Call to Worship
"Seek to dwell in love and peace and truth with one another, and the gifts of the spirit shall enrich all and make no one poor; for in fellowship is strength, and immeasurable is the help that one can yield to another." --Rev. Frances West


Several times in the last week I've heard a bird's song I've not been aware of before. I've seen the bird perched on a telephone line as the daylight was waning but could only see it in silhouette. I could see that it was small, something like a sparrow. In searching through recorded bird songs, I thought perhaps it was a song sparrow but the song of that bird did not seem quite like what I had heard, which was distinctive and melodious. I noticed among the sparrows I could listen to there was one called a vesper sparrow and having listened to its singing on a recording, I think it's quite likely that's what I heard. How appropriate to be hearing it and seeing it as the daylight gave way to the first traces of evening.

Many years ago, my mother had decided she wanted to offer vesper services at the Unitarian Universalist church she was serving as minister at the time. She did so as a limited experiment, offering those services on a half-dozen Sunday evenings, around 7 pm, as I recall. None of these were ever well-attended and knowing my mother, that may have been discouraging to her but she did them all the same, attentive to the quality of worship without regard to numbers of people.

I went to all of those vesper services not because I had to but because I wanted to have that time of quiet worship. The idea appealed to me as a way of ending a weekend before turning myself back toward the rhythms and tasks of the work week. It was like a pause before resuming breathing, a quiet moment.

I remember one of those Sundays in particular. We'd arrived early at the church to set things up. My mother and I were the only ones in the building. The church is housed in what is called a Butler building, an aluminum sided building more commonly seen as inexpensive warehouses in industrial areas here. The sanctuary of that church is a large simple room--with windows arranged at regular intervals on either side, 3 to a side--and open to the pitched roof at the top, 20 feet up. The wall behind the cherrywood pulpit, which was made by a church member who had many years of experience in handbuilding boats, was plain, simple, white, adornment coming later in the form of a stained glass chalice another church member had made.

My mother had a large ceramic bowl, shallow and wide, perhaps two and a half feet across, glazed in earthy tones. She'd set it in front of the pulpit that Sunday and had asked me to fill it with water in order to float votive candles. There were other things she busied herself with in preparation for the service and our paths crossed as I made my way back and forth from the kitchen with water. I fetched the water in the container it was easiest to find, an ordinary plastic coffee pitcher, the kind you see in places like IHOP, coppery brown colored over most of its body, with the pouring lip and the flip lid colored black. I filled that coffee pot with water from the stainless steel sink in the kitchen and walked back and forth to the bowl, poured the water, out of one vessel and into another. There was something that particular evening, the dwindling light of a day that had been sunny, the quietness of the church, my mother and me at our tasks, the sound of water splashing into the wide bowl, all of those moments woven together into something lasting, at least in my memory, significant in those moments and significant in the echo of memory. As I fetched and poured water, I felt connected to all women, worldwide and through time, whose job it has been to fetch water. I felt the sacredness of this small, ordinary, and human act. I felt myself to be in sanctuary, as I do from time to time, unexpectedly, and blessedly.

I was curious about the word sanctuary, having thought of it in relation to that church, that moment. I've certainly had the feeling of being in sanctuary at other times in my life, have felt it so deeply, so sharply, so suddenly, that I've felt instantly full of tears not of sorrow but of gratitude, of safety, of beauty. I thought of the many forms of sanctuary, not just the space of a church, but of the way that word is applied to nature--a wildlife sanctuary, a bird sanctuary. Or of the safety, the sanctuary, offered to people who are seeking political asylum. In ancient Greek myth, Cassandra, who'd been given the gift of prophesy and cursed with never being believed, sought sanctuary in the temple of Athena after predicting many of the calamities that would befall her fellow Trojans. Even children incorporate this idea of sanctuary, of a safe place, into their play, running for "home" in order to escape being tagged "It" in chase games, touching "home" and making one presumably safe.

I'd looked up the word "sanctuary" which had me touching on other words, sacred, sanctify, and consecrate and leading me to an Indo-European root word "kailo", meaning "whole, uninjured, a good omen."

A few weeks ago, the Museum where I work held an event in connection with our current exhibition, Cradle of Christianity: Jewish and Christian Treasures from the Holy Land. The objects in this exhibition come from the Israel Museum in Jersualem and are about the shared early history of those two religions, their early similarities and connections. We'd arranged to have Bruce Feiler speak about the times and origins of early Christianity and its relationship to Judaism. Bruce Feiler wrote a book, and hosted a PBS series called Walking the Bible. He is a fifth generation Jew, from Savannah, Georgia, and member of the third oldest synagogue in the country, located in Savannah. He'd come to Trinity Presbyterian Church, our host for this event, to talk about this relationship.

I'd arrived early at Trinity Presbyterian, to get set up, to assist in whatever way was necessary. The church is located on a wooded lot and the summer afternoon was hot, the cicadas droning their late afternoon song among the golden light that filtered through the trees, pooling on the lawn. I'd needed to go inside and walked into the sanctuary, alone for a few moments, in the hush, that simple space, the late afternoon light, and felt awash with tears, thought of that vesper service with my mother so many years before.

Meditation
"In this quiet space, let each of us be aware of our separateness. Let us acknowledge our importance to ourselves, let us bless our uniqueness. Let us also be aware of the presence of others here in this quiet time with us. Of those whom we love, how can we show our love more simply and genuinely. Of those whom we like, how can our friendship bridge the space between us. Of those whom we dislike, how can we understand them better. Of those whom we fear, how can we find courage to face them constructively. Let us also consider the larger space beyond this room. How may we help create harmony in a disharmonious world. Amen."--Rev. Frances West

Benediction
"May faith in Goodness give you joy, and sustain your every moment. Amen"--Rev. Frances West