God, as we gather, once again, outside the sanctuary, the wind is blowing colder and we are gathering what seem to be feeble surveys to figure out what to do.
We miss you God, we miss the radiance of a full flung organ, piping praises to the heavens
We miss the quiet stillness of the sanctuary just before worship, we miss the table & the font, means of your love passed down to us in full view of the sanctuary
But you remind David, as he wonders whether or not to build God a beautiful cedar house, that you are present in your people
And you remind me God, that when I miss you, I am really missing your community
For Jesus has made us the amazing promise that we can demand a miracle; that whenever two or three people gather in the name of Jesus, God will be particularly prsent
I miss you God, because I miss your people
I miss seeing how your grace weaves together us fumbling, silly community; I miss how you make worship in the sanctuary so beautiful in spite of, or perhaps because of, our imperfections
So when I miss gathering “like usual” God remind me of all the ways I have seen church: in Prayer over Zoom, in waves and window conversations in the parking lot, in the daily ministry of cards and phone calls.
Turns out you were here all along, as usual, remind me again and again I pray.