Something Missed

I will be the first to confess that the church of my memory is not as perfect as my memory would lead me to believe, but those memories were shaped by the experience of a beginner in the faith filled more with innocence than the cynicism of a worn out preacher who bears the scars of too many church battles.  Regardless of the discrepancy created by the views from the opposite ends of life, I still remain convinced that some things about the church of my memory would enrich the church which exists around me in the present moment.    

One of those things is the moment when those who came to worship were given the opportunity to stand in the midst of the congregation and speak their personal story of faith into existence again in the sacred space.  For many of those who stood in the church of my memory, their words were about the time of coming to faith in Christ.   In all fairness it can also be acknowledged that once you heard some of those faith stories, you knew what was coming the next time certain ones stood to speak.   

But, what is lost is the moment when the young hear the old tell their stories.  Stories are powerful things.  Stories of faith bear the kind of spiritual power which can only be described as life changing.  When they are spoken those who have not yet really started the journey are pointed toward the way of faith by people who are a part of the community and not just the preacher who is often perceived as the one paid to tell the story.  Hearing someone else's story has been the catalyst for many a young believer to make a trip to the altar and find the faith which has been spoken about by so many who have been known and trusted for a lifetime.