As I've already written, today was one of my favorite holy days: All Saint's Day. I was looking forward to singing "For All the Saints, to participating in our annual litany, wherein congregants call out names of those Christians who they wish to remember and honor, and receiving communion.
But the Lord had a surprise for me. We were just beginning our discussion of Shane Clairborne's Irresistable Revolution in the adult Christian Ed class when Steve appeared in the doorway. "You have a chance to put what you're reading to practice," he said."Come meet P."
P. was a 60ish mentally ill woman, clad in raincoat, with blue scrub pants and a top that seemed to be constructed of blue Pellon. She was quite agitated, and I soon discovered why. Near her stood C. and A., the pastor and his wife from the Friends church down the street. They have known and been ministering to P. for over five years. Apparently she has been off her meds. She began using inappropriate language in front of the teens this morning. C.--gentlest of souls-- asked her to stop, but she took this as rejection, and left, in great anger, insisting C. was a hypocrite and that she would never set foot in that church again. She then wandered down the street and arrived at VCC, babbling irrationally and with great vehemence. It was at this point that Steve met her.
C. and A. had followed her, and when we arrived, P. was smoking outside under the porch, drinking a cup of coffee Jim had brought. We spent some time trying to calm her down. It was like a scene out of "A Beautiful Mind," for P. was fascinated with numbers. Every few minutes she would fasten onto something we'd said and start investigating its numerological significance. I didn't know whether to go along with some of what she was saying or whether to try to draw her back to reality. It seemed like the latter was causing her greater agitation, so I tried to find ways of affirming her and asking her to tell me about herself.
Gradually she calmed, and agreed she would let A. and I walk her back to her apartment, only a couple of blocks away. "I don't trust men," she spat, and I cringed to think of what past experience prompted that remark. The fall trees were gloriously golden and orange, and trying to keep her distracted and focused on whatsoever was beautiful and good, A. and I remarked about some particularly lovely leaves. Alas, what P. saw were baby's faces staring up from them.
We finally got her settled in her apartment, brought her her meds, refilled her coffee, and let her watch TV. A. promised that she and C. would call in another couple of hours and check up on her. "Don't close the door," P. ordered as we left. "Leave it open a crack."
Walking back with A., I realized that P. was one of those living parables God sometimes gives us. Just as she was caught between delusion and reality, so we Christians are caught between this present world and the world to come, promised in Rev. 21:1-6, the sermon text for today.
P. is a saint in progress, and so am I. Spiritually, I must look to Jesus as confused and belligerent and unstable as P appears to me. I only pray that our love today gave P. a taste of the love He has given us.
I returned to VCC 15 minutes late for worship; but God was not done surprising me. I had missed the praise songs, greeting time and scripture readings, but I hadn't missed "For All the Saints"or the litany!
"The Apostle Peter."
For this one, Lord, we give thanks.
"Hope Anderson."
For this one, Lord, we give thanks.
"Martin Luther."
For this one, Lord, we give thanks.
"Martyrs of Compiègne"
For this one, Lord, we give thanks.
Arezoo
For this one, Lord, we give thanks.
P.
For this one, Lord, we give thanks.
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