Jesus walks through the neighborhood Sunday morning calling us from our homes and our cares. We follow behind him dragging our worries like shopping bags and red wagons, jangling our woes like pocket change. He’s the Pied Piper and we can’t help but fall hypnotized by his flute.
Strange that we hear him over the buzz of power mowers, the hiss of cappuccino makers, the roar of TV sports, the pounding bass from car stereos. Odd that he appeals to the High Tech V.P. with shrinking stocks and irritable bowel, and to the single parent on food stamps renting a room in another family’s house. Strange, that we would gather at the corner church, like he is Quik-Stop and we need a quart of milk, a pack of cigarettes, a lottery ticket.
We are freshly showered, fresh from cancer, fresh from divorce, fresh from college, fresh from Iraq. This Jesus makes a place for us, we crowd next to him on the pew, or in the folding chairs, take refuge under the shelter of his wings, gathered up, gathered in. Free in the moment, from the uncertainty of what comes next. We pray, we sing, we listen.
We watch the sun stream through windows, maybe stained glass, maybe not. The shafts of light teem with dust motes; life abundant suspended in the air all around us. Funny that before he gathered us, we shared the illusion we were alone.
©Cathy Warner 2006