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Sermon on Communion with God and Each Other

SERMON ON COMMUNION WITH GOD AND EACH OTHER

WORLD COMMUNION SUNDAY

TEXT: PSALM 46:10

 


PART I COMMUNION WITH GOD JUDY
Why do we come to church? What's the point? In a series of sermons we've been posing answers to that question: We come because we want to follow Jesus as his disciples. We come to form a welcoming and hospitable community-an alternative to what we often encounter. We come to find ways to build a more just society. So far, many of the answers to "Why come to church?" have been focused on action, on what we "do" as church people. But today, we're talking more about "being" rather than doing. More about what we "receive" than what we give.
The theme is "communion." Although this is World Communion Sunday and we will be sharing communion, we're not thinking about that word simply as it defines the ritual we will be enacting in a few moments. Yes, we come to receive the bread and the cup, but the sacrament is a symbol of what we are seeking through that sacramental bond-a relationship with God and with one another. The dictionary definition of communion is "a feeling of emotional or spiritual closeness, a relationship." And that is what we'll be talking about.

COMMUNION AS SPIRITUAL CLOSENESS OR RELATIONSHIP
When I think about this communion, this spiritual and emotional closeness, I like to use the cross as a symbol. There is a vertical pole and a horizontal crossbar. The vertical, a sign of our relationship to God; the horizontal, signaling our connection to each other. A church that is in balance, is fostering both of those aspects of communion.

When people join the church, we ask them what made them want to take that step. Many people say, "Going to church forces me to take time out of my busy life and sit with my thoughts for an while. I like being able to reflect on the meaning of my life and on becoming a better person." One said, "I like the way people can either leave or stay during the postlude. I stay. Sitting quietly and listening to music is so centering."

I know that several people in this congregation take time daily for meditation and prayer. But for many, church is the place where we quiet ourselves enough attend to the presence of God and to expect that we will have an encounter. God is all around and if we put ourselves in a place to sense the holiness, it will fill us up. Perhaps we will come to a deeper understanding almost like hearing an inner voice. Or we will feel ourselves loved and accepted.
Communion Sundays especially are filled with silences that allow us to just be. To sit before God and experience the holy and to know that we are held in God's divine embrace. As the Psalmist puts it: "Be still and know that I am God." The vertical pole of the cross.

Andrea is preaching the rest of the sermon about finding God, not in silence or direct communion in worship, but finding God through a community of faith-the horizontal axis.


PART II COMMUNION WITH EACH OTHER ANDREA
Taking the image of a cross, Judy has explored the vertical aspect of communion, our relationship with God. I'd like to explore the horizontal part of that cross ... community, connection with each other. Is it possible that God's spirit comes and dwells between and among and around us, like a series of concentric circles, ripples in a pond? I believe it is possible, because I've experienced it myself.

A PERSONAL STORY
Fourteen years ago, Chuck and I found Grace Church in Framingham. It was an urban church; gothic stone, stained glass windows. We were greeted, before we even climbed the steps, by genuine warmth, curiosity. We were amazed at the welcome we received; people gathered around us, invited us to events. We were church shopping, a young couple in our first home. Soon, we were new members, in charge of the Annual Holiday Fair. The Boston Gay Men's Chorus sang, and I remember waddling around with my hands behind my aching back, cracking jokes about being like Mary; ‘no room at the inn'. I was huge with our first child, and our new church was excited with us as we anticipated being parents. Oliver, we called him, not knowing who was in there.

Our new friends at Grace Church threw a baby shower for us. At someone's home, lots of food and presents, people of all ages stood around us in a circle. Each offered a blessing for our new life together. One week later, the same people came together again; this time, not to throw a party, but a funeral. People came to mourn the loss of our daughter, who was not Oliver but Hannah. We had won a tragic prenatal lottery, a rare condition where the child forms perfectly, and nothing is amiss, but labor and delivery are often fatal. Our Pastor came to Brigham to be with us, our night in hell. When we came home, there were cards and flowers, casseroles and offers of help. They put together a lovely funeral and reception, tiny flowers at each table.

All that winter, people came and sat with us, weathering the storms of our grief. In the spring, our Pastor helped us carry the little wooden box to a historic cemetery; the earliest colonial settlers, with old-fashioned names, like Hannah. There were a lot of babies, in those days. This was a comfort: we were not the only ones to survive this. We found a little crabapple tree in blossom, and decided this was the place. Not much later, that same spring, we learned we were expecting again. We would follow the exact same calendar as the year before.

A SACRAMENTAL COMMUNITY WHERE SUFFERING AND JOY ARE SHARED
Our church friends walked with us, that year of letting go, and making ready, once again. Looking back, I had been in churches all my life; I had a Bachelor's degree in Religion and a Master's in Divinity. But for the first time, in my heart, I got it. I understood Old Testament stories of wandering in the wilderness, being in exile, longing for the Promised Land. I got it, about suffering and diving into the river of loss, finding the mysterious presence of God. I learned what Church CAN be, a sacramental community where suffering and joy are spread out and shared, like bread we bless and break and eat, together. Is Church always that way? No. But it can be.

As we awaited the anniversary of our loss, and a new baby, our church held its breath with us. When baby Molly was safely born, there was celebrating all over town. One story ended. My year of exile ended, the silence was broken, and new stories began, stories of Molly and Emma, baptisms, my years working for Grace, my ordination. Why do I tell you this story? I don't tell it so you'll feel sorry for us, or think we're heroic. We're just normal people who suffered a tragic twist of fate, the kind that happens ALL the time. Who among us, in this room, doesn't have some kind of story to share? And where else CAN we share our stories, be who we truly are? Where else, but Church, can we find such community?

At the funeral for Baby Hannah, our Pastor gave a sermon that took our experience and turned it. She told the story of the Biblical Hannah, who was barren, and longed, prayed to God for a child. God granted her prayer, and gave her Samuel. Our Pastor told this story, and said, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, "You WILL BE a family." And we are. Where else, in this world, can we find this kind of faith? Where else can we find such radical HOPE? Only at church, can we be the bread of hope, for each other. Amen.