One in Christ

On Sunday, I drove from the Central worship service to our second site at Kuomba, a congregation made of up refugees from the Congo. These faithful families are led in worship by Mama Riziki, and it is my privilege to share communion with them each month, arriving well into their almost-three-hour-long worship service. When I arrive each month, I am welcomed warmly and ushered up to the worship platform mid-service.

This week, a wonderful scene unfolded in front of me as a young woman preached her first sermon. I had to smile as the young child tugged on her mother’s skirt while she was preaching. Immersed in her message, the mother ignored the child and kept going, while the child, undeterred, kept following behind until being scooped up by someone else. 

 

Almost exactly the same thing had happened to me once when I was preaching, when one of my young children "helped" me during my sermon.  As the preacher continued her sermon in Swahili, happy memories filled my brain.

When it was my turn, I stood up to officiate communion. My blessings in English were translated into Swahili, yet as I pressed the bread into the hands of members of the congregation, no translation was needed. “The body of Christ, given for you” became real as I looked into the eyes of each person who came forward.  

After the sermon was more singing. We all sang a familiar gospel tune, with the verses alternating between Swahili and English. Those of us who knew only one of the languages sang along in the language we knew, while many shifted seamlessly between the two. 

 

In the handshaking line (a tradition that seems to transcend cultures), every person came up to me. Many of the children knew English well, often speaking without accent. The older members with whom I did not share a common language blessed me with their smiles and hand clasps. I walked out after that service, rejoicing how God’s grace works across cultural and language barriers.

 

In our long-term relationship with this church, Kuomba blesses Central with their choir in worship monthly. They allow us to be in ministry with people that we would never be able to know otherwise. We bless them with mentoring, tutoring their children in English skills, and some financial support. We care for each other and pray for each other. We are one body in Christ in ways that are so very real.

People ask me often about the future of the UMC, and I can’t help but think about Kuomba. Not once have they asked me about my views on sexual orientation, nor I theirs. It is a safe assumption that we are in very different places, especially with the Congolese cultural understandings from which they come. They know that Central is a Reconciling congregation and what that means. Yet we worship the same Christ. We pray for one another, support one another, sing with and for each other. There are other, subtler gifts that we give each other. When we at Central are tempted to see immigration as a faraway issue, they offer real lives that are impacted by political policy. When one of their children comes out as gay, the folks from Central will provide a safe place. Each one of our congregations are richer for being in relationship with one another.

None of us knows where the UMC will be a year from now. Many groups have provided thoughtful pathways for our future. However, I can’t help but think about last Sunday at Kuomba, and that preacher whose child was clinging to her skirts. When it all comes down to it, aren’t we all just doing our best to share God’s love through Christ as mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, and preachers?

Planting Bulbs

On Sunday afternoon after my post-worship nap, I did one of my favorite things. I sat in the sunny chill of an autumn afternoon and planted bulbs. 

First of all, I pulled up the new-spent salvia and vinca that had brightened our yard since May. As I shook the loose dirt from their roots back into the bed, I was amazed at how large the small bedding plants had become over the summer. I dug a trench in the now-empty bed, spread some bulb fertilizer, and gathered my bulbs. Being more interested in efficiency than horticultural snobbery, I had purchased my bulbs at Costco. Therefore, I had a lot of bulbs to plant.

I spread out the four different types of daffodils in my trench. I had intended to plant them with generous space between them, but the sheer number of bulbs I was working with meant that they were snugged up close to one another. No matter, plants have to be tough to survive in my yard. I covered them with soil, where they now sit and wait.

Over thirty years ago, I read E.B. White’s description of his wife planting bulbs one fall. They were both aware that she would likely not be around to see them bloom in the spring. As he watched her, he penned the words, “There she was, calmly plotting the resurrection.” 

Those words echoed in my head as I knelt in my yard planting on Sunday. I thought about the winter months ahead. The wooly worms have been almost entirely black, predicting a long and cold winter. The Farmer’s Almanac agrees. If you know anything about me, you know that winter is not my favorite time of year. (Understatement alert!) 

Planting bulbs means that I know that there is a cold winter standing between me and the springtime blooms. If it were up to me, I’d much rather skip winter entirely. Since it’s not up to me, I’ll plant my bulbs on an autumn day, plotting the resurrection that will surely emerge after the winter ahead.