Church Purse
Every experienced churchgoer knows it pays to have a church-purse, a special bag that you carry only once a week and only for the duration of church. It seems extravagant and showy, not at all in keeping with the humility we associate with worship. In fact, not only is it a pragmatic possession but a quality church-purse can be a magnificent and marvelous expression of faith in action, the Holy Spirit in the littlest thing.
Let me tell you about my church-purse. She is a black leather clutch with a short strap suitable for my wrist but not my shoulder. She is no larger than my shoe but considerably smaller than some shoes I've seen lately. She is made of plain black leather and her clasp is silver. She looks for all the world like a slightly larger version of your Grandmother's coin purse. Classic and unremarkable, my church-purse is my prize.
She contains at once everything I need to go to worship, and yet nothing at all divine. Because what does God want me to bring to church? He wants my attention, He wants my ears and my eyes and my beating heart. He wants me to be in earnest and He wants me to try harder. He wants me to take part in His sacrament and bring it into my daily life in a meaningful way. He wants the truth of me to be closer to the truth of Him. How can that possibly fit into a clutch?
Miraculously.
My church-purse contains:
A Book of Common Prayer. I know that there are two BCP's in every pew in Episcopalian churches all over America. I know that the majority of what will happen during the service is printed in my Order of Service. In fact, I know by heart eighty per cent of what we will be called upon to read from the BCP. But I bring my own. Not because it is the lovely white engraved one I got at confirmation. It isn't. It's a cheap red reader's copy I bought used on-line. I bring it because I want my fingers to smudge its ink. I want to turn down its pages on prayers I do not yet know, I want it to fall open in my hand to the prayers I know and love in regular service. This is the book that makes me an Episcopalian. I bear the mark of its words on my heart and in my daily life. The book should bear equally the mark of my ownership of it.
Kleenex. As a child at St. Christopher's I was allergic to something. I sneezed and sniffled as an acolyte, choir member and congregant. My parents were never in church and if they were aware of my allergies they were either ignorant of their severity or ignorant of treatment. In any case, the family who drove me were graciously raising a young gentleman named Andy who routinely gave me his handkerchief. I would usually take it home to wash and loose it during the week. I wondered whether it was worse to loose it or give it back with my, well, give it back used. But because I was alone, unguided by parents, I did what I thought I should do. And I was regularly mortified. I bring tissues, therefore, in case I sneeze. That's why I bring them. Why I use them, though, is because on many occasions in the course of a year, I cry in church. It's beautiful, its awe inspiring, it makes me happy and sad and proud and I fight tears on a regular basis. I keep tissues in my purse in memory of humiliation and anticipation of glory.
A Starbucks Card: Every Sunday, an hour before church, I drop my older daughter at the side entrance for choir rehearsal. She skips in, her grown up lady's body in twelve year old style clothes. Her voice is that of an angel, though she doesn't really know that. And when she sings she transports anyone within range of her voice. Even when it's a silly song. During the hour of rehearsal, my younger daughter and I go to Starbucks and take out her workbook and practice her printing. I have a coffee someone else made for me – the only one in a week – and help her with her letters. She and I talk and laugh. We look nice and clean in our church clothes, we are relaxed and easy together. These are moments stolen away from siblings and friends and other obligations. God gave me Betsy when I thought my family was through. God gives me time with her that I did not have with her brother or sister. God makes it possible for us to spend this time together. I get it, I won't mess up. These are precious and treasured times and I never ever want to be caught without the means to enjoy them to the last drop.
One Dollar Coins: When the collection plate comes by, I hand Betsy a gold coin from my purse and she puts it in. I hope in this way to teach her to give, always to give, to God that which is God's. The coins are shiny and gold and appeal to her aesthetically. They are solid, they fit her five year old concept of money more closely than a dollar bill might. They make a solid sound when they land in the little velvet bag. Those dollars are not really our donation to the church. Every dollar that comes to me, that is every dividend on stock I own, or annual payment from my mother's estate, every rebate from the disposable razors I bought last month: every dollar I earn or am given personally, goes to the church. We don't tithe, we more than tithe; we give one hundred percent of what we get from the “second income” person - me. It just doesn't amount to much. But God knows, and I think the minister suspects, that there is more devotion per dollar in the donations we make to the Church than is reflected in its sum. And I think Susan B. Anthony and Sacagawea would be satisfied.
Smarties. Smarties are little hard round tart candies that come in a roll. I put exactly one roll in my purse each week. We go to the altar for Communion. We cross our hands over our hearts and the youthful minister, whom we secretly call The Clearasil Clergyman, blesses us. He speaks special words just for us. He knows our names and somehow our hearts. I always think, when he offers me a blessing, of the words, "that I may more perfectly love You." God's words, the minister's hands and my heart somehow align. And then we go and sit down and Betsy has Smarties and I toy with the idea of pulling out a Kleenex to mop up my emotion.
That's it. That is what I keep in my church-purse. My church-purse is a specialized version of something I carry with me every day. The purse on my shoulder every day is a critical part of my life. If I set it down, or, God forbid, if I loose it, my daily life would spin into crisis. But if such a trauma were to occur, do you know what? My church purse would still be there, waiting on the shelf in my closet. It would still contain everything I need to go to Church and be a part of God's community of faith. And so it is with my faith. I may misplace it during the week. I may set down my mission and walk away from it. But God is always there, on the shelf, containing everything and absent nothing that I need to return myself to order, to faith, and to God.
