A Little Night Music
Heat is like pornography; you sense it, recognize it, know it, and the opinion of the guy next to you is irrelevant. Heat is personal.
We've had a minor heat wave here in the past week or so, nothing to write home about. Nothing unusual. And not the dry heat of the Southwest or the humid heat of the South; just warm days and nights in the high 80s, but we are used to courtesy from the weather up here. It's a little jarring.
We are a mild climate, here in Western Washington, fence straddlers, moderates. In February we can have a high of 48 and a low of 46. There are rare surprises, and usually they're appreciated, but still. We have no air conditioning. It would be a luxury, an indulgence for a few days at most. So we sweat, and play musical chairs with fans.
The heat has turned my son. He has become a Creature of the Night, unable to sleep in the heat, clomping around on his big boy feet at 3 a.m., stealing my Diet Rite, playing video games in his room. This is not unusual teenage-boy-summer behavior, late nights with no school in the morning, but at least I had the good sense to be quiet, lest I awaken the parents who had work in the morning and face some mighty wrath. He is oblivious, as he can be.
So I've been a little cranky.
It broke yesterday, the heat. It was cooler and cloudier, and we started shutting windows and keeping fans quiet. I turned on the heater in my basement office in the morning, just for a bit. Things felt more normal.
And then I went to a party. This is even more unusual than a hot day, for me.
The party was for board members, and their spouses, of a summer seminar on worship and liturgy. People come from all over the country, from all sorts of Christian denominations, to learn and talk and celebrate.
Liturgy is an odd concept to grasp for some people, churched and unchurched. It's a contradiction for many, for people who scoff at "high church" and routine and tradition, who nonetheless expect the bride to walk down the aisle and the vows to be said and "Ave Maria" sung. There are people who will watch reverently the ceremonies of Native Americans or marvel at the ancient Mayans on the Discovery Channel, and still snort at "ritual" when it comes to their church. As if we're beyond that. As if we ever were.
It's a process, my wife will say, a musician now minister. She understands how it works, how there's an order, how a worship service is not a church picnic. It's not just about songs and scripture. There's a reason why we do the things we do, and the goal is that we go from somewhere to someplace else, all in the space of an hour or so on a Sunday morning. It is a passion for her.
And for all the rest of them, I would think.
It was an ecumenical bunch, as you might expect. There were Lutherans and Presbyterians. There were two Episcopalian priests. There was a Mennonite woman. They had stories to share and there was good food, salmon and shrimp, all of it, sauces and vinaigrette and salad, infused with berries by our Brazilian host.
And I was in a bad mood.
I was worried about my son, home alone. It had been a hectic day. They were mostly strangers. They were talking a lot. It was close quarters. I was sleep deprived.
In other words, I was hardly in the right frame of mind for a spirit-filled moment.
Actually, I was in exactly the right frame of mind.
After the meal, after some discussion of details of the upcoming conference, after some praise for hard work and encouragement for work to come, we sang a little. A little cantoring, a little response. And then our host read from the Gospel. And this is how she read.
"Come to me," she read, and then turned slightly.
"Come to me, all you that are weary," she read, and she turned slightly again.
"Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens," she read, and turned again, facing another person.
"Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest," she read, turning to me.
Slowly, word by word, phrase by phrase, she read from the Gospel According to Matthew, read to all of us and to each of us, slowly, word by word, phrase by phrase.
It was a liturgical moment.
We went from somewhere to someplace else.
In the car I was irritated again; my son called, a little agitated and anxious. His sister had gone off and we'd been away a long time. It was getting dark and he was alone.
But he was fine when we got home, and so was I. It was a cool night, a luxury after the past week. We refinanced our house yesterday, and some burdens have been lifted. A yoke or three.
And I got out of the house, spent some time with passionate people, ate some wonderful food, saw a couple of old friends, and even with my night crawler still prowling in the wee hours and interrupted sleep, I woke this morning not really weary at all.
10:17:47 AM 
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