This morning I was innocently in chapel

…and it made sense to me.

The readings always go straight through my brain; I forget them immediately after they’re done. It wasn’t the sermon—I was playing with the preacher’s toddler son, and missed much of her weaving of Bonhoeffer with the whole idea of being pregnant with the reign of God. But neither was it the hymnody alone. The presider sings well, and I respect and love her as a teacher—but she didn’t do anything in particular that arrested me. Still, somewhere in the Eucharistic prayer, I looked up and I realized that I was in a deeper place with Jesus than I’d been, really ever.

I didn’t label the presence as “God”—it was specifically a Christ-thing. Not even so much about resurrection, but a patience, an empathy with all of our humanness. I’m pasting too many words to the experience, now—it was just a deep, quiet sweetness, a soft rejoicing, a gift that didn’t need explanation.

Yet here I am, trying. Jesus came to church, in my seminary chapel in the middle of the week. Who knew?

Bless the Lord, my soul,
And bless God's holy name
Bless the Lord, my soul,
Who leads me into life.

Alleluia, Christ is risen.