March 20, 2008

Methodist Central Hall: London, England

Read Luke 10:29-37

I walked into the church, awkward and self-conscious, with a big red duffel bag on my back and a red and grey backpack covering my chest, looking every bit like the typical American-youth-back-packing-across-Europe. Loaded down with everything I might possibly need for a month of travel, I was tired, lonely, homesick, and bored of Catholicism. I was ready for something different, something less severe. I was ready to be uplifted, I was ready to be inspired.

The security guard graciously accepted my bag, and kindly directed me to the coffee room to wait until the service started. Finding a seat in the corner, I attempted to make myself inconspicuous while still taking note of the others gathered there, a difficult task in a room with few other people. Upon hearing of a communion service, I questioned the speaker and was led into a small chapel for the early morning service. Having only received communion once in the past five months, I was looking forward to the opportunity of taking the sacrament that had been otherwise denied to my un-Orthodox beliefs. Approaching the altar for the bread and wine was like coming home, finally something I could understand, an idea I believed in and an act I could participate in without feeling like an intruder. I was unprepared for the sense of relief and thanksgiving that came, and the tears began to flow, stemmed only by a fellow worshiper leaning over and holding my hand, offering me the human element which had been so lackluster in the other churches.

After the service, the same woman caught up with me, introduced herself as Mary, and asked if everything was alright, if she could pray for me. She took my hand and offered a small thanks to God for bringing me to the church that morning, praying that I would be safe and happy. She didn’t know anything about me, not my story, why I was there, where I was going. And she took my hand and prayed for me. As simple as that.

As I left the hall later that afternoon in order to catch a train to the next city on my list, I was overwhelmed by a sense of relief and healing. The service had been beautiful, and just as exciting, it had been in English. The words of the sermon had resounded, pressing humility on all who listened. The music had been uplifting and pure. And the congregation had welcomed me as one of their own, inviting me to worship in the future and gave me names and numbers to contact if ever I was back in the city.

I have never been so touched by the kindness of complete strangers. In a world that seems filled to the brim with devastation, disaster and mistrust, peace and love are sometimes hard to imagine, impossible to achieve. But a gentle hand touched mine and loneliness slipped away. I received a hug and I felt relief. And a prayer was lifted up and I saw hope.

Emily Richardson-Rossbach