On Sunday I took a break from my studies on St Augustine here in Oxford and made a day trip to London. I left out on a bus early in the morning because I wanted to go back to St Martin in the Fields and see Sam Wells who was dean of Duke Chapel while Irie and I were in Durham and is now priest at St Martin.
After getting off the bus at Victoria station, I made the walk past Buckingham Palace, down the Mall at St James Park and right into the hustle and bustle of Trafalgar Square. It was amazing to me at 9am on a Sunday how busy the city already was with cars, and trucks, buses and masses and masses of people all negotiating the traffic lights and making their way around the square. And on the hill overlooking the square, high above all the din of traffic crowds stood St Martin with its carillon of bells chiming the hour and summoning the people to worship and to sanctuary.
I made my way around the square, making sure to look right and then left for oncoming traffic and not left and then right as I would in America. Around me were scores of Chinese tourists, some wearing masks. A group of protesters were shouting slogans with placards saying "Black Lives Matter". A bagpiper dressed in a Scottish kilt was playing over the top of the protesters. I moved up the hill towards the church and could then see the homeless just beginning to stir from the shop alcoves they called home the night before. There was the feint smell of urine in the morning air. A beggar asked for spare coin.
I came to the the giant granite steps of St Martin where a dozen or so people were seated looking out over the square. Some were obviously homeless. Others were tourists. Perhaps some were waiting on the steps before entering the church to worship. All of there in the porch were street people.
I ascended the steps and was caught of guard, stunned even, by the centerpiece image I saw carved out of a rock standing in the middle of the church's covered porch. I was surprised at my reaction, as I had seen the image before on my first visit to St Martin's two weeks ago. But it is just so breathtakingly stunning and graphic even. A life-size newborn baby, with umbilical cord still intact, rising up out of the monument as if cradled in he rock. And beneath the child, words from the Prologue of John's Gospel stretching all the way around the sculpture: "In the beginning was the Word and the Word became flesh and dwelled among us."
I stood over the monument and looked out over the square and what I can see of the city beyond with all its busses and taxis and masses of people. "This," I thought to myself, "this is why he came --to be one with these people, the people of these streets. He took on flesh for the sake of their salvation, their redemption, our redemption."
I turned and walked inside and a friendly, African-looking woman handed me an order of service with a smile. "Welcome," she said graciously in her African accent. I sat down, trying to be as close to the end of a pew as possible without either sitting in the center aisle or on the wings where I might be staring at a column the whole service. I gave up on the hope of being on the end, and settled for scooting down right into the middle of the pew. I looked up and then noticed for the first time the diversity of the congregation inside this sanctuary.
There were more dark-skinned, African looking people -- mostly women wearing beautiful dashikis of every color. There were more homeless scattered across the pews, some who looked to be there as a part of the worshiping community and others who appeared perhaps to just be looking for a quiet place to rest. There were young and old, with an especially large number of pilgrim-like tourists carrying backpacks and looking to be somewhere in their late 20s. There was what appeared to be the older, regular community of typical Anglican worshipers who greeted and chatted with one another with familiarity. Then, most curious, in the front row, just left of the chancel was a woman dressed completely from head to toe in a bumblebee outfit. I tried not to stare, but wondered if it would be inappropriate to take a quick picture. I thought better of that, but then made a little joke to myself about what she might say if maybe I asked her later why she is dressed this way. "None of your beeswax," she says back. I smiled. All the people from the streets are now here as the organ prelude begins.
I looked down at my order of worship and Was disappointed to see that Dr Wells would not be preaching this day. "What is it about these Anglicans," I wondered to myself. "Their priests only seem to preach about half the time." I then began ruminating on the actual meaning of that, concluding that there's something important being said in that: That the sermon or the preacher isn't what it's all about. That something else is going on. Something perhaps deeper. Something beyond words.
Yet, it's words which then leveled me in the next moment -- words, not from a preacher or priest, but from one of the people who had come into the church from the streets sometime in the past few days. I was reading through the parish newsletter inserted in the order of service and there was an article from Dr. Wells. In it he writes about readying himself for morning prayer and thumbing through the prayer requests left by visitors on the board which are to be offered to God in the service. One is a prayer from someone homeless. Another is a prayer from someone who has lost their husband. But then Wells says his eyes fell on this prayer:
"For the baby I aborted: I love you despite never meeting you. I hope you're with me until I have the chance to explain why the timing wasn't right in person. Until then, I must let go. xxx"
The words overwhelmed me. Their pain, their sorrow, their lament, their truth. I sat with the words as the prelude ended and the service began with the first words of the opening hymn:
"Author of life divine . . ."
And then words of confession:
" . . . For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, who died for us, forgive us all that is past . . ."
Then absolution:
"The almighty and merciful Lord grant you pardon for all your sins."
The woman's words remained with me throughout the rest of the liturgy and singing. The sermon, which was from a newer priest, Rev Alistair McKay, was about the alienation he felt growing up and his struggles to believe in God in the face his own painful experiences of exclusion as a child. This sent him on a prodigal-like sojourn in the far country, which he described as an attempt to fill what he called a deep "hunger" he had for God. Then somewhere about halfway through the sermon Rev McKay quoted the words of Jesus from the day's Gospel lesson: "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will not be hungry."
The amen was said and the collection bag went round, but the words stayed with me -- those both of the woman in her prayer, and, most deeply, one single word from Jesus: "Whoever".
The preparation of the table began and as I prepared myself to receive communion I suddenly remembered something Augustine said in the "Confessions" that we talked about in class the week before. He asked the readers of his book that they might remember his mother Monica before the altar to take the sacrament. As the Eucharistic Prayer began I remembered Monica. Then I remembered the woman with the prayer. Then I begin to remember the names and faces of other women who have confided in me that they've had an abortion. I remembered them in that moment-- their pain, their sorrow, and their struggle to find peace. I held the images of their faces in my mind and remembered them also before God. And then I did what the woman in the prayer asked the church to do, I remembered the baby she aborted. I had no image to see in my mind for this baby and it troubled me; but then the image of the baby in the sculpture outside the church came to my mind. I could see him in my mind. He was there, like some kind of an icon -- an image of all babies, everywhere, rising up from lifeless rock into flesh with umbilical cord still attached -- forever attached.
I sat there in the pews and remembered all these before God -- Monica, the mothers, their babies, and all others I could think of who might want or need to be remembered. Then I fell to my knees with the rest of the congregation and together we prayed the Lord's Prayer:
" Father, who art in heaven . . . Give us this day our daily bread . . . Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us . . . For thine is the Kingdom . . . forever."
After the prayer Dr Wells stood before us and broke the Host saying, "The body of Christ broken for the life of the world." Then all responded, "Lord, unite us in this sign." Then we began to sing the Agnes Dei:
"Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: give us peace."
With that we rose from our knees and walked forward -- the African and homeless and the regular members and the tourists, and the one dressed like a bee, and everyone else, we came.
"Whoever" came. All the people off the streets came. And we brought "Whoever" with us. And we all came processing down the aisle to receive unto ourselves the Bread of Life.
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