One of His Fans
In my last post I mentioned my wonderful trip to the Church of Our Saviour in New York (Park Avenue at 38th Street for those of you, including my children, who might be in the area). I was delighted to receive an e-note from Father George Rutler, the Pastor, who said, “You are most welcome anytime here, at what I like to think of as a village church in the midst of the big city.”
I thought that was cute, but the more I reflected, the more I realized the truth in that short sentence. The church, though beautifully decorated, is on the small side and intimate. The congregation, though metropolitan, seemed friendly and there was an easy familiarity among many whom I suppose to be regulars. I certainly felt right at home. There was no sensation of being enveloped as sometimes happens in the great cathedrals. Sure, a village church. I’ve been to a few of those.
When the children were smaller we often took them camping in the summer in the southern Adirondacks. There were a couple of small village churches we attended and I always felt a sense of great faith abounding in the simple surroundings. We also got remarkably good preaching. It was especially remarkable because both churches were on the far fringes of their respective dioceses, Albany and Ogdensburg.
One of them we hit four summers in a row and I heard four of the ten best homilies I’d ever experienced from a simple unassuming priest of no obvious greatness. Yet, he somehow managed to startle with an old message newly told and I remember thinking that if I could only come there six more times he’d probably capture every spot in my top ten.
Most of what he said has faded away now with the passing years. If only I had blogged it. There is one story he told, however, that has stuck, and may be not a bad one for the beginning of Lent.
Back in the early days of the Civil Rights movement, an African-American preacher approached a famous white lawyer who had been sympathetic to the cause and asked him to take the lead publically on some matter. Whatever it was, it created a great risk to the lawyer professionally. He was reluctant to get involved.
“I implore you, as a follower of Christ, to do the right and just thing!” begged the preacher.
“I’m a follower of Christ, too,” said the lawyer, “but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to be crucified!”
“If you’re not willing to follow Him to Calvary,” said the preacher quietly, “you’re not one of His followers.
“You’re just one of His fans.”
