Ever click through old pictures and experience both, horror and a sense of joy? The thoughts range from, “Oh that’s right, I used to think that was cool” to “I remember that day, one of my favorites” to “I wish I could go back and …”
I write that not after watching a nostalgic movie (like Top Gun) nor after listening to something like Guns & Rose’s “November Rain” (has there ever been a Lenten reflection to mention G&R?) but after being at our Ash Wednesday service. A boy, probably about 12 said he was taking communion for the first time as that day, he decided to become a Christian. I was genuinely excited for him and escorted him to the front and shared this with the elder serving communion who graciously instructed him how to partake before saying, “This is the Body of Christ, broken for you …”
I remember the first time I took communion. My mom slapped my hand as I grabbed a handful of crackers from the plate (I was 6 and in my defense I thought it was the adult version of snack time. I never did it again, because it turned out the crackers weren’t Ritz but rather very bland. It was a bad introduction to such an important sacrament). I find myself jealous of that 12 year old. I looked for him after the service but couldn’t find him, I hope our paths cross again soon. My hope is that this is the beginning of a beautiful journey for him and I hope he grows in the Lord at our church.
A few moments later, this gentlemen, probably in his 80’s, walked up to receive the bread and the cup. I wondered what it would be like to live that long. Does he remember what it was like to be twelve? It’s a fair question, I barely remember it. More importantly, I wondered what this sacrament, this service, this Lent meant to him.
I’m hosting a “reading circle” every other week after our GC@Nite service in our church’s cafe. (It’s sorta like a book club but it’s not lame, so we’re calling it a reading circle, see? We’re meeting this week at 7:30p, would love to have you). Anyway, we’re reading Don Miller’s book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years and it opens with Don saying that he barely remembers anything about his childhood. Now from what I know of Don, he probably exaggerates worse than any pastor that is not a televangelist, but many of us could relate to what his disjointed and awkward memories of the “good old days.”
One of the odd things I remember was being afraid to speak in class. I think I was in Junior High. These days are different. I think it’s safe to say that I have overcome the fear of public speaking; I simply have the fear of saying something stupid in front of many people or the fear of rambling on and on about nothing in particular and losing my my point and babbling on senselessly, careless using letters, words and my spacebar til I realize what’s going …
Some things change since we were twelve, some things don’t. And I know not everyone has a “happy childhood” but I consider myself among the fortunate, maybe you do too. But if you don’t, I suspect you’ll understand my point even more. One of things that we try to forget is the suffering found on our journey. I am not advising that we pick off every scab in our hearts and recklessly dive in to painful experiences. But I think there’s something to be gained on reflecting on the moments of life we’ve tried to gloss over and maybe even repress. We may discover that a professional counselor is needed, we may uncover a series of reoccurring themes, we may need to seek forgiveness for the suffering we’ve caused, we may discover that the moments we hurt most were the moments we were looking for God and this time of Lent could be life-changing.
This Lent, I’m praying that I remember things I forgotten along the journey. Indeed these are dangerous prayers, but they’re worthwhile. May the blessing found here change the road ahead for the better. This Lent, may we learn from our sufferings, from the sufferings of others, from the sufferings of Christ and may we become stronger sojourners from it. As for me, should God let me live until our 80’s, I hope to walk up to take communion in an Ash Wednesday service and it mean something. I wish the same for you.
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