From the Altar to the World

A Reflection on the Lived Faith of Worship and Service

One of the most misunderstood moments in all of Scripture comes just before Jesus enters Holy Week.

In John's Gospel, Mary kneels at Jesus' feet with a pound of costly perfume. She pours it over his feet and wipes them with her hair, filling the whole house with its fragrance. Judas objects immediately. "Why wasn't this perfume sold and the money given to the poor?" It sounds pious enough, though John quickly reminds us that Judas wasn't interested in the poor at all.

Jesus answers with words that have been quoted—and sadly misquoted—for centuries: "You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." (John 12:8)

Those words have sometimes been used to justify indifference to suffering, as though Jesus were saying that serving our neighbors somehow matters less.

He is saying precisely the opposite. Jesus is teaching his disciples something about the order of the Christian life:

First, sit with me.

First, worship.

First, receive.

First, learn who I am and who you are because of me.

There will always be hungry people to feed. There will always be lonely people to visit, justice to pursue, wounds to heal, and hope to proclaim. The work of God's Kingdom is never finished.

But if we rush past Jesus to get to the work, we eventually discover we have nothing left to give.

We first come to Christ.

Only then do we go into the world.

As I reflected on this past Sunday, I realized that this is exactly what I witnessed at Christ Church. I'm not sure I've ever been more impressed with our parish than I was this weekend!

I don't say that because Sunday marked ten years of serving as your rector, though your kindness has left me deeply humbled. I have found myself reading and rereading your cards throughout the week. Thank you for celebrating our shared ministry together.

I don't even say it because worship itself was so beautiful. We sang with joy. We prayed with reverence. We gathered around the Lord's Table to receive once again the gifts of God for the people of God. (Though I also discovered—somewhere around the beginning of the Eucharistic Prayer—that I appear to be rather allergic to eucalyptus. By the Great AMEN my sinuses had completely surrendered, my eyes were watering uncontrollably, and I was praying with unusual intensity that the Eucharistic Prayer would eventually end!)

Nor is it simply because I continue to be overwhelmed by the privilege of sharing your lives. After ten years, I have walked with many of you through baptisms and burials, weddings and funerals, moments of profound joy and unimaginable sorrow. It remains one of the greatest privileges of my life.

Nope!

What impressed me most happened Sunday evening—because of Sunday morning.

The abundance of the morning became the abundance of the evening!

Everything that had happened around the altar—the prayers, the hymns, the laughter, the celebration, the gratitude, the sacramental life we share together—overflowed into our meal at The Cobb Men’s Extension.

Sunday evening wasn't separate from Sunday morning.

It was Sunday morning continuing….

People brought the gifts God had given them. Some grilled. Some baked. Some prepared dishes. Some filled the room with music. Some quietly washed up and arranged the hospitable environment. Some welcomed guests. Some simply sat beside the men we had come to serve, shared a meal, listened to stories, laughed together, and reminded another human being that they were seen, valued, and loved.

No gift was too small.

No ministry was more important than another.

Everyone simply offered what they had.

And somehow, by God's grace, it became more than enough.

Standing there, taking picture after picture on my phone, I found myself thinking that this is what Jesus meant all along.

This is what happens when the Church gets the order right.

We don't manufacture compassion.

We don't create generosity by sheer determination.

We don't invent hope.

We receive all of those things from Christ.

We gather around Word and Sacrament. We hear the Scriptures. We confess our sins. We sing our praises. We receive the Body and Blood of our Lord. We remember whose we are.

Then we leave.

And somehow the abundance we have received becomes abundance for someone else.

People sometimes ask me—especially around the Diocese—what Christ Church is doing differently. They want to know the leadership strategy or the secret that has made this parish so vibrant.

I always feel like my answer disappoints them.

Because my answer is simply: Jesus.

Not as a slogan.

Not as the obvious "church answer."

I mean… Jesus.

He told us exactly how to build his Church:

First, come to me. Then, go.

First, gather around the altar. Then, go into the world.

First, receive grace. Then, become a means of grace for someone else.

If there is anything distinctive about Christ Church, I hope it is simply this: we have learned that mission does not begin when the dismissal is given.

Mission begins when we kneel and pray together.

Everything else is simply the abundance of God's love spilling over into the lives of others.

After ten years together, I have never been more convinced that this is how Christ builds his Church.

We gather. We worship. We receive.

And then, with joyful hearts, we go into the world and discover that the more we give away what Christ has given us, the more there seems to be.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben