LITMIR.BIZ

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to work, I could hear the music in my head. I could envision her pajama-bottomed behind swaying in time with the down beat.

      I have always resisted the metaphor of ordination as marriage to the church. Perhaps the Bard was correct: he doth protest too much. I had no intentions of any ministry when I met Bonnie. I had no idea of much of anything—except that she fascinated me. That much has not changed over the years. As my waistline has expanded and my hairline receded, I have felt a tug toward writing an account of my life here at this desk before this open window. Tonight, the fireflies flicker their love songs above the stalks of corn. What light might I share?

      The good people of Talmage Moravian Church were aware of the significance of this day in my life. Many smiled and offered congratulations as we mingled in the sanctuary before the start of the service. There have been receptions after worship, which I always found a bit embarrassing. I suppose I am an unusual pulpiteer in this regard, but I have never cared for the spotlight. Now that Bonnie takes this Sunday off from church and our sons have left home, I am grateful for the lack of personal attention in more ways than one. It affords the opportunity to remind these Moravians of a much older anniversary.

      The thirteenth of August marks one of the two chief festival days unique to our denomination. We share high holy days, like Easter and Pentecost, with the rest of the Christian world. But we also recall the story of refugees, fleeing religious persecution, who were invited to settle on the estate of Count Nikolaus Ludwig von Zinzendorf. My boys have referred to him as the Z-man since they were in middle school. A sign of disrespect? I confess I rather like that nickname, perhaps because I started attending church when I was a teenager.

      Born into a wealthy noble family, the Z-man was by all accounts a precocious child and the legends surrounding his youth are numerous and dramatic, if not apocryphal. My favorite is that he allegedly wrote detailed love letters to Christ at the age of six, for my sons used to scribble letters to Jesus on the back of their Sunday morning bulletins when they were about that age. I have kept a few. Philip once scrawled his self-portrait alongside a tall, bearded man whom he labeled as My Bestest Pal. In slightly smaller font underneath, he included the subscript Not my brother. Let the record show.

      As for that older brother, Nathaniel had a habit of writing to Jesus with his Christmas wish list—an understandable mistake in this consumer crazy culture. But he pledged in ink that, if Jesus would give him a hundred dollars, he would then tithe to the poor. The boy drew up a rudimentary contract and left the signed document in the offering plate.

      In the early decades of the eighteenth century, Moravian refugees were granted land on the Zinzendorf Estate in which to establish a town they christened Herrnhut, which means The Lord’s Watch. This name asserts unity and common purpose. Only five years later, the community threatened to divide. A carpenter by the name Christian David turned fiery preacher and built unrest with his end-of-times predictions. I am reminded of the so-called prophets predicting doom over something known as Y2K. If the sad history of religious power struggles within the church and surrounding culture teaches us anything, it is to be wary of those calling themselves “Christian” and acting completely otherwise.

      By contrast, we would do well to learn from the Z-man’s example. He had already retired from civic duties in order to immerse himself in Bible study and theology. He then devoted his time toward healing the fractured community, traveling to each family’s home to pray together and stress the love of Christ for all. As the fruit of such tireless efforts, the whole community gathered on the thirteenth of August in the year of Our Lord 1727 for a special Wednesday service of Holy Communion. According to several eye witness accounts, the Holy Spirit fell upon all those in attendance.

      Known by historians as the Moravian Pentecost, the title sounds a little pompous to me. I think of Mother Mary and how she was “overshadowed” by the Spirit like a cloud passing over the land. The most mystical revelations are described by quite ordinary words. Grand titles are bestowed only later. The Z-man wrote of the experience as a sense of the nearness of Christ and added: We had hardly known whether we’d been on earth or in heaven.

      Bonnie thinks that last statement is rather erotic. I failed to mention this from the pulpit this morning.

      Every congregation in our denomination tells the story of the thirteenth of August and celebrates Communion on the Sunday closest to the date. As part of this remembrance, we hear the Scripture about the bread that was broken and the cup that was poured. Grafted onto the vine of Israel and the Church Universal, we proclaim God’s gracious redemption with thanksgiving, recalling love meals where no one should ever be forgotten. More Christians should believe that we are what we eat. Body and spirit are as inseparable in a breathing soul as the ingredients in a loaf of baked bread or crepes Suzette. This is white magic, as Bonnie used to say to our boys.

      I have stood at the Lord’s Table here at Talmage Moravian Church for nineteen years now. Though I am a short man whose glasses only adequately compensate for severe near-sightedness, I still have the best views.

      Earlier today, in the year of Our Lord 2000, I invited all baptized adults and confirmed members to partake together. Like most congregations, we ask seekers to participate in a period of religious education before receiving the sacrament so that the meaning of the ritual is deepened. Typically, youth begin confirmation class at twelve years, going on thirteen. But who are we to prevent someone from receiving the gifts of God? I happened to see a toddler named Jacob remove the lollipop from his mouth with one hand and nibble an unleavened wafer in the other, before returning the rest to his grandmother with sticky fingers and bright eyes. Behind them, an elderly couple chewed together. I knew that even Ralph Jibsen’s jaws had been weakened from the cancer treatments. Sharing bread of the same body, I prayed silently for them as Ralph eased an emaciated arm across the healthy shoulders of his beloved of forty years.

      My gaze wandered to a youth sitting directly above their heads in the balcony, a twelve-year-old boy who is the only student in this year’s confirmation class. Charlie was holding the hand of a girl about his age. Even as I write this memory, I am smiling at their innocence. I have never seen her before, but have known Charlie since the day he was born two months premature and resembled a tiny spider monkey.

      After we had eaten as one, the trays bearing cups of salvation were likewise distributed to the people in the pews. Everyone sang hymns of praise and petition. Marjorie Stemlich skillfully played the treble line with one hand, accepted the juice with the other, and rested the tiny cup on top of the piano, never missing a note. Frank Powers sat in the pew closest to her. He shakily removed his little plastic cup from the silver serving tray and gripped this small vessel of grace with both trembling hands—determined to hold on to his dignity, even as Parkinson’s grabs more of him.

      Patsy Miller worshipped in the first pew, exact center of the sanctuary. She is stone-faced throughout every Sunday service. She recently confided that she still senses her husband’s presence next to her in the pew. It has been five years. In moments of painful absence, she thinks of the readings at Brother Stanley’s funeral, which promised a day when there will be no more hunger or thirst or pain or suffering or grief or death ever again. No, not ever again, I thought, and lifted my cup to my lips in unison with Sister Patsy and the rest of the believers both seen and unseen.

      Glancing along the back wall, I was just in time to spot a mischievous nine-year-old point his bony elbow at his seven-year-old brother’s ribs and launch a surprise attack, swiftly jabbing at the exact moment his victim had intended to swallow. Poor brother spat the blood of forgiveness across his lap. Ben and Michael are good boys, joyfully wild in that not-entirely-restrained way afforded by trusting parents. Steve and Betsy had waited a long, long time for those boys, enduring several miscarriages.

      Miscarriages. Lord have mercy.

      I made sure to tell Bonnie that Betsy had been in worship. The Lewis family attends sporadically, which has put more distance between Steve and me. But our wives have remained close. They have shared tea together every month since Bonnie discerned Betsy’s infertility troubles from a friend of a friend’s insensitive comment in the church parking lot. Often the cup we share is one of sorrow. But there is a red hymnal in their pew marked with an even redder streak across a portion of the Communion liturgy, the telltale stain of horseplay

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