Two Sundays ago, I went to church for the first time in a long time. Back in Minneapolis, I went to a crazy Catholic church where we prayed to "Our Mother Who Art in Heaven" and danced in the aisles while we sang old hippie songs. All believing Christians were welcome to take communion in both forms. All were welcome in that place, in every way. Ordinary people spoke from the pulpit more often than priests.
During the years I went to St. Joan's I heard homilies from a Native American who spoke of the time when it became legal for his worship services to be performed, a man celebrating the birthday of the young woman whose heart saved his life, a fitter of prosthetic limbs in Southeast Asia, and a park ranger who believes trees hold the secret to life. I watched a man perform a Hawaiian sacred dance through the aisles and at the altar, his movement a sacred message. I saw three Palestinian women -- one Christian, one Jew and one Muslim -- defiantly hold hands and beg us to hep make sure their sons and daughters did not have to shoot at one another.
I miss St. Joan's as much as I miss anything about Minneapolis other than my daughter.
And then I discovered Unity Village Chapel. It's not quite the same, but it's closer than anything I've found. People stand and dance in place to old hippie music and the message is one of peace and love and hope. Of joy.
I have to miss services this week, and I'm sad about that, but it feels so good to have a church to miss again.