I belong to a liturgical church.
We spend almost all our time together doing two things. We remind each other of the story that brings us together, and we share a meal.
On Sundays we read part of our shared story. Someone talks about how we can draw the story so far into the present, how we can make the next part of the story fit with what has already happened. We are reminded that, though our lives seem so much more complicated, we have a great deal in common with people who were part of the story decades, or centuries, or millennia ago.
When we have spent some time remembering the story, we share a meal. People in my church may disagree about what the details of the story mean, or about what exactly happens during the meal, but the story and the meal bring us together.
The story and the meal remind us what is holy in our lives, and help us enter into the sacred.
We gather for weddings and funerals. We get together for chili-making competitions and pie-baking contests. Each time we share our story, and there is a meal.
I help prepare each week for the food locker that offers food to people who need it. We share our stories, and we get ready to share a meal with other people.
Parts of the story are sweet, parts are tinged with bitterness. Parts taste like ashes in my mouth. The taste of the meal reminds me of the story we share.
When I visit the monks at the hermitage and monastery where I am a lay oblate, it is the same. We tell our story and we share a meal. The monks are a little better at telling the story without using any words.
Are you savoring your story?
Who are the people who share your story?
[Image by h.koppdelaney]