glory

 

Church was glorious this morning. Not slick—we don’t do slick—but real, and, glorious.

At Communion, in this Eastertide, we are using Eucharistic Prayer G, which includes the following words:

‘How wonderful the works of your hands,

O Lord.

As a mother tenderly gathers her children,

you embraced a people as your own.

When they turned away and rebelled

your love remained steadfast.’

It was precisely as I was saying these words that the youngest member of the congregation today, held in her mother’s arms, decided that she had a lot to say, and say with conviction. Glorious. I almost lost it in giggles at the perfect timing of this illustration, of what it means to say these words about God. Of who we are:

children in arms, sometimes wrestling against the love and security we need;

needing—and free—to express ourselves;

loved.

Glorious.

This is Church. The life of faith, from birth to death, embodied, enacted, given voice.

After that service we had a time of baptism preparation with two families, for a girl born in lockdown and the little sister of a big brother who had been born in lockdown. We role-played our way through baptism, its significance, and the connections between the symbols of oil, water, and a little candle, and everyday life.

This, too, was glorious.

And now, the sun is shining, and I am on annual leave.

Glorious.