Every year, our local community puts on a performance of Handel's Messiah. It's the earnest, imperfect performance you'd expect in a small city, with an organist who slides off the beat whenever he can't fit all the notes in and soloists who are sometimes spot-on, and sometimes untrained or past their prime. Nevertheless, it pleases me because it reminds me that perfection isn't everything.
All year long, but most especially at Christmas, generosity and community and giving our personal best matter. So we go, we sing the Hallelujah Chorus enthusiastically, and we put $40 into the plate for the local food bank. Afterwards, we feel stronger and cleaner, as if we did something that mattered. We know that Christmas has finally arrived in our town.
This year, as my husband and I were walking in, I was muttering darkly (something I've done a lot, lately) when I realized that the woman in front of us looked familiar. Apparently she had the same realization, because she stopped in the foyer and exclaimed, "I know you!"
It was our friend KL from college. Her mother gave me bantam hens once, and her husband used to play bass in our Christian band. The last time we had seen each other, a few years ago, was at a bookstore in Bisbee.
Turns out we're sort of kindred spirits, KL and me, hovering at the periphery of the organized church and searching for something that isn't really there. She recommended a book which has figured prominently in her search: Keeping Faith: A Skeptic's Journey by Fenton Johnson.
I immediately checked Keeping Faith out of the local library and began to read.
Wow.
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