On Sunday, January 27th, I was at St. Matthew’s, Fairbanks,
the church I attended from age six until I graduated from high school and left
Alaska. It was Annual Meeting time, just
like at St. Mark’s. The St. Matthew’s
folks held theirs in the middle of the church service. They stopped after the Ministry of the Word,
had a lively meeting, took a break so everyone could go to the bathroom and
start their cars (it was -50 below), and then continued with the Eucharist. My mother and I were recognized during the
Peace and received little bags of candy attached to information about St.
Matthew’s with a tear-off sheet that we could’ve filled in (we’re still on the
mailing list, however, after 24 years). I won a can of Spam for travelling from
the farthest distance (that competition is not as stiff in January as it is in
June).
St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, Fairbanks, Alaska
I loved being back at St. Matthew’s because church seemed
magical again. I didn’t have to do
any of it, just like when I was a child.
All I had to do was show up, sit there, and take it all in. I was able to be present in a way that is
harder when I’m at home in my regular life.
When Stew and I moved to Waterville in 2000, church became more real, less
magical, I thought. I thought that being
one of the “grown ups” in church meant that I had to help make things happen,
and I wasn’t sure how to do that. I
didn’t feel obligated necessarily, but I had a sense that I couldn’t just show
up anymore, not because other people would expect more from me, but because I did.
I suspected that, as deeply fulfilling as my childhood church
experiences had been, there was more. Church
was good because the grown-ups had made it so, and making it so has its own
magic. It’s about being part of the
knowing that helps people understand that they are known. It reminds us, in our darker moments, that we
are, too, and have always been. That’s the
kind of magic that is real. We go to
church, we make church happen, to be physical, tangible reminders for each
other that God has always known who we are.
At St. Matthew’s there were familiar faces, faces of people
who were the age I am now when I left; softer, aged faces of people who had
probably already retired back then; and there were the unseen faces of angels. I
was known; it was good to be Home. But
there were many more new faces than old.
It wasn’t exactly the same, and
that’s why St. Matthew’s is still there, still vibrant. In twenty-four or so years, if Maggie and
Sally come back to St. Mark’s after a long absence, I hope they will be
welcomed by old faces and inspired by new ones.
I hope they’ll have happy memories of being at church with their
friends, of being loved by grown-ups other than their parents, so that they
will understand that they have always been known and will want to help with the
knowing.
“…Now I know only in
part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12.
