Grace, and.

I leave wherever I am for Vespers when I leave, and hope for the best.

That's how Molly noticed me for the first time, really, walking up the side aisle in my flourescent yellow riding vest, ten minutes late.

And that's how I got to serve Communion in Vespers for the first time.

I thought it was cool to serve Communion at Water's Edge for the first time. By the time I was old enough to really begin to understand Communion, I was in middle school, and my family had left the United Methodist Church to attend a Church of God (Anderson, IN), where it was served sporadically at best; I was an interested outsider at mass in the Catholic schools where I grew up. I guess lay ministers assisted at all those Methodist churches, and the "elders"--a loose term for the group of men who were the "pillars" of the congregation--at Northside served the elements along with our pastor, but I never had. At mass, my classmates were Eucharistic Ministers, but I have never been Catholic (much to the surprise of lots of my friends), and so was unqualified to serve the congregation.

So one Sunday when the greeter at Water's Edge said, "Would you like to help by serving Communion today," I said, "Really?" and tried to remember what it was that Molly and Karen said along the altar rail every Wednesday at Vespers.

And then, when it was time, I stood there in front of a table that generally bears the inscription "This do in remembrance of Me" (though I must confess that I've never really studied the altar table in the Cove), and told half the room that this was the Body of Christ, broken for them. And thought it was possibly the single coolest experience ever. And, later, told all the important people in my life that I'd gotten to serve Communion.

And, later, realized that Sacrament is one of four big, important ideas, not to mention that it's big and important in its own right.

Two weeks ago, Karen asked me to come in early and help her get the room ready for worship while Molly was away. This being after the whole "God's calling me to be a preacher" thing, she didn't even make fun of me for not hesitating to say yes. So last Sunday I showed up at 8:30 and learned some of the particulars of preparing the Cove for Water's Edge.

It was beautiful. And I goofed up a couple of things that realistically fell under the umbrella that I was supposed to be holding. Thanks be to God for humor and grace and awesome people.

But before Sunday happened, I realized that Karen was probably solo for Vespers. And so I left when I left, but when I left, hoping for the best, happened to be a little earlier than normal. When I walked into the sanctuary at 5:00 (the prelude starts at 5:15, and that's like the pregame), Karen was indeed solo, up in the chancel, and prepping the room for worship.

So I waved, and walked up the aisle, and sat where I normally sit, which, this night, was as far back as I could (but isn't usually), and began to prep myself for worship.

A few moments later, Karen appeared by my pew, teased me for sitting as far away from the front as the ropes would allow, and asked if I'd be willing to either a) read one of the Scripture readings, b) help serve Communion, or c) do both. I had to laugh (I think I managed to only laugh inside my head), and said, "I'll do both if you want me to."

Then she said, "You're going to have to move," and "You wanna go sit in the 'Karen' spot?"

And I had to laugh, and she walked me through the particulars, and left to be-robe herself. I gathered up my things, and moved to the front pew... Where Molly and Karen sit. I love to watch them walk up the side aisle, and I love to watch them take their places, because it means that it's time. On every other Wednesday, I've watched them, and then put my head down on the back of the pew in front of me like a seven-year-old in class, and prayed that God would be present during this half-hour.

This Wednesday there was no pew in front of me. There was Bob at the organ, and there was that magnificent hillside, and the olive tree with the perfect sunshine on its leaves, and the belltower, and there was me. Feeling inadequate. Knowing I was going to jack it all up. With no place to put my head down.

Karen walked herself up the side aisle and handed me the sheet of paper with my reading on it. The reading for which I was going to have to "wing" an introduction. Help me not to jack it all up, God. The reading on which Karen had written in the pronunciations of the hard words, assuring me that she had done it for herself, not me. Help me not to jack it all up, God. The reading after which I had to conclude, "Word of God, Word of Life", and remembered in time to pencil that in. Pronunciation I can handle. Ad lib from the lectern? Help me not to jack it all up, God.

At North Jacksonville United Methodist Church--or what used to be, since that congregation no longer exists--the pulpit is on the left and the lectern on the right as you face the chancel. It's reversed at FUMC San Diego. And at twelve, at North Jax, I, on the left side as you face the chancel, had to stand on a box to see out into the congregation. At 25, at First Church, on the left side as you face the chancel, I could barely see over the top of the lectern. I jacked this all up last time, God--help me now.

And so, flashing on my pre-adolescent preaching misfire, I read John's Gospel to the worshipers at Vespers. And I believe the Spirit of God was there.

But I could feel the sweat on my forehead by the time I made it back to the front pew.

Then, hooray for the continuing challenge of sight-reading/improvising the alto line. It was a joy to have a fine soprano voice next to me (though I believe that voice is meant to sing the alto part, whereas I'm just pretending) as I tried to hear the thirds and fourths and the occasional seconds below the melody. I kept forgetting to sing because it was fun just to listen. And in singing, as always, my nervousness retreated as I focused on worship. And the alto line.

Here comes the cool part.

So Karen's up there behind the altar table, leading us in the Great Thanksgiving, recalling Jesus' last meal, and I'm thinking, "Oh, Lord, I have no idea what I'm doing." I know when I'm supposed to go up, and I know how to serve the elements, but that is the altar rail up there, and I've never been on the other side. God, this is not about me; can You help me to remember it?

Every Wednesday I can, I kneel at that rail and am amazed by amazing grace. "God, you have to love me to feed me like this. Nothing else explains it." And I pray God that I remember what this bread means, and I think "Lord, I am [most emphatically] not worthy to receive You, but only say the word, and I shall be healed." And I wait there on my knees, and I take the Body of Christ with my often grease-stained hands, and I am stupefied by the magnitude of the wonder of it all. "Me, God? Really? Me? And Your Body and Blood? Really?"

I never, never, never saw myself on the other side of that rail. But there I was, knowing I was going to drop the juice I held, naming people by name and telling them to take and eat, take and drink, this is the Body and this is the Blood of Christ. "The Body and Blood of Christ, given in love for you."

Hey, wait a minute, guys, wasn't I going to be an architect last week? What on earth am I doing?

But there I was, naming people by name and telling them to take and eat, take and drink.

Talk about your shock and awe.

Then I knew that that was where, by the grace of God, I wanted to be for the rest of my life.

For Thine is the Kingdom,
And the Power,
And the Glory,
For ever and ever.

Amen.