High Church, Low Church

This last Sunday I experienced the extremes of the high/low church spectrum. I went to an Episcopal church and a Quaker meeting. It was an enlightening experience on both counts, but one that left me saddened.

The service I went to at St. Luke's was small. Very small. We sat in this beautiful sanctuary and while the liturgy was reverent and I felt peace, I also felt like I was participating in the end of something. An era of stained glass windows and white-robed ministering servants seemed to be fading away. There were maybe 30 people in the congregation, most white-haired and in the waning years of their own lives.

Unlike the later service I had attended at St. Luke's the previous week, this service followed Rite I in the Book of Common Prayer and had no majestic organ, chanting, or singing. The readings were solemn, the homily short, and mood less joyful. Of course, I love how communion is done in high churches. We knelt before the altar, shoulder to shoulder with our brothers and sisters. Humbly, we accepted the bread with two hands and ate. We were served the wine from a communal cup and in submission we drank from the hands of the ministering servant. In this particular expression of communion, there exists so much meaningful symbolism of humility, submission, servanthood, unity, and...communion! If I could take only one thing from the high church, I would probably take the method of communion. But for the rest, somehow this great, high church with its soaring arches is crumbling beneath the relentless onslaught of the entertainment mindset of [post]modernity.

After St. Luke's, I went to the Quaker Meeting House. From the extreme high church to the extreme low church, this was an entirely new experience for me. I had been invited to come to Meeting after attending a Peace benefit meal earlier in the week.

Excuse this digression, but the peace benefit reminded me that although I am pacifist, I do not have the same "fuzzy feelings" about pacifism that so many present seemed to have. This is not the community in which I fit. I care about peace and nonviolence, but I do not see my role in this process as picketing, signing petitions, or talking down aggressors. There is a place for those, but I do not see myself as joining in this way. But back to the Quakers.

Before the beginning of the "service," there was a time of instruction. This particular one was about "clearness committees," a Quaker concept from the 1660s used for personal discernment. Perhaps I will write another post on this, but for now my observation was merely that I find it interesting that although there are no homilies (no shepherd implies no homily!), the Quakers have gotten around this by having these talks beforehand.

I noticed another thing. Quakers do not have a creed and are against such statements of belief and yet similar to the distinction between the American and the Canadian constitutions, it seems that the Quakers have merely a collection of documents and ideas which do form a somewhat informal creed. Pamphlets on clearness committees, books on community, posters on the "rules" of living a Quaker life. It seems it is still not possible to have a body of people join together without some consensus on purpose, beliefs, and rules.

The meeting itself was characterized by silence. At times, someone would stand up with some insight to share. Most often it was an observation on what had happened during the week. Other times, it was a reflection on something that struck them. This is where I realized that Quakers are not all Christocentric. No Scripture was shared, but a story from Gandhi's life was and the thoughts of a "universalist" Quaker author. Although we were all sitting together, it was such a lonely experience. The silence was not a communal silence, but an individual silence. The words shared seemed like merely words ringing into the silence. I wondered if people were even listening to each other.

Had I not had a wealth of my Protestant experiences to draw on, I'm not sure how I would have made it through an hour of almost entirely unbroken silence and certainly not week after week. I spent this time praying, singing songs (in my head), and quoting Scripture (again, silently), but without the reservoir of songs, Scripture, and an active relationship with God to draw on, it would have been a very empty time for me.

My experience after the meeting was very good though. Ironically, of all the churches I have visited, this one was the only one to really get it "right." I was invited to join them for a potluck and one of the women took me under her wing and talked with me at length. We discussed the history of the Quakers and the various branches (there are some more Christocentric branches), the beauty of liturgical services, and various other topics. It was most enjoyable and if this had been a Christocentric church, this would have been enough to make this place my home, but... alas, I am still left to continue my quest for a spiritual home in Kalamazoo.

Heritage of Faithfulness

For as long as I can remember, my churches (the ones that I was a part of--the ones that welcomed me) were non-denominational. That is not to say they didn't have any idiosyncrasies because they did--plenty of them! The difference was there was no heritage. No history. No journey. To some, these things don't matter. To me, they do. They inspire a sense of community, belonging. A realization that the saints who've gone before are still part of that community. Heritage creates an atmosphere of purpose--a sacred, reverent, holy purpose. A purpose that you will never be able to completely fulfill because it is one that can only be accomplished once all members of the community are working at it together.

My heritage is Mennonite. For many, Mennonites are known only as pacifists and, at the most, they are known for the simple life. This is true, but this is not by any means all there is to it. We are non-resistant. Not only do we see war as a direct affront to the Prince of Peace, we see any violent resistance as a human response to a situation that demands a soft answer, forgiveness, and God's grace. However, this is only one facet of this particular interpretation of the Christian faith. The Mennonites were also marked for their simplicity. They learned to take pleasure in the simple things--God's gifts to man rather than man's gifts to himself. But there is so much more that is part of being Mennonite. More that I haven't begun to learn, but this is my heritage.

One day when I was 17, I was privileged to be a part of that heritage in a small way. It was a communion and footwashing service and, after singing the beautiful hymns with a four-part harmony that you can only find in a traditional church, we partook of communion--the love feast. With the breaking of bread and the pouring of wine, we celebrated our Lord's sacrifice that made us free, but it was what was to follow that made the experience unforgettable. The women went to the back of the church while the men stayed at the front. We sang another hymn a cappella and as we paired up to wash one another’s feet, I found my grandmother kneeling by my feet. She tenderly bathed and dried them. As she sat back down, I knelt at her feet and repeated the gesture. Then, we both stood up and hugged and kissed each other. The holy kiss of the early church preserved two millennia later. It is through the beautiful past and rich story of a people group that these practices are kept sacred.

But over the following years, I discovered something. I discovered that I could bring this heritage with me. I could introduce it into other circles and share my wealth with others, and footwashing is indeed rich with meaning. You have heard it said that through marriage a man and a woman are made one flesh, but I found that through footwashing, two believers are made one Body, the Body of Christ. I have only participated in footwashing a handful of times, but I remember each experience vividly. My first time was with my grandma, but in subsequent years, I was to find this bond with a fellow student, a dear elderly couple, a respected elder woman, a stranger, and a very close friend. Each face is burned into my memory. These are my brothers and sisters. In this vulnerable act of submission, we touch the beautiful feet of Jesus.

In this way and many others, I stand on the rich heritage of my ancestors and I share this wealth with others and receive in kind. I’m claiming my thread in the heilsgeschichte and together may we weave a tapestry glorifying to God. Soli Deo Gloria.