Six years ago a church in my neighborhood began holding a worship service on Saturday evening. I knew it was a traditional church steeped in liturgy, and the Saturday gathering would be identical to two Sunday morning services.
I decided I could use a regular dose of tradition. It was a piece missing from my spiritual journey at the time. The quarter-mile slope from my home to the church drew me in body and spirit, and the walk was a small investment for the reward I got. I always came out with ample energy to climb the hill toward home.
Hymns I loved. Artistry of language. Theology of hope. Yearning chants. Prayers of the people. Sharing of the peace. Silence without fear. Holy connections at the table of the Lord.
I was hooked.
For six years this weekly experience molded me, encouraged me, reminded me, challenged me, redirected me. Fed me. Met me. Revived me.
We were never a big crowd and that was never the point. We were people of faithful habit and began to know whose faces we would see, whose eyes we would meet, whose hearts we would join at the table.
The church recently decided to discontinue the Saturday service. While I fully understand the reasons, I expect I will flounder on Saturday evenings for a while. And I’ll feel something missing from my spirituality for more than a while
The service was always a holy solace for me—at the end of a busy Saturday, and on the brink of a Sunday morning of service in my home church. I look forward to the season God has for me now with faith that God will continue to meet me in astounding ways.