“The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet, within our reach, is joy. Take joy.”
Take Thanksgiving Sunday, the 19th, nine days ago, at Follen Community Church in East Lexington.
The second service is at 11:30 and we’re there a little after 11, and the doors to the sanctuary are closed, and Eliz and I walk in anyway, and the high school choir is rehearsing. And we think we’ll be scolded by the ushers (as usual), and the music director says to the room when more people enter, come on in, and that was a sign, the first sign.
Take joy.
There are 25 or 30 high schoolers singing and a lot of boys and their voices are so beautiful, and it is almost Thanksgiving, and I am smiling to hear their voices, and the theme of worship this month has been Balance, and Claire has the game of Jenga in the front, with large blocks, and the conversations are noisy.
Take joy.
And worship begins and the youth choir is surrounding us in that octagonal room and they sing something joyous and then we sing not one but two Thanksgiving hymns, one right after the other, and then Claire introduces the Jenga blocks and three people come forward to remove a block from here and from there. And we are laughing and I am aware my mouth is in the default smile position.
Take joy.
And the youth are in different places in the sanctuary and we have tenor boys behind us and it is an experimental piece written by the music director’s husband, and he is there, too, and he is excited about it. It’s “Amazing Grace,” but like nothing I’ve heard before. The words and tones begin at different places in the room and fade in and out, and we fade in and out with the tenors, and it is all so beautiful.
Take joy.
And another anthem has energy and hand clapping and more and more Jenga blocks are removed and one of the tenors walks barefoot tightrope along one of the pew backs in the front and another man balances a stepladder on his chin, and we are all balancing spoons on our noses or chins.
Take joy.
And then the prayer includes all around our thanksgiving table, the aunts and uncles and all the human condition and outrages, and then Claire reads a poem called Buddha’s Dog which is so beautiful, and then in her brief sermon she quotes me (!), and then says let’s just stop here and thank someone, the one next to you or the usher or the choir or get out your cell phone and text someone thanks. And I hug Eliz and blow a kiss to Claire who returns the same air kiss, and the service is over.
Take joy.
And then we are going out and I hug Claire, even in these days, and she says wait, there is a young man here looking for you, and I tell him you never go to coffee hour so wait here, and it is a boy, now a man, from Concord, and I have such affection for him and his family, and I haven’t seen him since his brother was married in a ceremony I led, at Fruitlands, outside under a huppah, and the bride’s parents at the reception read from legal pads at the reception about how wonderful their daughter was, and the testimony lasted more than forty-five minutes, and we were giddy with disbelief and hunger.
Take joy.
And here is Andy, now a new tenure track professor at Boston University, and he tells me that when he was studying for his PhD in California, he listened to my sermons on our podcast every week, and he tells me what I mean to him. And my mouth is in a default smile position, and it isn’t even one o’clock yet.
Take joy. Take joy. Take joy.