Photography by D. Plasman
“My son is missing!” a mother announced in worship today. “I can’t find my son!” she lamented aloud during the sharing of congregational concerns. She shared his name. “He’s been missing for seventeen days.” Her son is 45.
A police report had been filed. Posters would be posted this week. This wasn’t the first time her adult son had gone missing. It happened before when he went off his meds.
As I walked back to the pew after receiving Communion, she told me she was hopeful — his uncashed check was on the kitchen counter; his car keys were still in the car. “Maybe he’ll come back on his own today, tomorrow . . . soon,” she said tearfully.
I don’t recall many Communion services. The liturgy, more often than not, is too wordy to suit me. Though it should be a celebration, sometimes it seems like an obstruction placed in front of the benediction.
But not this Communion. Before, during, and following the eating and drinking of the sacrament, people come up to her and offered their hope, their prayers, anything she needed.
We were what we were challenged and encouraged to be — in word and in deed, the body of Christ.