Our church had its first service in five months today. One service has split to two, members are spread out across the room, and many more are still only gathering online. Only communion bread is taken, and the Illinois breeze pours through the open windows in place of air conditioning.
Many of these changes have caused me to grieve. The waves of suffering have felt almost unbearable. Jesus’ church is embodied—separation is not how it’s supposed to be. Virtual meetings, sickness, and death are not how it’s supposed to be.
But today, through my laptop screen, I watched church members quietly recite the Nicene Creed from under their masks.
We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church.
We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
We look for the resurrection of the dead,
and the life of the world to come. Amen.
Today, as I watched these words softly spoken by us all—me in my bedroom, some from their own homes, and others in the sanctuary—I saw a hope that cannot die. A small flame of hope that nothing can put out. I saw the church that Jesus is sustaining, and the gates of hell will not overcome it.
That’s because these words remain true even when they are whispered: one Lord, one faith, one baptism. In some ways absent in body, but present by the uniting power of the Spirit. With our eyes we see a scattered church, but by the Spirit we are woven together.
This is our hope behind a screen and face to face, in sickness and in health, in grief and in thankfulness. It’s a hope that cannot die.
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