessing (and realize that we all deep down need healing), if we sang together an ancient psalm for peace and courage.  Church transforms me by tenderizing and opening my heart, dissolving my judgements and harshness into a more spacious capacity for love, care, wonder, and play.