November 1, 2007

All of the places of our lives are sanctuaries; some of them just happen to have steeples. And all of the people in our lives are saints; it is just that some of them have day jobs and most will never have feast days named for them.
- Robert Benson in Between the Dreaming and the Coming True

Dear Friends,

Basilica of the Annunciation in Nazareth.

My favorite church in all the Holy Land is the Basilica of the Annunciation in Nazareth. It’s a modern Catholic church built over the remains of Byzantine and crusader churches. It incorporates the cave in which the Virgin Mary received the news from Gabriel that she would give birth to Jesus. I like how it houses the old and the new in the same space and is breathtakingly beautiful.

Despite the tourists mulling around, I find it a peaceful place. I visited it last week, and stood to the side, watching an old lady clean the marble floors. I then remembered a lesson I learned way back in high school about those who clean the floors in the church. I consider them among the saints of the church.

In high school, my mother took an extra job cleaning the church to help make ends meet. As a typical teenager, I found it a crime against my coolness to be dragged out of bed on a Saturday morning to assist in the cleaning. The worst part was the sanctuary. It was massive, carpeted in dark red, (even the pews) and took forever to finish. I dreaded the roar of the vacuum that seemed to go on for hours. Mostly my job was “cord control” so mom could navigate to get to every little patch of endless carpet.

The job didn’t pay much. This didn’t help my adolescent attitude accept the duties wholeheartedly. Not at first, that is. “Why does it have to be so thorough? No one will notice if the carpet’s not spotless! Who really cares?” My mother couldn’t hear my complaints over the vacuum. Even if she did, I knew it would be useless to try to convince her to change her cleanliness standards.

One Sunday morning, I finally saw why it was important for the floors to be clean. I was attempting to watch my youngest cousin during the service. Nearly every week, my little cousin could be found playing under the pews. I didn’t mind as long as he was quiet, and I could keep one hand discreetly attached to a portion of his clothing, so he wouldn’t wiggle under someone else’s pew. It’s amazing how tired your hand can get after holding on to a 4-year-old for an hour. As soon as my hand wore out, my cousin was crawling away from our pew. I ducked under to quietly threaten his life if he didn’t cooperate. He stopped for a moment to see if I would turn away. So I sat on the floor and kept an eye on him. Then I noticed all the other little kids wiggling around on the floor too.

I knew then why it was important for the carpet to be spotless—because the littlest in the crowd utilized it thoroughly. Sure, the kids wouldn’t care if it wasn’t clean, but the parents were grateful. God was grateful. That Sunday, I was very grateful.

I still think the mundane jobs of the church are the most saintly. The offering counters, the dish washers, the people who sacrifice a Sunday service to watch the kids. The people who make an extra effort to just show up, even when they really don’t want to go to church. Those who listen with an open heart to what’s being preached. We are all workers in some way, no matter how small, no matter if it happens within the church walls. The best ways to serve are so simple, and often so powerful. A prayer is just a thought away.

For all of you, on this All Saints Day,

Shannon

The 2007 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 170