Call to Communion (Part I)

Call to Communion (Part I)

Theology in the Trenches

by Kathleen Kjolhaug

Vespers whispered my name among His holy ones. I wasn’t feeling so holy next to the contrasting Light. The dark night of the soul rose within…exposed. Recall was calling…calling them out. First one, then the other…my sins paraded before me. “How long, oh Lord, must I cry out?” (Hab. 1:2)

Sitting before Him had become my thing as of late. My heart cry was for Thy will, not my will to be done. The request was simple. “Show me my sin, Lord.” And as I sat amidst my sitting time…gently to the surface they rose.

I know the call to order well: I, II, III, IV and on through X. Moses, heavy laden, brought the carved tablets down to the valley below. Sooner than later, that which he held came crashing down with a thud. Brokenness lay grounded before the people. Back up the mountain, he did go. Even back-in-the-day, God gave do-over’s as another I, II, III, IV through X was etched in stone. Replacing through the fullness of resurrection is how He chose to restore that which was broken.

I know truth. I believe truth…so why on earth need I unearth sins that had long been covered by His precious blood? I knew not why, but I continued to sit before Him. It began with a suggestion to unclog anything in the heart drainpipes before I would call myself facilitator to a gathering group of women of His Word. To clear out the heart clutter so the great accuser couldn’t turn and level any attacks in the middle of the muddle was a must. Thus, it began.

I confessed. Scrupulosity and browbeating it was not. Rather, like a gentle breeze, He was refreshing my soul as the old was carried out…making room for the new by filling anew.

Vespering with the Benedictine Sisters, singing Psalms with those who had been called to Communion this particular day was the Light in which I was surrounded. His sweet scent burning in the hearts of all in attendance triggered something deep within.

A face in the crowd who had traveled with me to the heart of Central America was before me. Suddenly, I felt exposed; more confession ensued. The weight nailed me to the pew in which I sat. It was as if someone had pierced my side to let flow from me a river of memories I knew not existed.

Heavy upon me were the memories of the past youthful trip which seemed harmless enough. Yet sins of omission no doubt were strewn about as I frolicked with the pile of collegiates across the borders of Mexico and into Guatemala. Never mind the chaperones were nuns. Safety comes from the heart, not the protection or guidance of others round you.  

(To be continued.)