So, in my continuing conversion in becoming a Yankee, I hit my first deer Wednesday. Now many of you probably know just how traumatic this was for me. First, killing the deer really bothered me. Now, don't get me wrong. If you give me venison, I'm going to eat it. I love venison stew. But killing the deer with my car? That just seems so useless.
But what is really traumatic is car damage. I live in my car. I love driving around, seeing new things in old places, listening to the radio. Wherever I am, there's always another place I need to be, so driving has always been my way to get away by myself and relax. When Brooks and I were in Israel, he would always laugh at me because, every day, part of my dressing ritual was putting my wallet and keys in my pockets. Keys to a car nearly 7,000 miles away.
And seeing my car...my, to me, brand new car … all smashed up with air bags hanging around, looks like it's innards have spilled out. Knowing that it'll be maybe up to three weeks until I get it back has me pacing the floors. I keep wanting to walk down to Ted's and just look at it. This situation is something that makes me feel unmoored. In fact, yesterday I was zooming with my mom, and she finally just told me to hang up because I was so distracted, feeling sorry for myself.
Now Brooks took me to Oneonta to get a rental, but y'all, I feel like I'm driving a pacer car for a NASCAR rally. It's low to the ground, two-wheel drive, the buttons are all wrong. Nothing works the way it should. And frankly, it's just not my style. It's as if this car is just screaming for some fuzzy dice and a neon border around the license plate.
Y'all, I want my car back!
But nothing will change the fact that, for now, that ain't gonna happen.
In our gospel reading today, Jesus is calling his disciples. Fishermen. A sturdy, hardy group. Men who are strong from pulling in nets of fish all day, rowing, raising and lowering sails. Probably a salty bunch, drinking a bit, maybe more, telling dirty jokes, getting into the occasional brawl at the pub down the street. Smelling of fish, no matter if they bathed or not. But these are the men that Jesus chooses as followers.
And these are followers that go to the mat for Jesus. They aren't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. They are kinda thick-headed, not always catching on to what Jesus is teaching. And they seem to be easily spooked, running away at the first sight of confrontation. But at the end of the day, these are the founders of the church. These are the leaders of the church. These men truly went from fishing for fish to fishing for people, and ultimately, hauled in quite a catch. We've all been caught up in those nets.
I know I've mentioned this before, but it's because of these men that we call our worship spaces “naves.” “Nave” is derived from the Latin word “navis,” meaning “boat.” And if you look up at the ceilings of so many naves, you will see that they look like the hull of a boat. In fact there is a lot of nautical imagery in a nave. The pulpit, for example, is where the “boat of the church” is steered.
It is the boat where all the fish end up for a while until they are sent out to homes all around. It is where we go when we are drawn in through the net of the gospel, where we come together as those fished-for people, and where we are nurtured and taught and equipped with the skill to become fishermen ourselves. It is from our naves that we emerge into the world to spread the Gospel, to tell the world of the healing grace of Christ, and to bring the world hope by bringing about, bit by bit, the Kingdom of God.
It is where we are nourished with our liturgies, our hymns, our handshakes, even our coffee hours. It is church. It is part of who we are.
And, y'all? I miss it. I miss it something fierce. I want to bust in right now and do Eucharist with a full building. I want to see your entire body, not just your head in a square like we're all contestants on Hollywood Squares or the cast of the Brady Bunch.
I'm tired of Zoom. I'm so tired of Zoom.
But, like with my car, nothing will change the fact that, for now, it ain't gonna happen. There is a good chance that we will pass another Holy Week on Zoom, another Easter on Zoom. We will be getting vaccines, yes, so maybe that will change. But maybe not soon enough. We'll just have to see.
But, y'all, there is light at the end of this. Just like with Advent, there is a flicker of light that grows and grows as we draw closer. The light of Christ is still burning, still there at the end of all this.
You see, I don't like Zoom. As much as we say it, it ain't church. And this Nissan I'm driving around isn't MY car.
But this Nissan does have four wheels. And it can get me up to the Hannaford to get some of those huge blood oranges they have on sale right now. It can get me to Hamilton to play with the dogs. It can take me out on the roads and routes and hollers to see something new every day, something new that God wants me to see. This Nissan doesn't have what the Subaru has, it isn't “Me,” but hey, it has a steering wheel warmer, and that's sorta cool. It has those warning lines if you go over the center line, and my Subaru doesn't have that. It even has a moon roof that I'll never use, but hey there it is.
And Zoom isn't our nave, but it is our boat, for now. We can't hug each other, but we can see others that we don't normally see. We may not do services the way we usually do, but we have recaptured a love for old ones. We may not say the exact same prayers, but so many of us are praying more each week. We may not sing hymns the way we are used to, but, when we get our act together, we can even do music videos!!!
And most importantly, we can still fish for people. We can still come together to learn and pray and worship. And we are still nourished, and we can still reach out an tell others about this amazing life we have, a life filled with the love of the Holy Spirit.
We are still the church. We aren't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. We are kinda thick-headed, not always catching on to what Jesus is teaching. And we sometimes seem easily spooked, running away at the first sight of the confrontation. But at the end of the day, we are the church.
We are still the church.