I always try to make it clear that, although I am not a person of faith, I am a devout practitioner of my religious heritage.  Everyday, my own understanding of what that means expands and clarifies.

This morning, I will be attending the services at my own parish church, a large Episcopalian congregation with lots of music, followed by a pot-luck meal.

For the past month, I have been attending services at the Methodist Church while visiting my family in a small West Texas town.  Sometimes there were eight of us in attendance; sometimes twenty.  One week, the minister was away with the youth group on a mission trip.  On that morning, the able lay leader did an admirable job.

Last Sunday, the pastor was back in the pulpit.  Actually, he holds forth from the center aisle.

This wasn’t the crux of his sermon, but by this little story, I was deeply impressed.

It went something like this:

Little children were asked to present symbols of their faith.  Respectively, such items as a menorah, a rosary, and a bible were held up.  I probably would have held up a hymnal.

Then a little Methodist boy held up his mother’s casserole.

Yes!  Absolutely!  For me this is not a joke. This is sacred.  It represents the most valid aspect of religious practice: Community.  Hospitality.  Fellowship.  Sharing a meal.  Delivering food to a shut-in.  Taking cans to a food bank.

I may not be a person of faith in any traditional way, but I will continue to practice my lack thereof  in my church community all the days of my life.  I have been preceded by a cloud of witnesses.

Here endeth the lesson.