For the past year, when I’ve been in town and not traveling for work, I’ve attended a historic downtown congregation not far from where I live. Over the course of that year, I’ve gotten to know members of the church — some by name — and some of them have gotten to know me by name, too.
But I’ve also gotten to know some of my neighbors who live on the streets between my home and the church. One of these neighbors is Charlie.
Charlie seems to have claimed his own space in three different locations along my walk. Almost daily, I can find him in one of these three spots: At one of two intersections or, when the weather requires it, beneath the awning of a closed-up shop.
Brian Henderson
Admittedly, when I don’t see him, I worry. I wonder where he is and whether he’s OK. Invariably, though, Charlie returns. Early on, I would simply greet him as I passed. Eventually, I decided to stop and try to engage him in conversation. It was brief. Charlie didn’t seem particularly interested in talking, but I did learn his name.
And something changed once I knew it.
As I would pass and say, “Hi, Charlie,” his eyes began to light up. His disposition would soften. Gradually, our exchanges became a little more verbal. Every so often, when I’ve had some extra cash, I’ve given Charlie what I could. He always has seemed genuinely appreciative, and over time I think I’ve witnessed a softer side of this weather-worn and weary neighbor.
Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring.
Snow, rain, heat, humidity.
Charlie almost always is there.
And so today, I went to church. I sat in my pew with my son, and when the moment came in the service to pass the peace, I looked across the aisle. There was Charlie. Sitting in the sanctuary. I was genuinely surprised.
He looked at me, smiled and lifted his hand, making the familiar two-fingered sign of peace.
It was a silent gesture, but somehow it said more than words might have.
Peace.
And as the service continued, I discovered something else that surprised me. Charlie seemed to know something of the church’s liturgy. He stood when others stood. He participated. He followed the order of service.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I think I experienced the divine in the passing of the peace today.”
The morning’s Lectionary readings included 1 Kings 19:8–18 and Matthew 14:22–33: Elijah encountering God not in the wind, earthquake or fire, but in what has traditionally been translated as the “still small voice” — and can also be rendered from the Hebrew as something like “the sound of sheer silence” — and Peter daring to step out of a boat and onto the water toward Jesus.
The preacher reflected on love and fear and concluded by reminding us powerfully that nothing can separate us from the love of God. As eloquently as he preached, however, my mind kept wandering.
I couldn’t shake the image of Charlie making that peace sign.
Elijah’s story reminds us that God does not always appear where, or how, we expect the divine to appear. Peter’s story asks us to consider what brave steps of faith might require us to leave the safety of our comfort zones.
And while listening to a sermon about these two texts, my mind kept returning to the image of Charlie raising his two fingers from across the aisle.
I think I experienced the divine in the passing of the peace today.
Maybe that silent gesture was my “sound of silence.”
Because if I’m looking for meaning and purpose, if I’m looking for a reason to step out of my boat — or simply out of my comfort zone — I don’t think I need to sit in a pew waiting for some extraordinary sign or wonder.
The signs and wonders are already around me. They’re around all of us.
Sometimes they are found in sanctuaries and sermons, Scripture readings and hymns. And sometimes they are found at intersections. Sometimes they take shelter from the rain beneath the awning of a closed-up shop. Sometimes they are weather-worn and weary.
Sometimes they have a name.
Today, I went to church and found Charlie there. But perhaps Charlie has been inviting me to church for the past year.
His church has no pews, no stained glass, no printed order of worship. It is found on sidewalks and street corners, beneath an awning down the street from where I live. It is there that Charlie has reminded me, perhaps without ever knowing it, to pay attention.
To see my neighbor. To learn a name. To care and to be cared for. To recognize the humanity we share. To listen for the mystery of the divine in the silence. And to receive the peace when it is offered.
Today I went to church. And perhaps that kind of church has been happening between us all along.
Brian Henderson serves as executive director of the Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists. He is a pastor ordained within the American Baptist Churches USA.