Reconciliation

A couple of weeks after Easter Sunday, a very dear friend of mine, Mrs. Adams, received a call that her brother-in-law, an Orlando resident, died. This would be bad news for most people, but for my friend this news was fraught with additional angst.

1. She is ninety-five years old and lives just outside Westchester, New York.
2. Although Mrs. Adams spent decades in central Florida, Orlando is not a place full of happy memories for her. Having witnessed Ku Klux Klan marches and experienced more social and civil injustices than you or I could imagine, you can understand why upon leaving the Sunshine State ten years ago, Mrs. Adams (a Black woman) had no intention of ever returning to Florida.

Lest you be in error, know this: Mrs. Adams is no tottering little old lady. Aside from a touch of arthritis in her knees, she leads a very full life. Even at ninety-five walks to and from her neighborhood YMCA and swims several times a week. Her mind is as sharp as yours or mine—if not more so. She’s also very active in her church. But as a precaution, one of Mrs. Adams’s four daughters checks in on her daily to make sure that her physical needs are met.

Enter God. And back to that phone call …

So that all of her daughters could attend their uncle’s funeral, Mrs. Adams sacrificed time and energy and travelled from New York to Orlando.

With Mrs. Adams and her daughters staying in a downtown hotel maybe six blocks away from Orlando’s Cathedral Church of Saint Luke, I extended an invitation for her and Joan to join me for the main service that Sunday. They agreed.

I arrived a little early and notified one of the ushers in the narthex of their arrival and asked him to direct them to where I would be seated. And before long, Mrs. Adams, aided by her HurryCane and her daughter Joan, entered from the ambulatory (not the narthex as anticipated) and joined me at my seat. Having both Mrs. Adams and Joan present made my day. During my time working in the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall, Joan procured tickets for friends and I to attend the Christmas Eve service at the Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine where she serves as a verger. After all these years, I had the opportunity to welcome them both to my church.

Now Mrs. Adams has been a confirmed Episcopalian longer than I’ve been alive and is well acquainted with the ins and outs of the liturgy; but when communion began I told her the priests could save her a trip to the communion rail and bring the bread and wine to her instead if she liked. She kindly declined.

As the usher motioned for our pew to queue up, Joan, Mrs. Adams with her cane, and I made our way to rail.

My heart brimmed with joy as I knelt, crossed my palms, and extended my hands. And to my right, Mrs. Adams quietly did the same despite the arthritis in her knees.

After we returned to our seats, I relished sharing the moment with two of my dearest friends for the first time. I looked at Mrs. Adams and was surprised to find her gently sobbing and wiping away tears. I searched Joan’s face for an answer as to what caused such a reaction. She gave me a nod of reassurance and comforted her mother. Not wanting to compound the situation, I did the only thing I could think to do — I took my friend’s hand and held it in mine.

Mrs. Adams regained her composure and enjoyed the rest of the service. Afterwards several friends, parishioners, ushers, and priests eagerly introduced themselves to my friends. And one couple graciously gave Mrs. Adams and Joan a lift back to their hotel … as I have a tiny two-seater with barely enough room for myself and one passenger.

Mrs. Adams explained her reaction to me during our post-communion during brunch.

When Mrs. Adams attended the cathedral many, many decades ago, her experience was altogether different. Blacks were only allowed the receive communion after all the White parishioners had been served first.

My mouth fell open at the thoughts of emotional burden she bore all those years, the courage she had to return decades later, and release to be received as nothing less than a child of God and just as worthy of his sacrifice as anyone else. God lifted an enormous weight from Mrs. Adams’s heart that morning.

Throughout history the church as wounded countless souls in the name of Christ, purposefully and unintentionally. I post this story not as an indictment against organized religion or the Cathedral as I rather enjoy organized religion and especially at the Cathedral. I encourage all who claim to be children of God to continue to do away with prejudices (age, race, gender, sexual orientation, disability, nationality, ad nauseam) and boldly be about the business of loving one another and readily making the good news of Christ available.