Shalene and Freddy

We came as visitors, in town for a pastors conference. We gathered at a true community center for Sunday morning church.

Her name was Shalene. Her hard ‘r’s’ and sweet tea accent made me think she’s native to this part of Georgia. She took the stage to lead the Praise and Worship part of the service. The name the church has given to songs played more on guitar than keys, where words are repeated and hands lifted.

I wondered if she was nervous. There were at least 50 uniformed visitors seated in front of her today, a good bit of us strangers I’d guess. But then we think the uniform makes us family and not strange, not in that sense of the word.

Her spirit of enthusiasm captured me as she led these two familiar songs wholeheartedly. I’m not sure how anyone could help but be compelled by her sincerity.

There was the usual stuff that makes up our style of church meeting: hymn songs, scripture verses read, the collection plates passed through the aisles.

Not so typical in some denominations is the brass band. This smallish town had put together a nice little band, a few of the visitors sitting in to fill out the sound.

On ‘Happy Song’ a woman a couple of rows in front of us trilled the tambourine she was holding. I recognized the experienced way she held it, only letting the heel of her hand, that part of the lower thumb just above the wrist touch the hide of the instrument. She played it in the right spots and kept in still in the others. A pro knows when and when not.

A friend/co-worker/pastor/officer gave the sermon. He’d been here before. This was once his town to pastor and be the face of The Salvation Army. He’s a tall, southern speaking man himself with a voice as deep as a barrel and heart as big with a softened patina. ‘He done good’, they’d say.

The screen flashed the name “Freddy” someone was going to give the benediction. The man I’d only seen from behind as he waved the conductor’s baton leading the band, shuffled to the podium. He had to be in his 70’s I decided and his gait not one of ease.

“We love you Lord”, he started the prayer, “And we’re just so thankful you love us too.”

We don’t get to this part of the south much and maybe that’s how these folks are made up here. Their hearts are open and their words spilling such warmth and love all over us.

I was taken in by Shalene and Freddy. Blessed by these two everyday folks not part of a ministerial team but whose lives are about serving with a joy that is worn as new garments, all clean and begging one to ask, “Where you’d get that?”, because you wanted to wear it too.

T

his is also The Salvation Army. Serving in places like Augusta, Georgia where every day folks take up the task of following Jesus and leading the way to joy.

Lent (not the fuzzy kind)

We had an Ash Wednesday service. First one I’d been part of in my 30-something years on earth. It was a small gathering of the usual crowd that would come out for a mid-week gathering. The faithful few. It was a novelty to most of us, having The Salvation Army as our root fellowship and no, Ash Wednesday is not part of our tradition.

 

Slips of paper were handed out for us to write something we wanted to confess or ask forgiveness. The offering plates held the folded slips of paper as a match was dropped and we watched our confessions consumed by fire.

And then it got funny. Another plate had been set on top to extinguish the flames. The pastor wanted to show us all that was left from our shame and guilt was ashes. The top plate was removed and the smoke began to billow out so fiercely doors had to be opened immediately before the smoke alarm and sprinklers would activate. Disaster averted. Hilarity ensued!

We’re not a church with Ash Wednesday experience and it will go unrecognized in most of our congregations. Some years Henry and I have incorporated it into worship and others we’ve approached it more as teaching. It is a practice. One rooted in the centuries old church but one with no biblical reference, instruction or practice. Hallmark isn’t the only one who can create a holiday.

I am not minimizing such a practice that can have deep spiritual significance for many. In my limited experience with the Lenten season, I know it’s about more than choosing a food to give up for 40 days. It’s about more than practice. When I think about Lent’s deep potential it scares me. It calls for exposure and letting go. It demands change. The mere act of giving up food is an insult  to what Lent requires.

On Rachel Held Evans blog she offers 40 Ideas for Lent and Margaret Feinberg poses the question, what if rather than giving up we add? We add 20 minutes of prayer to our day or memorize a challenging passage of scripture.

Another blog I saw had these three words for Lent: Give, Act, Pray

Most years I take the easy way. I talk about Lent. I explain its concept to the men in the ARC program and use the out clause provided me by my protestant roots. On this day of Fat Tuesday (I completely hate the representation of this day), the eve of Ash Wednesday, staring at these keys considering…..I cannot promise more. I will try to consider more deeply this season that should only point to the cross. The days of tension and turmoil that mounted in the life of Jesus. I will try to weep with him always knowing the ending: Rejoice. He lives!