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Morning Reflection
March 24, 2026
Real Presence
“In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like walking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness.”
Thomas Merton: Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
Reflection by Peter Vanderveen
I remember the precise moment I decided to become an Episcopalian. I was a staff singer in a parish in Connecticut. I thought it would be a fun way to earn a little spending money while I was in school.
At first, all the twists and turns of the liturgy – moving about, turning, kneeling, standing, juggling a prayer book and a hymnal – these things flummoxed me. But as I learned the rhythms of the services I enjoyed them more. And on no particular Sunday, as I stood with the choir in the center aisle of the chancel, waiting to step up to the altar rail to receive communion, I scanned across those who were already in place at the altar. It was a motley group (I much prefer the term “motley” to the much overused term “diverse.”) A few were New York City executives, well known and highly successive. Next to them were several blue collar families, people who might easily never be noticed. The array of differences among the maybe fifteen people gathered there was striking. And yet, they were together, kneeling as one, as people who had no such qualities as would clearly distinguish them before God – as if some would be judged better than others.
I realized, then – it struck me – that I was participating in an exercise that brought home the foundational truth of what it means to be a human being. I was in the same lot as the people at the altar, as were the rest of the members of the choir, as were those in the congregation behind me. We were all bearing witness to being included in a grace that far exceeds all the measures by which we so easily divide ourselves from one another. This happens nowhere else. And it happens by no other means. It is something that can only be experienced, as it were, by standing there, before God – and within reach of others, being very aware of their physicality.
For Christianity isn’t just a set of ideas. It’s not as abstract as a bunch of agreed upon teachings. It’s built upon our choosing to be really present to God and to others so that we might, in a moment, be overwhelmed, like Merton, by an epiphany of love.
If I had merely watched this service years ago, as a viewer of a live stream, with the same people coming and going, I wouldn’t have been so moved. Because watching happens at a distance – and thus at a critical remove. What’s on a screen leaves viewers alone to themselves, untouched. It’s objective and simply can’t provide what’s central and most important; which is the surprise, in the moment, of being bound to others in ways you may never have imagined. So many years ago, I decided that I needed to be in the mix, at the happenstance of those who come to an altar rail, to be part of the mysterious body of Christ.
Next Sunday, Holy Week begins. And we all probably know the stories told at each of the major services. They are well worn. But the point isn’t merely to be reminded of what happened. There can be no surprise in this. What’s key is to participate and to be, once again, part of a drama that can unexpectedly reveal love’s persistence and depth – which can change the trajectory of your life.
On Maundy Thursday, we will sing “Stay with me” as one by one everyone runs away. On Good Friday, we will sing “Were you there” as we observe Jesus’ complete abandonment. These words mean little when heard at a distance, when watched. They have immense power when, altogether, we are present to realize what presence means.
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