A Sunday Journey

Before I made my way to the familiar place of worship this past Sunday, I ventured away to an early service at the Episcopal Church.  I made the decision to go because I wanted to be immersed in a litrugy that had served the people of God for centuries.  I wanted to have the Scripture, the words of holy ritual, and prayers that had been prayed longer than today to surround me.  It seems strange to confess this need for it is to acknowledge that my own tradition is a litrugically impoverished one and a tradition which would not be able to meet the needs of my heart.    

I encountered more than I expected.  I anticipated the liturgy and the Sacrament, but not some other things.  At the entrance to the sanctuary was the baptismal font, not empty as it stays in many of our Methodist Churches, but full of clear water.  I watched as people entered, walked by it, placed their fingers in the water, and touched their forehead in a moment of baptismal reaffirmation.  When I arrived at the pew, the friend who was showing me the Episcopal ropes of worship pointed out the kneeling rail behind each pew and then proceded to kneel and pray in the quietness of the pre-service minutes.  Finally, after the communion at the altar rail I returned to my seat only to see a flurry of movement as people went to pray around a kneeling soul at the altar who was there for anointing oil and prayers for healing.   

This was not the expressions of a stuffy faith filled with overpowering dull liturgy from the past, but visible expressions of a people who allowed themselves to be touched by a holy presence that gave life to worship.  It is unfortunate that so much of southern Protestanism embraces the spontaneous to the point that ancient practices are deemed something other than real worship.