The first thing that happened is a reporter from the Wall Street Journal called me and said, “Someone told me about this thing called ‘Waffle Church,’ and I just had to find out more.” And then she proceeded to write the loveliest summary of St. Lydia’s and Waffle Church in an article about the changing format of religious education for children in churches.
And then, on Sunday, we got to do Waffle Church again, for only the fifth time in as many months, and it was just as magical as every other month.
It feels like a dream sequence, really, with magic dust falling upon our heads like so much glitter. The children bellied up to the communion table, wide-eyed, as I tell that familiar story, which is becoming their story. Whose table is this? I ask each time now. THE LORD’S!! they cry, before ripping large hunks of soft challah and dipping them lustily into the grape juice.
And the music… oh, the music. Rebecca Stevens, our “Waffle Church intern” who is the
magician musician who moves us through the liturgy as if through silk. Who guides little hands into platters of glitter and hangs the stars in the sky with invisible thread.
We met the priest Zechariah, who came to tell us his story. We all thought he looked a lot like Zachary Walter, but it was just a strong resemblance. He made me tell his story, when we realized that he didn’t have his voice!
The angel of God had come bearing good news, but Zechariah was doubtful.
How will I know when this good news has come to fruition?
How will I know that God’s word is trustworthy?
Poor Zechariah, that’s the last thing he said for a matter of months.
It’s a wonder we aren’t all walking around without our voices. Doubting, as we do, the good news that God promises to deliver. Holding our breath when good things happen; standing very still, trying to keep that iridescent bubble balanced on the tips of our fingers.
That’s the Advent challenge, isn’t it?
To believe the good news will come to us.
To trust that God’s Word is trustworthy.
We pray fervently for peace in France and Lebanon and Syria and Mali and Kenya and the streets of our own cities.
We lose sight of the light that shines in the darkness.
I lose sight that Waffle Church does not belong to me; it does not even belong to St. Lydia’s.
To whom does Waffle Church belong? TO THE LORD!! they cry.
And they are right– these ones bellied up to the communion table… hungry.