Episcopal Church Foundation Vital Practices

by Richelle Thompson on April 20, 2011

Easter dinner doesn’t normally make me feel holy.

Happy? Yes. Full to the brim with succulent ham, dumplings, green beans and three-layer chocolate cake? Yes, definitely.

But holy? Not so much. That normally happens during the triumphant strains of "Lift High the Cross" in morning worship.

But a few years ago, I glimpsed heaven at our Easter banquet.

My family traveled in for the weekend – both parents, even though six weeks earlier they had announced their separation. We invited another couple, partners for more than 20 years. At the last minute, plans for Easter dinner fell through for other friends, and we invited them too.

Ray came in to the church straight from his overnight shift at Kroger. He had wandered into the fellowship hall in January, cold from sleeping under a bridge. He warmed up with coffee and donuts and stayed for worship. He didn’t miss a Sunday for the next four months.

People in the congregation helped him find a place to stay, put in a good word at the grocery store and assisted with some other necessities.

With Ray still wearing his grocery store smock, we asked him to join us for Easter dinner. He declined, saying he needed to spend the afternoon at the Laundromat.

Bring them to our house. We'll throw the clothes in the wash before dinner. 

My husband drove him to the motel where he was staying, and Ray packed all of his clothes in a small garbage bag. When they arrived, we started the washing machine. Then Ray stood in a corner, uncertain.

I handed him a carton of hard-boiled eggs and a butter knife, and he and my 6-year-old worked together on the deviled eggs.

We carried all of the dishes into the dining room, then joined hands to pray. I snuck a peek around the table: Here we were together, holding hands, straight and gay, young and old, conservative and liberal, wealthy and homeless.

My heart knew then: Heaven feels like this. Then I closed my eyes and re-joined the praying.