Diana Butler Bass has written six books on religious life in America: Standing Against the Whirlwind, Strength for the Journey, Broken We Kneel, The Practicing Congregation, From Nomads to Pilgrims, and most recently, Christianity for the Rest of Us. The last three books were based on findings from the Project for Congregations of Intentional Practice—a three-year study, funded by Lilly Endowment Inc., which explored mainline Protestant churches that have discovered vitality through embracing spiritual practices, engaging ancient traditions, offering compelling stories, and fostering virtue. Visit Diana at www.DianaButlerBass.com

This Web resource is based on an article in The Christian Century, copyright 2006. Reproduced by permission from the September 19, 2006 issue of the CHRISTIAN CENTURY. Subscriptions: $49/year from P.O. Box 378, Mt. Morris, IL 61054. 1-800-208-4097.

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Introduction

For some people, Memphis, Tennessee, conjures visions of southern religion: folks hoootin' and hollerin' about God, eternal damnation and hell; sweating preachers thundering on about sex, drinking and Democrats. Southern religion is all heat and fire, the blinding light of Jesus converting sinners to saints in a flash. This is what more reasonable Christians used to ridicule as "enthusiasm."

The Church of the Holy Communion, an Episcopal parish in Memphis, stands in stark contrast to these stereotypes. Situated on a prominent street corner in a prosperous part of town, Holy Communion has white columns and a graceful spire that point seekers toward heaven, and a genteel brick exterior and clear glass windows that represent a different southern tradition, one of measured and rational faith.

I join about 100 others for a Sunday evening service of contemplative worship. Electric lights are dimmed, and the primary light in the building comes from hundreds of candles on the high altar and the chancel rail, around the lectern and pulpit. A large Celtic cross graces the altar. Icons flank the table, along with two large racks of unlit votive candles. A small group of musicians is playing an Irish tune, "Si Bheag Si Mhor," on hammered dulcimer, harp, guitar, and wooden flute.

A bell rings. The priest enters and draws the congregation to prayer with words written by the Iona community in Scotland: "Breath of God, Breath of life, Breath of deepest yearning." They respond, "Come, Holy Spirit." The invocation continues:

Comforter, Disturber, Interpreter, Enthuser,
Come, Holy Spirit.
Heavenly Friend, Lamplighter, Revealer of truth, Mid-wife of change,
Come, Holy Spirit.
The Lord is here.
God's spirit is with us.

The congregation sings an Irish hymn, "How lovely is they dwelling place, O Lord of hosts to me!" After a reading from the Gospel of Matthew, we sit in silence. The priest offers a meditation on the Gospel and we sit in silence again—this time for two minutes. As the musicians play, people get up, walk to the altar and light candles in the votive stand as a symbol of their prayers. The soft candlelight glows brighter with each prayer. "See that ye be at peace among yourselves," offers the minister, "and love one another. Follow the example of good men and women of old, and God will comfort you and help you, both in this world and in the world which is to come."

The music carries us to communion, and the leader invites us to come forward and partake of the Lord's Supper:

This is the table, not of the church, but of the Lord,
It is made ready for those who love him
And for those who want to love him more.
So, come, you who have much faith and you who have little,
You who have been here often and you who have not been here long,
You who have tried to follow and you who have failed.
Come, because it is the Lord who invites you.
It is his will that those who want him should meet him here.

It is an altar call, but not like the altar calls I remember in southern churches, where salvation came through fear. Here the invitation is to dine with God—not to submit to God's gaze of condemning judgment. Instead of "Just as I Am," I hear a traditional Scottish ballad as I walk down the aisle. A picture of Holy Communion's spire comes to mind and I remember the words of St. Bernard of Clairvaux: "Continual silence, and removal from the noise of the things of this world and forgetfulness of them, lifts the heart and asks us to think of the things of heaven and sets our heart upon them."

And, as in all "good southern religion," there is heat and fire, with the blinding light of Jesus pointing us heavenward. At Holy Communion, however, the heat and fire is in contemplation, in candles flickering with prayer. The blinding light shines through silence and the Spirit comes not in a whirlwind, but in stillness. We are walking the sawdust trail as our ancestors did, only here the trail is marked by icons. The service ends with a hymn to the tune of "Ar Hyd Y Nos":

Go, my children, with my blessing, never alone.
Waking, sleeping, I am with you, you are my own.
In my love's baptismal river I have made you mine forever.
Go, my children, with my blessing, you are my own.

At the end of the service, I am not the only one weeping.