Liturgical Highs

I had written something about my new job. I had planned to look it over this afternoon and let you all know how I’m getting on in the big bad world of F2. I’ll do that later in the week.

Because in the pilot episode of Sports Night, which was the show that Aaron Sorkin wrote before he wrote The West Wing and which you should watch even if you think you don’t like sports, because this was the sports show that was never about sports, not really, Felicity Huffman’s character said, “I love doing Sports Night. I live from eleven to midnight, and the rush is so huge that I don’t come down until three o’clock in the morning.”

If you’ll forgive me overextending what’s already a pretty shaky metaphor, there are some weeks when church is like that for me.

The pews are all full and full of joy. There is Handel, blasting away any lurking hangovers or cobwebs that might have sneaked into the organs, and becoming aware that none of the three sacred ministers have been quite able to resist singing quietly along with the Messiah. There are people from Africa and from Scotland and from every place in between packed in around a font to be splashed with water. There is laughter. There is the Provost and his hat envy, but when he says that the angels, yes, even the angels are having a party, I believe him because it’s true. There is God and there are all these people whom I love.

It is an incredible thing. It is incredible to see, time and time again, grace and glory shining out from this huge diversity of people, this so great cloud of witnesses, who together are united as the Body of Christ.

There are Sundays when I cry. There are Sundays when I can’t keep from bouncing a little bit on my toes. Perhaps the extraordinary thing is that there are Sundays when I do both at the same time.

And the rush is so huge that I still haven’t come down.

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