I missed church yesterday, and that is NEVER EVER a good thing for me. My mom’s in the hospital and I was back at the ol’ hometown to kinda keep an eye on stuff for her, and bring her chai.
I hate it when I miss church. It makes me spiritually ouchy, and then when I come back to work and the everyday life, it’s like trying to drive a car on the rims. Sparks have been flying all day long.
I really expected myself to get tired of the liturgy, tired of the SAME service every Sunday and occasionally during the week. But I have found the opposite to be true. Each line of the service is so theologically rich, from the Creed, to the pre-communion prayers, to the hymns for the day’s saint and the Mother of my God, and to the veneration of the Precious and Life-giving Cross as I leave. It connects me and grounds me in a way I cannot begin to explain. But I’m going to try anyway.
The service feels like a rushing river — the prayers, the litanies, the readings, the entrances. It moves along, gathering me up and carrying me in a rush of words and incense. I chant with fervor as I pray the Lord’s Prayer–asking for forgiveness and His provision. I bow, I cross myself, and I kneel–each action connecting me physically to my faith. And there are parts of the service where we know we join with the angels, singing with the Cherubim and the Seraphim–Holy God! Holy Mighty! Holy Immortal! It is my spiritual home. It is the wings to my soul. It is the cry of my heart.
This is my church.