Yesterday I had a mini crisis. I needed my white stole, one that I seldom wear. I was headed to a formal, ecumenical event where clergy had been asked to wear white stoles. My stole was not where I last saw it. I searched high and low in the closet where I keep my vestments. That search took me back to another time . . . . a blessed memory:
It was Easter Sunday in California, Missouri. I had been up for a long, long time. There had been the traditional sunrise service at the break of day. Then, came Easter worship at Salem United Church of Christ out in the country. Finally, I was readying myself for worship at the United Church of Christ in California. When I arrived that morning, the parking lots were already filled. There were no on-street parking spots for three blocks away. It was going to be a big day of celebration. The folks turned out for Easter!
But, when I began to vest for the service, my white stole was nowhere to be found. It had been on the hanger under my robe when I left Salem half an hour before. Where had it gone? Then, at the very last minute, at the office door an usher appeared with my stole in his hand. Some worshipper had found it lying in the street a block or so from the church, along the route that I had walked after parking my car. The stole had been retrieved and delivered to me--just in time before the trumpets began to sound for the processional.
That white stole was no worse for the time that it spent in the street. It just seemed more real, more authentic--more grounded than before. Once while wearing that stole at a committal in the church cemetery, it had gotten saturated with rain--but just on one side. It had a water mark--maybe a baptismal mark--already. And, before that my Aunt Dolores' sister, Norma, had kissed me at my installation in 1982. Somehow she managed to get a little smudge of red lipstick on the back of the white stole that I did not hurry to launder away. My white stole, a symbol of light and purity, had made its pilgrimage over the years of ministry. It was holy because it had gone through earth's sufferings--even landing in the street on an Easter Sunday.
Well, yesterday I panicked, thinking that I had abandoned my white stole in some lonely parish hall after an installation or ordination. I searched my memory. No usher appeared at our door. But . . . then I looked again in the closet, and the old stole was hanging right along with the others. Waiting to be worn. It was like finding an old friend--one who has been through the times, seasons, and sufferings of life. I was grateful to put it on--a vivid, though slightly soiled reminder, of God's marvelous, victorious light.
It was Easter Sunday in California, Missouri. I had been up for a long, long time. There had been the traditional sunrise service at the break of day. Then, came Easter worship at Salem United Church of Christ out in the country. Finally, I was readying myself for worship at the United Church of Christ in California. When I arrived that morning, the parking lots were already filled. There were no on-street parking spots for three blocks away. It was going to be a big day of celebration. The folks turned out for Easter!
But, when I began to vest for the service, my white stole was nowhere to be found. It had been on the hanger under my robe when I left Salem half an hour before. Where had it gone? Then, at the very last minute, at the office door an usher appeared with my stole in his hand. Some worshipper had found it lying in the street a block or so from the church, along the route that I had walked after parking my car. The stole had been retrieved and delivered to me--just in time before the trumpets began to sound for the processional.
That white stole was no worse for the time that it spent in the street. It just seemed more real, more authentic--more grounded than before. Once while wearing that stole at a committal in the church cemetery, it had gotten saturated with rain--but just on one side. It had a water mark--maybe a baptismal mark--already. And, before that my Aunt Dolores' sister, Norma, had kissed me at my installation in 1982. Somehow she managed to get a little smudge of red lipstick on the back of the white stole that I did not hurry to launder away. My white stole, a symbol of light and purity, had made its pilgrimage over the years of ministry. It was holy because it had gone through earth's sufferings--even landing in the street on an Easter Sunday.
Well, yesterday I panicked, thinking that I had abandoned my white stole in some lonely parish hall after an installation or ordination. I searched my memory. No usher appeared at our door. But . . . then I looked again in the closet, and the old stole was hanging right along with the others. Waiting to be worn. It was like finding an old friend--one who has been through the times, seasons, and sufferings of life. I was grateful to put it on--a vivid, though slightly soiled reminder, of God's marvelous, victorious light.
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