I worship along with our recorded service at 10am, the time we were accustomed to gather.

Since I’m an early riser, once light breaks on the horizon, my dog and I head out on a walk to return before that time.

This Sunday I walked across bridges and through the park to Grace Lutheran Church’s building.

I know we cannot yet enter it as a community although I suspect this deep desire resides in many of us. So I did the best thing I could think of, circling this place of our longing.

I entered from the neighborhood and approached the blessing box. How appropriate to first touch our congregation’s footpath in the place where our neighbors gather to be fed. The faithful people of Grace and neighbors who have joined in this mission have fed the hungry because the need is there and that is what God calls us to do.

I walked along Grand Avenue, reading the announcement taped in front of the signage. We tell the community where to find our worship if they wish to join us. We await the day we will peal that sign off and gather ready to welcome visitors face to face.

I came around to the parking lot and thought of new ways we have gathered several times in 2020. I remembered the broken body of Christ we shared, each in our own cars: Christ who is always joining us in our brokenness did so once again in these services.

I walked by the entrance that many used in the past. I thought of other walkers, other sojourners, entering into that sacred place. Some of those footfalls preceded my own by generations; those people sowed seeds that still bear fruit for us.

I also thought of feet that walked that path more recently, but who will not walk them again. I shed a tear for those whom we have lost since we last gathered.

I looked to the chapel windows and offered thanks to God for the prayer group that recently has gathered there to entrust our needs and joys to God.

I stood in the place I preached the day I was called to be pastor in this place. I thanked God for this “next wonderful thing” God has placed in my life as God had promised.

I looked at the entrance we often call the choir door. I expressed thanks for all the musical ministries and musical ministers who have sustained our melody when we all could not gather. So much love expressed in their sacrifice of praise and their ringing of joy.

I walked by the wing of the building where the scouts have gathered, thankful that young bodies are warmed in our space.

I thanked God for those who tend our building; hours and hours of dedication keep the place that houses us in operation. If only you knew!

I saw the places where the Quakers had gathered for their sacred circles. I thanked God for the silence that they guard; their silence holds human hopes in a way our voices cannot always express.

They share a door with the synod resource center: a space serving the faithfulness of people all around our regional church.

I turned around the building toward 2^nd Ave and glanced up to the crafter’s room. I thought of how their hands move to create beauty as they sort out the world’s weariness in their conversations together.

I walked by our office windows and thought of the pledge cards Kim is gathering there. Of how so many of you have committed to the future of Grace in this place. I noted all the millions of tasks done by Kim and volunteers to keep our ministry thriving. I thanked God for such dedication.

I walked by the door that the exercise groups of the ADRC once entered and thought of how our church council entered into that shared space to sustain the congregation during the pandemic.

I thought of difficult conversations the council has had about what congregational life can and cannot do in the time of Corona. I am thankful for sound decisions faithfully made.

In this brief walk, God accompanied me in memories, promises, hopes, and sadness. My dog, God, and I circled the place of our longing, trusting that one day God will gather us all there again. (Well, maybe without my dog.)

May that day come soon!

About Philip Ruge-Jones

After I served for eighteen years as a professor of theology at Texas Lutheran University, my family decided to return to the Midwest where my wife and I grew up, attended college and seminary. Read more...