Panus Angelicus and khakis

I could tell--I could just tell--there was something special about him. He was, obviously, father of the father, which is to say grandfather of the baby who was about to be baptized. He stood directly in front of us, a large, square man, who held himself, well, just so when he sang.  In the first moments of the worship service, I had no idea what he sounded like, but, from the back at least, he seemed perfectly formal. 

The church itself isn't. Which is not to say that anything goes. Seems to me that every church has its codes, even though the accessories vary from week to week. It's just that people don't stand the way this grandpa did when he sang. His wife stood beside him in a backless dress, a style unique that Sunday morning. There was just something about the great-grandma too--the way she did her hair, a single wave, almost WWII-ish--that said these loving grandparents were folks with style and class.

They were there for the sacrament, which they observed grandly. When the sprinkling was over the pastor announced that this proud grandpa would sing, the man who held himself so professionally. Perfect, I thought. I should have guessed he was a soloist. 

Sing he did. “Panis Angelicus,” in Latin, accompanied by his pianist-wife, who had thrown on a shawl. There he stood, a large, square man, holding himself as formally as he had previously, standing in front of the now silenced drum set, giving us the blessing of St. Thomas Aquinas for the Feast of Corpus Christi.

It was an offering from another world altogether, and when it was over there was no applause. The pastor moved mightily into prayer.

Music, these days, is seemingly more important than prayer because once the pastor begins to pray musicians take their places and ready themselves for their next set. 

The soloist, suddenly surrounded, had no choice but to return to the front pew where he'd sat, even though the congregation was praying.  His wife, meanwhile, seemed at a loss. She is of my generation, and unaccustomed to musicians picking up instruments during prayer. 

So she waited. When the prayer ended and the praise band was in their places, she looked around, then simply walked to the back of the church because she knew--and I knew because I'm her age--that crossing in front of everything was more than a bit improper. Respectfully, she walked around the assembled congregation, then waited for a good time to come back up front and join her husband. She wanted to be inconspicuous.

There's really nothing comic about "worship wars." Blood's been let all over the world when styles clash and tastes collide, when definitions of respect and tolerance are at extreme odds. The entire moment was a recitation of significant differences in style and custom.

What propriety is and means varies broadly with time and place. The praise band thought nothing of getting ready during prayer; the pianist thought walking back to her pew while the pastor was talking to God, unseemly, even a bit profane. What's more, she walked all the way around the church, even when the prayer was over, because worship was more important than she was.

And the whole thing was a baptism, her grandson, the soloist's grandson. A sacrament. A blessing. It was worship. That's what was happening.

It truly happened. And you know what else? The baby's dad wore shorts. The man whose father offered a blessing in the words of Thomas Aquinas, whose mother waited for the prayer to end before she made herself as inconspicuous as possible and circled the congregation before getting back to her seat--the son of those very formal and accomplished grandparents stood at the baptismal font and answered the probing questions without hesitation, did all of that in a pair of khaki shorts.

He takes it--God does. I honestly thinks he smiles at our differences, even the ones that separate us. He takes it because he loves. 

In Haiti, on streets crowded with people, many of them poor, most of them believers, I was struck like never before with how wide and unimaginable God almighty is. Life there is so much different than it is this morning in Alton, Iowa. 

Today, Port au Prince looks just like it did two years ago when I was there, thousands of people walking on streets little more than rocky paths. When they pray, all of those Haitians, so many of them Christians, when they talk to God, he hears them, just as he does me out here just outside of Alton, just as he did, I'm sure, that baptism Sunday, when he heard the supplication of Thomas Aquinas and the profession that proud father in shorts made, standing there beside his young wife and the baby being blessed by all of it.

In the middle of our differences, even when we go to war, he is forever our peace.