WORSHIP WEAR
A new hat for Easter, my grandmother used to say. A new spray of flowers on a hat and pristine gloves to match the crisp shine of a new dress. But if the sale of brown eggs didn’t allow for a new dress, then, at the very least, one must scrounge up for a new pillbox to don come Resurrection Sunday. It’s proper, she’d say. Symbolic of new life in the Risen Christ.
Her purse, a tapestry of roses and dark vines, lies on the upper shelf of my closet. Now and then, I take it down, unlatch the clasp of roses and run my hand along the silk lining. A regal Easter purse it once must have been, carried by gloved hands that had milked cows morning and night all week, baked daily loaves of bread, hoed the garden, mended torn pants and hearts while feeding, cleaning and mothering four children. But when those church bells rang across the valley, Grandma would be sitting in all her finery there in a wooden pew of Reverend van Bedeger’s steepled church, the one that crowned the highest hill of the village of Centerton. I can see her laying this purse on her lap, folding her gloved hands together, and listening to that Sunday sermon coming down.
I saw her purse again this morning, as I slid a church dress for our two-year-old off a closet hanger. The roses of the dress seemed plucked from the same bouquet of Grandma’s purse, shades of wine and pink. I slipped the dress over Little Girl’s tiara of blonde…but the hem fell too long, cuffs dangling too.
Little girl wrinkled her button nose and wailed, “It don’t fit me! I don’t have nothing pretty to wear!”
I reassured her contorted face with a kiss. How many times had Grandma washed up after milking house chores, her hair still wet in curlers, and too rifled through her closet for something to wear to Sunday service? Something pretty. Something right.
Returning dress to closet, I wonder: What do we wear on our way to worship the King? And not just only Sunday morning, but everyday. For do we not worship him every waking moment of our lives? What is proper attire for a worshipping Christian?
Tucking Little Girl’s arms into better fitting dress, I zip her up and a story unzips somewhere in my memory and tumbles out.
Its London, England centuries ago, with muddy, unpaved streets . A young man, Walter Raleigh, a scarlet cloak draped over his shoulders, carefully picks his way along a mucky street. His face is down, eyes focused on the strategic placement of polished boots. Until he reaches an impasse: a sludge of murky waters engulfing the entire street. Striding over it an impossibility, Raleigh considers wild flinging himself. A flash of color reflects on the water. He looks across to the other side of the puddle. And into the face of the Queen of England, her train of gentlewomen and waiting maids stringing behind. Raleigh forgets himself. For it’s not about him. He tosses his scarlet coat across the puddle. And Elizabeth, Queen of England, crosses the puddle on a carpet of red.
I straighten collar of Little Girl’s red dress. And think: We are the red carpet.
Instead of laying down palm branches in worship, or parading in finery for the coming King, it is ourselves that we must spread before the King of the Universe’s feet.
We who wear Christ lay down ourselves so that our Lord may walk into hurt, broken places. We roll ourselves out over the puddles, the muck, the slop, the dirt and the wet of the world, so the King of Kings may enter into these places. Like coats, we throw our days, our time, the essence of who we are, under His feet, living sacrifices stretched out.
We who are clothed in the beauty of Christ wear mud. We wear lives laid down.
Slipping into shoes, I see Grandma again, perfectly attired for Sunday worship service, and it wasn’t her gloves or the purse of roses. But her mud-splattered, servant heart.
For doesn’t she who puts Christ on, then lay herself down before His feet?
All roses begin in the dirt.
Lord, today show me where I can spread myself across muddy places in service to You... so that You may enter into that place... Clothe me in You... and lay me down.
Her purse, a tapestry of roses and dark vines, lies on the upper shelf of my closet. Now and then, I take it down, unlatch the clasp of roses and run my hand along the silk lining. A regal Easter purse it once must have been, carried by gloved hands that had milked cows morning and night all week, baked daily loaves of bread, hoed the garden, mended torn pants and hearts while feeding, cleaning and mothering four children. But when those church bells rang across the valley, Grandma would be sitting in all her finery there in a wooden pew of Reverend van Bedeger’s steepled church, the one that crowned the highest hill of the village of Centerton. I can see her laying this purse on her lap, folding her gloved hands together, and listening to that Sunday sermon coming down.
I saw her purse again this morning, as I slid a church dress for our two-year-old off a closet hanger. The roses of the dress seemed plucked from the same bouquet of Grandma’s purse, shades of wine and pink. I slipped the dress over Little Girl’s tiara of blonde…but the hem fell too long, cuffs dangling too.
Little girl wrinkled her button nose and wailed, “It don’t fit me! I don’t have nothing pretty to wear!”
I reassured her contorted face with a kiss. How many times had Grandma washed up after milking house chores, her hair still wet in curlers, and too rifled through her closet for something to wear to Sunday service? Something pretty. Something right.
Returning dress to closet, I wonder: What do we wear on our way to worship the King? And not just only Sunday morning, but everyday. For do we not worship him every waking moment of our lives? What is proper attire for a worshipping Christian?
Tucking Little Girl’s arms into better fitting dress, I zip her up and a story unzips somewhere in my memory and tumbles out.
Its London, England centuries ago, with muddy, unpaved streets . A young man, Walter Raleigh, a scarlet cloak draped over his shoulders, carefully picks his way along a mucky street. His face is down, eyes focused on the strategic placement of polished boots. Until he reaches an impasse: a sludge of murky waters engulfing the entire street. Striding over it an impossibility, Raleigh considers wild flinging himself. A flash of color reflects on the water. He looks across to the other side of the puddle. And into the face of the Queen of England, her train of gentlewomen and waiting maids stringing behind. Raleigh forgets himself. For it’s not about him. He tosses his scarlet coat across the puddle. And Elizabeth, Queen of England, crosses the puddle on a carpet of red.
I straighten collar of Little Girl’s red dress. And think: We are the red carpet.
Instead of laying down palm branches in worship, or parading in finery for the coming King, it is ourselves that we must spread before the King of the Universe’s feet.
We who wear Christ lay down ourselves so that our Lord may walk into hurt, broken places. We roll ourselves out over the puddles, the muck, the slop, the dirt and the wet of the world, so the King of Kings may enter into these places. Like coats, we throw our days, our time, the essence of who we are, under His feet, living sacrifices stretched out.
We who are clothed in the beauty of Christ wear mud. We wear lives laid down.
Slipping into shoes, I see Grandma again, perfectly attired for Sunday worship service, and it wasn’t her gloves or the purse of roses. But her mud-splattered, servant heart.
For doesn’t she who puts Christ on, then lay herself down before His feet?
All roses begin in the dirt.
Lord, today show me where I can spread myself across muddy places in service to You... so that You may enter into that place... Clothe me in You... and lay me down.
No comments:
Post a Comment