The hostel experience: Sunday--Church

Sunday began with the satisfying sensation of waking up in a new place. New slants of sunshine, new morning sounds, new.

We packed up quickly, grabbed some bread from the "free bread bin" (donated by an artisan bakery--who are these guys?!! Amazing).

And then we headed out.

Down the street, triathalon participants rounded the corner to cheering crowds. Like viewers of a seamless film, we stood in stillness, watching the celebration.

After winding through countless streets, back-tracking through the sacred stillness of neighborhood Sunday mornings, we arrived at Imago Dei. One of the group members had come across the church while reading Blue like Jazz. It's held at Franklin High School, one of those high schools built at the turn of the century that have become marvellous juxtapositions of old brick and new city. I felt at home.

I wish I could hand you this morning, all the sunlight filtering through old windows, dusting wooden seats with that peculiar glow of well-worn wood, time and life; the banners marking 10 year anniversaries; the soft murmur of community re-uniting.

I laughed aloud (discretely, of course) during announcements. They have devised a brilliant strategy. The first announcer had a thick Scottish brogue; the second, Irish. Absolutely brilliant. Everyone listened.

But what really caught my ear was the sermon. I listened like my soul was speaking. (Maybe listening is how your soul speaks? I'm going to think about that.) In any case, it wasn't a new message. Really, very few things are new. But I listened from a place of resurrection--not new material: new life. New understanding. So a message about transformation resonated.

Communion was beautiful. Long tables along the front and side held bread and wine. People lined the aisles. But what I loved was the community. Couples kneeling at the same spot, prayerful as they shared something sacred and fragile, like love itself. Families stronger as they served Christ's reminders to each other. Nothing sentimental. Nothing canned. Just holy.

We serve a beautiful God, and he gives us good gifts.