This was a reflection shared in worship during our Fall stewardship emphasis. Thank you, Leslie Picken, for this beautiful depiction of our Life Together. May it inspire us to do good as we continue this year.
I didn’t know Betty Cook. Or Dorothy Spurr. My memories aren’t laden with images of a packed sanctuary and seminary students, a full balcony, Sunday School classes with babies and kids and youth. I hadn’t heard of the Baptist institution some of you attended. I didn’t come from a tradition of church twice on Sunday and every Wednesday (which, by the way, would put most Presbyterians over the edge!)
I never met John Claypool or Greg Pope. I wasn’t here when the Karen arrived and some of the members left. My kids weren’t raised with your kids. I didn’t watch anyone grow up here or attend their weddings here or see their babies dedicated here. I had never set foot in a Baptist church before. Ever. To me, a Baptist church meant denim skirts, hand waving, finger pointing and Bible pounding.
But here we are!
We came because Jason Crosby is our son Conor’s best friend, and we knew Jason and Kate well when the four of us lived in Ann Arbor. We loved, and do love, Jason and thought we’d see what Jason was up to at Crescent Hill. And I sure didn’t expect this. For one thing, I didn’t expect to become a member with an affirming “Amen!” I come from places where membership requires classes, letters of intent, a statement of faith and a pledge card.
I didn’t expect invitations from people I hardly knew: brunches, lunches, gatherings in and outside of church. I didn’t expect to be leveled by the bearing of your witness. By Pat Scott, who, on arguably the worst day of her life, her husband’s funeral, greeted Bob and me with a graciousness and a kindness usually reserved for old friends. When I grow up, I want to be as elegant and beautiful and classy as Pat. By Chad, who told me he saw Jesus less on the Cross and more at the Table. By Margaret, who understood my grief at the loss of my dad. She gave me permission to be sad, no matter his age or mine.
By Debbie, who signs all her emails “Love, Debbie”. By Betty, who, although shy by nature, knocked on doors for candidates, dismantled guns, and stayed with a Congolese woman 7 hours in an emergency room helping her navigate pain and the hospital system at the same time. By Keri, who reads the Bible better than anyone I’ve ever heard. By David and Margaret, who almost always find the money, or the space, or the furniture, or the courage we need to move ahead.
I thought my heart would break when Jason left. But I turned around and there came Jordan, who with his drawl, hid youth and his passion mended by heart immediately. And I love him too.
You are my saints. The ones I’ve mentioned and all the others I hold close. You are my memories. You are the people I know. In this room, in this very room, you witness a Gospel so dynamic, so funny, angry, vibrant, robust and alive. This is the room where it happened for me. My faith became stronger because of you.
This congregation is afraid of nothing. No subject is taboo, no opinion weighted more than another. Jesus has feet here. Jesus is in this room.
I will end this with a few things I’ve observed about Baptists through the eyes of a former Presbyterian:
1. Baptists know the second verses of hymns without looking at the book.
2. There was some sort of organization or club with princesses or queens or something which to this day I don’t totally get.
3. Baptists know “The Tie That Binds” by heart.
4. Baptism. When the bulletin said a child was coming forth to be baptized, Bob and I figured a baby on a blanket encircled by doting parents and grandparents. But the pastor was in a white robe, a child was in a white robe, there was an actual POOL and all of a sudden, the kid was underwater. We looked at each other and thought, what are they going to do next?! It took us a week to recover!
This is what I know this group of Baptists. If you believe in Jesus, you are welcome here. If you’ve never heard of Jesus, you are welcome here. If the only reason you’re here is because Greg or Brian or Rhonda invited you and you couldn’t say no, you are welcome here. If you want to play pickleball, or join a book group, or heard the coffee was good or you need a hot meal on a Wednesday night, you are welcome here. If you got the address wrong and you meant to go to the Episcopal church down the street, you are welcome here. If you like Jordan’s accent or Louie’s piano-playing or you’re anxious or sick and tired of being sick and tired, you are welcome here.
I know, because I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.
