Brothers and Sisters in Christ,
I want to invite you into a memory. It is not particularly spectacular. It isn’t a memory of a heroic conquest. It is not a memory that would be played on the big screen. It isn’t a memory that people would come far and wide to be told. It is a memory of… well it is a memory of the normal, the daily grind, the day in and day out of a life of purpose. It is a memory of a house that is well maintained by people who care. Who pick up the phone and dedicate time to fix a toilet or move a piano. It is a memory of a friendly conversation, a discussion across a desk about the pronunciation of a minor prophet.
This memory has vivid moments, emotional moments, moments of deep pain as a once full pew sits empty, as a body exits the sanctuary for… well for the last time. But it’s not just pain. There are vivid moments of joy, as a child is born and food floods a house for months, delivered with love by people who care, people who just want to give because they love their neighbor. And then the baby is born again, welcomed from Satan’s kingdom, the kingdom of the damned, into God’s kingdom by a simple action, just some water and a few words spoken by a sinful man but carrying the weight of God’s own promise. And man, this memory has its vivid moments of sheer laughter. Eye rolls and grunts of amused agony as another punny comment is made. A grin from ear to ear waiting for the satisfaction of a joke that lands. Laughing to the point of tears as a simple comment mixed with the right moment becomes a bookmark that elicits laughter every time it is stated… and restated… and stated again.
It isn’t all vivid though, some of this memory sits in the fog. Hours on the road, hours in study, beautiful conversations that serve their purpose and fade to the recesses of the mind, never again to be articulable but leaving their own implicit impact. Impromptu sermons that… sometimes… go a bit longer than they should, and the laughs that follow. Meetings and studies and sermons and services, all so deep yet so common place they overlap like paper-mâché forming a greater image but, themselves, losing their own individual properties.
Yes, I’d like to tell you about this memory, this memory of the church being the church. Of you, God’s people, living your life to serve Him, to love your neighbor, to train a [future] pastor and treat his family like your own. To walk alongside and support someone you didn’t know but chose to love because you want nothing more than to reflect the love you have been shown by Christ. This memory, this wonderful beautiful profoundly simple memory is one I will carry with me for the rest of my life. So thank you, for sharing the love of Christ with me and my family. May He continue to bless you and yours from now into all eternity.
In Christ, Vicar Tyler Simmons