The Body of Christ

I have had a particularly bizarre weekend where worship is concerned. As a general rule, I love to worship with different parts of the body of Christ. I love to see God's work among different people and places because it reminds me how infinite God is in plans, purposes and power. It keeps me humble and seeking. When I take the bread at communion and remember that it represents the one body, I see believers in Honduras passing a fishbowl of wine carefully, two-handed, knuckles white from its nerve-wracking weight and precariousness; I see the al fresco gathering in Florence, Italy, under a bower of grape vines; I see an African-American congregation in Hilltop Tacoma and myself awkwardly holding a tambourine lent me by a child whose young life holds more rhythm than I will ever know. Echoes of Grace (and Hymns for the Little Flock) mingle with Mars Hill electric bass and the painfully toneless worship in a Mexican border town where the walls are a combination of barbwire and concrete. This is the body of Christ and I love it, but I definitely was stretched this weekend.