BEN : I remember a preaching professor. . . .

I remember a preaching professor telling us one day as we plowed through the development of liturgy through church history that all churches have and possess a liturgy. Even if they don't think they do. The unfortunate reality, he explained, is that some practice a very bad liturgy.
     Liturgy is linguistically related to the words ritual and pattern. And every church has a pattern it follows — a way of doing things that is comfortable and fits the community in which it is practiced.
      I share the same group of people your Dad did. Those who start Worship with announcements and end with every available stanza of "Just As I Am." These same people observed what they called the Lord's Supper infrequently at best. And when it was time, a lengthy explanation stripping this sacrament of any mystery contributed to an arm's length approach to anything that might seem too "Catholic."
      I always thought it was strange that so much pomp and circumstance surrounded something that they were convinced only had a memorial-type significance. These people administered the Lord's Supper with a sense of holy reverence yet were sure it was completely void of any spiritual power. It was a time when the pastor and deacons dressed in their best suits, and we had to be very, very quiet. 
      And clear instructions were given as to who could participate and who couldn't. I remember the first time I was able to join my parents and everyone else sitting on the pew in taking a plastic cup of grape juice and what seemed to me at the time an usually small unsalted cracker. I felt as though I had made it "in." I was special and part of something bigger than myself. Yet it would be many years before I would plunge into the depths of this event and begin to see it as an opportunity to love, serve and receive.
      I remember the day I was called to the Cathedral that sat down the street from where I worked downtown. I use the word called carefully and in every part of its meaning in the spiritual sense. There was something in me that led me to this place on Ash Wednesday. I couldn't ignore this feeling and even remember waking that morning with a sense that I must go. A holy push if you will.
      I had never celebrated Ash Wednesday before. That would have definitely fallen into that "Catholic" category. And Catholics were bad; worse they were sinners in need of a Savior. At least that's what my peers believed. Of course I always struggled with this because I knew that the Catholic tradition historically preceded my own. So in a way, just as all Christian share in the tradition of the Hebrew people so all Christians share in the tradition of the Catholics. 
      When I entered the building, a holy rush came over me. I knew that the presence of God was there. And I was aware of my sin and reminded of the sacrifice of God. As I knelt and stood and recited--all out of step with everyone else — I felt as if I was on a journey. One that would lead me down a path that every Christian had followed before me. And I became keenly aware of the concept often said in Christian circles: the communion of the saints.
      As the priest placed the ashes on my forehead in the sign of the cross, as I knelt to receive the wine and the bread, the presence of Christ became real for me. And the cold, barren place my heart and spirituality had become was softened and given a new sense of longing to know my God and practice the things that had been characteristic of Christians from the beginning.
      It made no difference that I didn't know the people around me except for the two people I had asked to go with me. I didn't need to know their names, their jobs, their addresses or even their favorite investments. For the first time I felt a common bond between everyone there. One that only comes from walking the same paths that countless others had before us. And suddenly I saw a transition take place in my faith--from the Jesus and Me tradition of my past to the Jesus found in the people of faith and their practice. From me and I to us and we.
      I was relieved to say the least because I had found something that hadn't been influenced by musical preference or personality. And I was thirsty for so much more. I wanted nothing more to do with the tradition that I had been born into. I was no longer one of them. I had felt this for some time but now I was convinced.
      A very wise person once told me that no one can ever escape the faith tradition that they were given. I really wanted him to be wrong. Because I no longer found value in the tradition and practice of my past. I wanted the liturgy and process of another way.
      Whether or not he was right remains to be seen. What I do know is that who we are is a compilation of all that we have experienced. And to try to void any prior history removes my ability to hear God calling me to another way of living and practicing my faith. 
      I still don't want him to be right even if he is. Nonetheless, I feel I've been given a gift. To find this other way early in life. And have the opportunity to be molded and shaped through its practice. 
      Your father found joy in the depths and mystery of Christ. So do I. Even though we will never meet in this world, I know that he and the other saints are surrounding me as I live in pursuit of my God. This is the vision the ancients had as they crafted these vehicles to ensure that each generation would continue to see beyond the obvious and into eternity.