When I first came to Harvard, the weekly
worship service was recognizably Protestant but flexible and welcoming. Over the years, our students have urged us toward
new ways of gathering.
Much of the snickering about boring sermons comes not
because we expect so little but because we have hoped for so much. A hunger persists for a word from the
Lord—without which we are left to our boring selves.
If reception of the new translation of the Roman missal is as generous as it should be, the
period of adjustment will be a chance to rediscover the shape of the
liturgy and the essentials of Christian belief and hope.
A dying parishioner of mine didn't care about the church budget or the
sexual orientation of the choir director. He just wanted help finding a
faith to carry him through a life that'd been full of interruptions.
For C.S. Lewis, Virgil prepared the way for all subsequent Christian epics by changing the subject from the adolescent theme
of heroism to the adult theme of vocation.
Eating at my city grandmother's table was a chore. I remember being dressed up, speaking in soft tones
if at all, and being terrified of spilling on that lace
tablecloth. But my country grandma served her meals in the kitchen.
Our service ended with a Eucharist, celebrated at an
imposing altar. I
learned to make my gestures big, to open my arms wide, to lift the cup
above my head. What I never quite got the hang of was the chanting.