A lot has happened in the past year, and on the whole, it’s positive stuff. So this is January of a new year (naturally, since the calendar only comes in one order) and it’s one of the two times in the year when we tend to take stock a little bit and make any mid-term course corrections that we deem appropriate. Some people call those new years’ resolutions, but I think I’m with Brother Maynard on that one, not making any highfalutin’ resolutions, except resolving to hope, and to try. What he’s written there also has me thinking about the nature of lasting change, and what it takes to achieve it… but nailing that one down will take some amount of further pondering.

On the other hand, Randy McRoberts is making resolutions… seven of them, in fact. Oddly enough, and two of them are covered in the upper right corner of this page… living by the Jesus Creed and living by Brother Maynard’s dictum. (Brother Maynard’s little motto has never really been called a “dictum” before, but he tells me he’s honoured, and happy about it.) These are two good resolutions to make, I think. Two general ways of trying to live that could just change your life. Perhaps that’s the path to lasting change… consciously living by a principle that infoms all of your other actions.

Maybe if the Pharisees had been able to boil it down like Jesus did instead of trying to live by an endless interpretation of an endless set of rules, they’d have done much better. Yeah, “perhaps.” And perhaps this is why I’m happier to hope and to try to live a certain way rather than creating a personal list of do’s and don’ts to run with, a kind of personal pass/fail list, just because it’s a new year. The do’s and don’ts on the list seem so goal-oriented, whereas the alternative of hoping and trying seems so much more journey-oriented. Oriented. Like simply trying to stay pointed in the right direction, and keep moving forward… not a bad “goal” at all, I say.

I like the pace of hoping and trying… I think I find a kind of simple peace in it. And I’m happy about that.

The Table: Food
I took a good hard look at the Jameson’s Chicken but opted for the Guinness Meatloaf instead. Those Irish seem to know just the right “special” ingredients to use… ;^) I think I made the right choice. The meatloaf was superb, with a wonderful sauce on the side. A pleasant amount of spice offset by the sweetness imbued by the special ingredient, itself fueled by its own special sweet ingredient, molasses. Now, I am a Guinness drinker & this much is no mystery. Guinness has a special “weightiness” to it, paired with its own sweetness and rightly poured, a beautiful head to top it off. Guinness is savoured, a wonderful mix of weightiness and sweetness that just slides down smoothly, leaving you a silky pleasant aftertaste that says, “I was here” but it does so without attacking the palatte with a “HEY-HOWAREYA?” announcement that screams out its presence as soon as it passes your lips. The Guinness meatloaf compared nicely. This was capped with a very nice apple crumble with ice cream and a good cup of coffee. A good cup of coffee is worth a special mention in most restaurants, and this was such a cup. I was filled to the measure of, “a nice quiet nap on the sofa would be really great about now.”

The Table: Conversation
The company and the conversation was very enjoyable as well… we all remarked trying to remember the last time we’d been out for supper sans kids, but to boot, we haven’t been out together in such a setting in eons, perhaps if ever. I love the feeling of togetherness, camaradarie, and identification that comes from visiting with friends who are largely in the same space as you are. There’s a sweetness from this kind of visiting and sharing of hearts, and this too is filling, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. Times like these make me deeply thankful for having moved on from our CLB and discovered the depth of some of the existing friendships that took deeper root and the new ones that sprang up around us as we began to create community. I was filled to the measure of “we are deeply blessed with the highest calibre of friends.”

The Table: Worship
The room was dark, even for SBT, and the group was small. Precious little was said, and silence was maintained during everyone’s coming and going from the space. The liturgy consisted of two readings (some responsive), songs, and silence… all in proper proportions. Like many of the songs at SBT, each was somewhat repetative. Now, I know that some are really down on repetative songs, but the spirit of these ones must be appreciated… these songs are somewhat folksy, somewhat reverent, and largely from the heart. As these songs are sung and repeated, they work their way into the depths of your soul, and you really feel that they become the cries of your heart to God. It feels that invariably they seem to conclude almost too early yet in just about the right space. For this particular service, times of silence punctuated the space between the songs. Not long, drawn-out, “is-anyone-going-to-say-something?” silence, but pleasant, breathing, feeling, settling silence. Sinking-into-your-heart silence. Cathartic silence. A kind of spiritual taking-it-all-in silence. It was particularly sweet, and particularly filling… the kind of sweet that you think maybe you’ve really never tasted before. The kind of filling that once you’re finished taking it in, you feel almost immobile. Of course I’ve been in some pretty powerful worship times in my day, and had some experiences of God’s presence far beyond what I deserve… but this was different, so restful, peaceful, and powerful. I was filled to the measure of “God, I feel your presence here profoundly, and I don’t particularly want to move. Ever.”

Needless to say, I had a fine, filling evening yesterday. Threefold.

Update: Jamie Howison has posted some reflections on this as well; sounds like Sunday evening was a good time too, sorry I missed it (did anyone else go?)… but just to bring it all full-circle, it ends up at none other than the E&C. btw, the lyrics for the communion song that Jamie quotes are worth clicking through.

Some of us — or most of us — have become disillusioned with institutional church in its attractional mode and are exploring new modes of expressing our faith. Some of us are living out what has elsewhere been called “a churchless faith” while others remain an occasional part of other church congregations.

These pages tell our story as it unfolds.