in the veil of great surprises
Alongside the road; S. Central to be exact, sits a church.
The people there live by the light of their best window.
The window was a gift, actually; after members there had to rebuild after a fire destroyed the first building they purchased to worship in.
This window isn’t a Tiffany masterpiece, by any means. In fact, as far as church windows go, it’s pretty boilerplate, standard; Christ in the clouds, opening his hands in welcome.
But the folks there, alongside the road, they live in the light of this window.
The sanctuary, in fact, was designed to direct everyone’s sight to that stained-glass depiction of the resurrected Savior.
So the folks who worship there, week after week, live in the light of that window; their best one…
Some have been going there so long, the window has begun to blend in; and they can only remember the days when the window first struck them. Memories of wondering if those were clouds, or sheep under Christ’s feet. Others have only just started to worship at the congregation alongside the road, and for them the window is still fresh and beautiful.
Either way, though, everyone there lives by the light of that window; their best one.
Alongside that road, they’ve commended their deceased sisters and brothers to their Savior, under that window. They’ve baptized their grandchildren under the light of that window, too. They’ve gathered under the light of that window and passed the peace to an old friend, and that person they’d just as well avoid.
They’ve gathered when there was no light to come through the window; as well as on beautiful spring days when the sunlight made every piece of glass gleam, and bring that window to life yet again for everyone there, alongside the road.
They’ve gathered under the light of that window, on days when their minds wandered and the service was over before they knew it. They’ve gathered under that window, while they hung on every word trying to find something to hold their world together as their lives seemed to be falling apart.
Why they’ve even gathered under that window on those dreadful days when they weren’t sure they believed anymore…
They’ve gathered under the window and then invited everyone to share fellowship with one another after the service. They’ve gathered under that window and then invited grieving families to come and eat after they laid their beloved to rest. They’ve gathered under that window and sent the young bride and groom off to their new life together, blessed. They’ve gathered under that window, and sent their young people off to college, to new jobs, to cities, away…
They’ve gathered under that window again after staying away because of some spat or another. In fact, one member once returned on Good Friday, and although the member might not have noticed the theology of it all; it wasn’t lost on their pastor.
They’ve gathered under this window and bragged, sure; but they’ve also found themselves under the light of that window on a cloudy, chilly Wednesday in Lent to say they needed to be forgiven, too. They’ve gathered under the light of that window and heard “where you there,” as they cried gently, and they’ve gathered under that window to sing “Christ has Arisen, Alleluia,” full-lunged and full of hope on Easter Sunday, dressed to the nines.
They’ve come there, not knowing it would be the last time they looked upon that old window. They’ve struggled to fulfill the wish of a beloved family member, and get them under the light of that window one last time.
They’ve even carried their beloved, but now deceased family member, under that window one last time, before their body was committed to its resting place.
These are the ties that bind.
In all those moments that make up a life, the folks there, alongside the road, gather under the light of that window; their best one.
Under that window they’ve sang hymns of every sort, told jokes and tried not to laugh too loud, they’ve said hello and goodbye under that window; but most of all they’ve cried out, “Mercy, have mercy on me,” under the light of that window.
The folks who gather by the light of that best window, aren’t unlike the rest of us. They have their moments, moments of pride; and moments of petty squabbling. They’ve gathered there in their youth, full of strength; and in their twilight, when it was no longer easy even to rise for the hymn. They’ve gathered there when everything was coming up aces, and they’ve gathered there when the old adage proved true, “when it rains it pours.”
In all those moments, though, with everything they said, and everything they didn’t; what was always being said, in one way or another, was “mercy, have mercy on me.”
The folks there, at that church alongside the road, have each come to know, one way or another, that in the end, all you ever cry to that savior their best window depicts is “mercy, have mercy on me.”
When a fussy but healthy baby is baptized; all you really say, is “mercy.” “Have mercy, O Lord; upon this child. This world isn’t too kind and this child will need your mercy.” And of course that is what is said during a funeral, too. But come to think of it, “have mercy” is even what is said at a wedding. What else could be said when the church christens two young people to start a life together than “mercy,” either?
Those days when they gathered there, while their life seemed to be breaking apart under the pressure of everything, of course they cried out for mercy; but even on those days when they came, thinking of nothing other than their to-do list; the cry, deep down, always was for mercy, too.
You might not guess it at first glance, but that beautiful window, the Savior up there in the clouds; it doesn't mean anything other than a God who comes to the people who cry out for mercy.
Apparently the window is called “the Welcoming Christ window,” from that verse in the Gospel of Matthew when Jesus says “Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will grant you rest.” In other words, all who cry out for mercy, cry to him, the one their best window portrays. It’s a comforting thought, really; that the one who rises from the dead isn’t angry, but rather full of mercy…
And so, the folks there, gather week after week; and in their own way; cry out for mercy, as they live there, along the road, S. Central, by the light of their best window…
Sometimes the mercy has been obvious; the prayer of their lips seemed to be answered the moment it was prayed. Other times the mercy was strange; the mercy came, but not as they expected. And honestly, sometimes it seemed that mercy didn’t come at all, the prayer went unanswered.
One way or another; whether it was by telling the folks who prayed for them thank you, or whether it was by rolling the casket out of the church for the last time; mercy has always come, as they lived under the light of that window, their best one.
There, alongside the road, they’ve come; and by the light of their best window, they’ve walked that old route again and again; The Way of their savior, The Way of Mercy.
Week after week, in the good and the bad, the folks there have come and cried out for mercy there along side the road, under the light of their best window - it’s the light they see everything by, the light they live by.
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