Bacon, biscuits, and Bonhoeffer

      Waving a bony finger vaguely in my face and looking down at me from his imposing height, his face angular and keen-eyed over a bushy Prophet Ezekiel Old Testament beard, Bill Yon told me that I needed to come to the church the next Saturday morning. Somewhere between a command and an invitation, this summons to join the table at the Men's Prayer Breakfast resulted in my showing up the following Saturday, bleary-eyed and confused, to St. Francis' parish hall.

     Where I was hooked.

    Physically and metaphorically, I took my place at the table that day years ago and never looked back again.

     I had previously attended several different churches, and out of each one I extracted some measure of comfort or teaching or spirituality, but I never clicked. At all the churches I attended as an adult, I felt vaguely dishonest and uneasy. Church, after all, was for nice  people, who pretended nothing ever went wrong, spoke only vaguely of challenges either personal or faith-based, and generally behaved as if they were constantly on display at a grandparent's house. Everyone was just so....generic. Like Flanders on the Simpsons. Wishy-washy. Even boring...

    When we moved to Birmingham, Stacey got us into going to a type of church new to me, an Episcopal church. We had always gone to Methodist churches, and switching to liturgy and weekly Eucharist and traditional church music and the Book of Common Prayer was an adjustment for me. I remember I was confused with how to juggle prayer book, hymnal, and service music leaflets all at once. I was nonplussed with the different music.  And with the structure of the liturgy, which relied upon centuries-old prayers and instructions that changed but little from season to season. So many simple things were even said differently: we didn't have a pastor-we had a rector. We weren't a congregation-we were a parish. But, since Stacey's heart told her this was the right church for us, I resolved to make a proper go of it, and  after 6 months or so I got used to it all, to celebrating the Eucharist or Lord's Supper every Sunday, to the hymns that went back sometimes to the 7th or 8th centuries, to the priest's formal robes and the incense and chanting at special days.

     And it grew on me. Always an Anglophile and always steeped in history, I gloried in being a modern American representative of the Church of England, of following in forms of worship laid down centuries ago. The liturgy or rules of worship, far from restraining the free flow of praise, gave me a grounding so that I knew what was to come at all times of the service. Many times in the past I had been subjected to cringe-worthy extemporaneous prayers that went something like "Oh, God, you are so holy and you send your holy Son just to be holy and save us, so just let us be holy too, God" and which made me think the preacher was just closing his eyes and saying whatever was in his mind. Compare that with "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord. Amen." 

       Just typing that and reading it over in my mind right here in the present moment just sent a thrill coursing up my spine, made my heart swell and my eyes mist. The message and the language are so beautifully blended to set my heart to yearning to be instructed, to prepare myself, to surrender my human pride and arrogance, to take my rightful place in the universe.

      Yowza. I just had what I call a St. Francis moment.

      A St. Francis moment is what I call my personal epiphanies, when mind and heart and soul converge and reveal a greater truth to me. An inchoate epiphany, not fully formed but still embryonic. Bill Yon, a retired priest at St. Francis, was the catalyst for one of my more memorable ones when he invited/threatened/summoned me to join the men for breakfast. I had been attending the church for several years, and I was drawing a lot of spiritual sustenance from the Sunday services and the occasional study groups I went to, but I was not socially engaged with the people in the parish.

     When I showed up for breakfast, I was not sure what to expect but I was pretty sure it would not be exciting or memorable or interesting. Maybe something like having breakfast with-well, with a preacher. Don't put your elbows on the table!!

     Bill had a fine idea that what the men's group should be was not a Men's PRAYER Breakfast but a MEN'S Prayer Breakfast. His goal was that we should learn about each other's lives between Sundays. Far from "Well, I'm just glad to be here with the group today", the guys around the table opened up about themselves, their families. Their struggles. Their crises. Their doubts. That morning and all the subsequent 3rd Saturday morning breakfasts I attended over the next six or seven years we shared real conflict and real struggle, real pain and real joy. Far from being a group of too-nice bland-itos, these men were vibrant, authentic, conflicted, supportive, flawed, passionate, and loving.

       The group, the community into which I subsequently immersed myself, began with this men's group and extended soon to the whole church. The parish life of St. Francis must be similar to what medieval parish life was. A group of people who worship together, work together, play together. Church became where I spent my social time as well as Sundays from 11 to noon. Cooking 70 boston butts for a fundraiser over a weekend, sitting around Buzz Palmer's pull-behind smoker "telling white lies and drinking dark liquor" and bundled up against the 40-degree cold. Cleaning up Bill Yon's house and grounds in the annual Habitat for Yon project. Gathering to cheer on Jessica Lingle win a "battle of the bands" contest at a local coffeehouse. Hosting dinner parties. Sharing weekends at the lake, grilling out and boating and watching football.  Feeding God's people at the Firehouse Shelter in downtown Birmingham.

     The inspirational words, the form of worship and liturgy from the Book of Common Prayer provided the framework, but it is the personal connections started at that Men's Prayer Breakfast so long ago that made my experience of worship so powerful. Communion, the Holy Eucharist, is celebrated in a circle at St. Francis. Prior to and upon receiving wine and bread, you are intensely aware of the others clustered in that circle, those you know and love and work shoulder-to-shoulder with. Of the children of friends you have watched grow up. Of those that have died, whose presence is sorely missed. 

     How much better is faith when it is celebrated in community. With friends.

     Out here in Houston, I've joined a church that I am really enjoying. I noticed that on its website it listed a men's group. When I contacted the parish secretary I found out that this group has been defunct for a time, that they used to get together and hang out, cook and go to ballgames, even toured a local brewery once. I called up the fellows that used to be in charge of it, told them that I would like to offer my assistance to get it started again if there was any interest.

    Last week we had our first meeting. We met on Saturday morning. Andrew and I cooked a big breakfast. Before we got down to the agenda of the meeting, we all took a couple of minutes to introduce ourselves. To say who we are. To say what we do "between Sundays". 

     I'm sure this group will turn out to be different from my old group, but it sure feels familiar starting out. I was taught well to get folks talking about themselves. I sure think Bill Yon would approve of the way we've begun. 

    Here's Bill Yon's traditional close of Men's Prayer Breakfast, found on page 836 of the Book of Common Prayer:

 Accept, O Lord, our thanks and praise for all that you have
done for us. We thank you for the splendor of the whole
creation, for the beauty of this world, for the wonder of life,
and for the mystery of love.

We thank you for the blessing of family and friends, and for
the loving care which surrounds us on every side.

We thank you for setting us at tasks which demand our best
efforts, and for leading us to accomplishments which satisfy
and delight us.

We thank you also for those disappointments and failures
that lead us to acknowledge our dependence on you alone.

Above all, we thank you for your Son Jesus Christ; for the
truth of his Word and the example of his life; for his steadfast
obedience, by which he overcame temptation; for his dying,
through which he overcame death; and for his rising to life
again, in which we are raised to the life of your kingdom.

Grant us the gift of your Spirit, that we may know him and
make him known; and through him, at all times and in all
places, may give thanks to you in all things. Amen.