November 2007

With falling rain and plummeting temperature, I wondered how many people would come to church on a recent Sunday morning. Like every Sunday morning, I had been up early to begin the day with prayer, breakfast, and the trip to church. As usual, I thought about who might be there and prayed for guidance on what to say and how to say it. Like every Sunday morning, I checked the lectern and altar before vesting in an alb and stole, grabbing a cup of coffee, and making my way to the front door to greet before the service began, and was delighted to see people braving stormy weather to come to church. I did some last minute recruiting of readers and chalice bearers, listened to the prelude, and went to the front of the church for announcements. It seemed so normal, like any Sunday morning, with just a few differences:

• Nearly the entire congregation came alone.
• Everyone wore combat boots.
• Beneath my alb and stole was a camouflage utility uniform.
• The clarinetist carried a machine gun.

This wasn't your typical Sunday morning; this was the "Liturgical Protestant" service at Enduring Faith Chapel at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. Communicants of Lutheran, Episcopal, Moravian, Methodist, and other churches gathered at the chapel in the heart of Operation Enduring Freedom.

We sang hymns and said prayers from the Armed Forces Hymnal, which contains a hybrid service combining the Lutheran Book of Worship and The Book of Common Prayer. My sermon was taken from the Gospel of Luke's account of the parable of the Prodigal Son: We're the younger son who left home, trying to find our way back. We're the older brother, doing our duty and resenting the hell out of people who don't. We're the waiting father watching for our wayward children to return. Our "younger brother" voice wonders if there will be places for us to return. Our "older brother" voice detests irresponsibility and holds high expectations. Our "father's" voice demands we welcome one another as God waits for us.

Holy Eucharist was celebrated, closing prayers were said, and I extended my arms to bless the congregation that quickly dispersed. Some returned to duty, others headed home, and a few still can't disclose their destination. I shook hands afterwards and thanked them for their service. After the last person departed, I returned the alb and stole and walked out into the rain.

"This isn't an average Sunday," I decided as another jet took off from the nearby airstrip. In this place, there's never an average Sunday; each is extraordinary because of God's ability to create faith communities, even here. There's never an average Sunday in Afghanistan, because God's people risk all to gather, praise, receive, bless, and be blessed.

If Sunday has become "average" for you, think again. Don't let the Lord's Day become just another box to check; embrace the Lord's Day like it's your last on earth. Praise God with your entire being, love with your whole heart, and commit your life back to the Giver of life.