QUIET GRACE AND SILENT MERCIES [F, 5-23-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Campus Minister—QUIET GRACE AND SILENT MERCIES [F, 5-23-25]

 

Going through old files and boxes, as old people should, to discard what is no longer meaningful, and spare others that task, I came across a letter in a small pink envelope. The return address noted that it was from Connie Sullivan. I am too proud of my ability to remember names, and so I was chagrined. I did not recognize that name at all!

There was a good reason for that. I had never met Miss Sullivan.

It was written in the last week of my campus ministry at The Wesley Foundation at IL State U. Connie acknowledged in her letter that we had never met. She felt like she knew me, though, for she had been coming to our Wednesday night communion service throughout her campus years. Now, as I was leaving, she wanted to thank me for that service.

Each Wednesday night, at 9:00, intending to be finished by 9:30, we had a simple communion service in the sanctuary at First Methodist Church. One of our students stood at the doors and handed a single sheet of paper to each person as they entered. The paper gave instructions on how we did the communion, and noted that all were welcome, regardless of religious affiliation. The lights were low, but light enough to read the paper.

A student organist played softly as folks gathered. The sanctuary was large. No one had to sit near anyone else. When the organist finished, we lowered the lights still more, so that it was basically only the chancel that had any light.

Although the light over the pulpit was dimmed, I was able to read a contemporary religious poem as an introduction, then a short scripture, and then I told a little story. Sometimes I wrote a parable. [1] Then I read the simple form of the communion liturgy

I reminded them that all were welcome and invited them to come to the communion rail, kneel, receive the elements, stay at the rail as long at they wished, then leave, or return to their seat for more meditation time.

Our publicity was almost entirely word of mouth. My first year we averaged 34 per service. My 6^th and last year there, we averaged 106.

If you’re averaging 106, that means some services are a lot more, and serving the elements kept me on the move. There was no order. Some stayed at the rail a long time. Some just took the elements and immediately left. They filled in wherever there was space.

I had to be alert to see who needed to be served, and what. I did not serve both elements at the same time. First I gave the bread, and went on down the line, waiting until the communicant had adequate time with the bread before returning and offering the juice. It was quietly hectic, but I loved going up and down behind that rail, with a tray of bread cubes in one hand, and a tray of little juice glasses in the other, watching each expectant face, remembering who needed what.

There were plenty of kids at that service that I never met. They did not come to any other Wesley Foundation programs, so I did not know their names, but I recognized them from seeing them on their knees before me, week after week.

Apparently one of those was Connie Sullivan. So, dear Connie, wherever you are, I pray for you, an old lady now, perhaps with bad knees, unable to kneel for communion, but, still, in spirit and memory, may it be, receiving quiet grace and silent mercies.

John Robert McFarland

1] I had a reputation for parables in those days, when “contemporary worship” was a new and exciting—and controversial—thing. Some of my parables were printed in collections of materials for “contemporary worship.”