Читать книгу The Bartender - Michael McNichols - Страница 7

It is grace, nothing but grace, that we are allowed to live in community with Christian brethren.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

By most Friday afternoons, Paul was ready for Sunday. His sermon had been prepared and practiced, the players were all in place, and the volunteers were ready. Saturdays were usually taken up with morning meetings with people who were not available during the week. Paul also made some attempt to join Sheila in getting the house in order. There were still lawns to mow, repairs to be made, and clutter to be eliminated. If Lindsay had a volleyball game—which seemed, during her senior year in high school, to be every weekend—then he would try to go. If Tyler needed to practice with his band or go somewhere with his friends from the youth group, then Paul usually volunteered to drive.

On Sunday mornings Paul rose at 5:30, made coffee, and talked through his sermon two or three times. When he arrived at church at 9:00, there was still an hour to go before the service began so he had time to make sure everything was in order.

Paul looked over the rows of chairs in the sanctuary. Their dark blue upholstered seats and backs satisfied the comfort needs of the members while the clips that held the chairs together in a line satisfied the demands of the fire department. He adjusted one of the rows, giving in to his private obsession that required the rows to be straight. Paul thought back to his old home church, constructed with old-fashioned pews that were forever fixed in the 90-year old building. As antiquated as that model of church seemed to him now, he still missed the sound of the creaking wood and the smell of the oil that was used to keep the depth of the wood grain alive. As a young person, those were the aromas and images of faith to him.

Even though Music City lacked any sense of antiquity, its converted warehouse chic had its own aura of tradition. Paul recalled the centrality of the pulpit and altar in the church of his youth, with the organ and piano placed tastefully to each side. That seemed to speak of the church’s value of the spoken word and the sacrament of communion, with the music of worship as the supports to the message of the pastor. In contrast, Music City’s stage was littered with musical instruments—three guitars, a drum set, a keyboard, and various percussion instruments—pointing to the central place that corporate worship held in the church. His pulpit, so different from the large, immobile, wooden edifice that his own pastor had used, was a simple music stand that often got lost in the clutter of the stage.

While the leased industrial space that made up the facilities of Music City lacked traditional trappings such as stained glass windows, there was no lack of artistic expression. The walls of the entry and main sanctuary were decorated with various commercial prints and even original works by members of the church. Paul glanced at one of his favorites: The Return of the Prodigal Son, by Rembrandt. The sense of acceptance and grace represented in that painting always gripped him. Below that print was a collection of drawings contributed by a group of fourth-graders, offering their own interpretations of that poignant story told by Jesus. Paul reached out to reattach the corner of one drawing that had separated from the wall. The texture of the construction paper felt as sacred to his touch as an ancient stained-glass window.

Paul loved how this simple warehouse facility—a building that could just as easily have been used by an office supply company or a widget manufacturer—had become a kind of sacred space in which people gathered on a regular basis to worship God and share in one another’s lives. It spoke to him of the way God transforms the mundane things of the world into the wonders of creation. Even though the building lacked the relics that suggested an ancient faith it still offered a sense of physical holiness that stirred him.

Paul’s sense of smell often triggered memories for him. Anytime he and Sheila would wander through an antique store the smell of the wood would remind him of his old church. His morning arrivals at Music City would usually lead him to the dominant fragrance of his new faith tradition: Coffee. Freshly ground coffee was almost a religious value for the people of his church. The people enjoyed the coffee and, for them, it also symbolized and even fostered relationship. For Paul, the smell of coffee would always be linked with friendship and personal connection. He wondered if the kids of his church would grow up making the same association. He hoped so.

Paul stepped up to his designated music stand to arrange the notes for his message—a message he spent ten to fifteen hours preparing. He looked out at the empty chairs and thought of the people who would soon fill them and hoped they would enjoy the very sensory experience of it all. Paul closed his eyes and imagined the sounds of people settling in their seats after worshipping in song, the smell of coffee from the cups that found their ways under the seats, and the sight of the people themselves, coming together intentionally as a faith community even when others were out pursuing interests that were probably much more entertaining. The experience never failed to give him an adrenalin rush.

With all of its weaknesses and quirks, Paul loved this church.