Communion of Saints
Talking about transcendent experiences has made me think about Patrick (not his real name). The experience I describe here took place 12 years ago tonight.
Patrick was a Roman Catholic priest with AIDS. I met him in 1994 when he began attending the Episcopal parish where I was a member. His spiritual journey had led him to find his home with us. Patrick's presence among us enriched us tremendously. He loved the liturgies, and was a valued participant in our spiritual support group. He expressed his deep desire to be received officially into the Episcopal Church, and attended the fall confirmation classes.
As the date of the confirmation service drew near, Patrick had to go to the hospital, and it became clear that he would not be able to attend the confirmation. He was anxious about it -- to be received officially into our community of faith was vitally important to Patrick -- so we simply took the bishop to the hospital.
On a Sunday afternoon, a bishop and about 20 people from the church surrounded Patrick in his hospital room, and he was received into our church that he had grown to love. It was one of the most moving experiences I've ever had. As we renewed our baptismal vows with him, Patrick was Christ to us. There were many tears, but more of joy than of sorrow.
The following Friday, Patrick died. We celebrated his requiem Eucharist a few days later in a packed church. In the service, as we sang the Sanctus, I had one of those experiences of transcendence. The Sanctus is one of the oldest and most universal parts of the liturgy, part of every Eucharist in churches worldwide since the earliest days. I felt our congregation singing the Sanctus. Then I had a vision of many other congregations all over the world, also singing it. My vision gradually widened to include congregations not of this time and space singing: the communion of saints, with Charles among them.
As the singing continued, it seemed that I could see another priest rise to greet Patrick, and wounded hands draw him to a wounded side in a gentle embrace. That other priest called him to another altar, one where the Eucharist, the thanksgiving, never ends, where the blessings never cease, and where forgiveness knows no bounds.
I was overcome by love in that moment, and tears flowed freely. It was not the first transcendent experience I've had, but it remains one of the most cherished.
Patrick was a Roman Catholic priest with AIDS. I met him in 1994 when he began attending the Episcopal parish where I was a member. His spiritual journey had led him to find his home with us. Patrick's presence among us enriched us tremendously. He loved the liturgies, and was a valued participant in our spiritual support group. He expressed his deep desire to be received officially into the Episcopal Church, and attended the fall confirmation classes.
As the date of the confirmation service drew near, Patrick had to go to the hospital, and it became clear that he would not be able to attend the confirmation. He was anxious about it -- to be received officially into our community of faith was vitally important to Patrick -- so we simply took the bishop to the hospital.
On a Sunday afternoon, a bishop and about 20 people from the church surrounded Patrick in his hospital room, and he was received into our church that he had grown to love. It was one of the most moving experiences I've ever had. As we renewed our baptismal vows with him, Patrick was Christ to us. There were many tears, but more of joy than of sorrow.
The following Friday, Patrick died. We celebrated his requiem Eucharist a few days later in a packed church. In the service, as we sang the Sanctus, I had one of those experiences of transcendence. The Sanctus is one of the oldest and most universal parts of the liturgy, part of every Eucharist in churches worldwide since the earliest days. I felt our congregation singing the Sanctus. Then I had a vision of many other congregations all over the world, also singing it. My vision gradually widened to include congregations not of this time and space singing: the communion of saints, with Charles among them.
As the singing continued, it seemed that I could see another priest rise to greet Patrick, and wounded hands draw him to a wounded side in a gentle embrace. That other priest called him to another altar, one where the Eucharist, the thanksgiving, never ends, where the blessings never cease, and where forgiveness knows no bounds.
I was overcome by love in that moment, and tears flowed freely. It was not the first transcendent experience I've had, but it remains one of the most cherished.